The Heir Read online

  Copyright © 2010 by Grace Burrowes

  Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Anne Cain

  Cover images © Alenkasm/Dreamstime.com; Avava/ Dreamstime.com

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  QW 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedicated to

  The late Norman H. Lampman, the first person Who honestly helped me with my writing, And to loving families everywhere, of any description, Most especially to the family who loves me.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  GAYLE WINDHAM, EARL OF WESTHAVEN, WAS ENJOYING a leisurely measure of those things that pleased him most: solitude, peace, and quiet.

  The best plans were the simplest, he reflected as he poured himself a single finger of brandy, and his brother’s suggestion that Westhaven hide in plain sight had proven brilliant. The unmarried heir to a dukedom had a nigh impossible task if he wanted to elude the predatory mamas and determined debutantes of polite society. He was in demand everywhere, and for form’s sake, he had to be seen everywhere.

  But not this summer. He smiled with relish. This summer, this stinking, infernally hot summer, he was going to remain right where he was, in the blessedly empty confines of London itself. Not for him the endless round of house parties and boating parties and social gatherings in the country.

  His father had too free a hand in those environs, and Westhaven knew better than to give the duke any unnecessary advantage.

  The Duke of Moreland was a devious, determined, unscrupulous old rogue. His goal in life was to see to it his heir married and produced sons, and Westhaven had made it a matter of pride to outwit the old man. There had already been one forced engagement, which the lady’s family had thwarted at the last minute. One was more than enough. Westhaven was a dutiful son, conscientious in his responsibilities, a brother who could be relied upon, an heir more than willing to tend to the properties and investments as his father’s power of attorney. He would not, however, be forced to marry some simpering little puppet to breed sons on her like a rutting hound.

  And already, the pleasure of days and nights uncluttered by meaningless entertainments was bringing a certain cheer to Westhaven’s normally reserved demeanor. He found himself noticing things, like the way his townhouse bore the fragrance of roses and honeysuckle, or how an empty grate was graced with a bouquet of flowers just for the pleasure of his eye. His solitary meals tasted more appealing; he slept better on his lavender-scented sheets. He heard his neighbor playing the piano late at night, and he caught the sound of laughter drifting up from his kitchen early in the morning.

  I would have made an exemplary monk, he thought as he regarded the bowl of roses on the cold andirons. But then, monks had little solitude, and no recreational access to the fairer sex.

  A modest exponent thereof silently entered the library, bobbed her little curtsy, and went about refilling the water in the several vases of flowers gracing the room. He watched her as she moved around without a sound, and wondered when she’d joined his household. She was a pretty little thing, with graceful ways and a sense of competence about her.

  The chambermaid paused to water the flowers in the hearth, reaching over the fireplace screen to carefully top up the wide bowl of roses sitting on the empty grate. Who would think to put flowers in a cold fireplace? Westhaven wondered idly, but then he realized the chambermaid was taking rather too long to complete her task.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked, not meaning to sound irritated but concluding he must have, for the girl flinched and cowered. She didn’t, however, straighten up, make another curtsy, and leave him to his brandy.

  “Is something amiss?” He spoke more slowly, knowing menials were not always of great understanding. The girl whimpered, an odd sound, not speech but an indication of distress. And she remained right where she was, bent over the hearth screen, her pitcher of water in her hand.

  Westhaven set down his brandy and rose from his wing chair, the better to investigate the problem. The girl was making that odd sound continuously, which pleased him not at all. It wasn’t as if he’d ever trifled with the help, for God’s sake.

  When he came near the hearth, the chambermaid positively cringed away from him, another irritant, but her movement allowed Westhaven to see the difficulty: The buttons on the front of her bodice were caught in the mesh of the hearth screen. She wasn’t tall enough to set down her pitcher, leaving her only one hand with which to free herself. That hand, however, she needed for balance.

  “Hush,” Westhaven said more gently. He did have five sisters, after all, and a mother; he understood females were prone to dramatics. “I’ll have you free in no time, if you’ll just hold still and turn loose of this pitcher.”

  He had to pry the girl’s fingers from the handle of the pitcher, so overset was she, but still she said nothing, just warbled her distress like a trapped animal.

  “No need to take on so,” he soothed as he reached around her so he could slide his fingers along the screen. “We’ll have you free in a moment, and next time you’ll know to move the screen before you try to water the flowers.” It took an infernally long time, but he had one button forced back through the screen and was working on the other when the girl’s whimpering escalated to a moan.

  “Hush,” he murmured again. “I won’t hurt you, and I almost have your buttons free. Just hold still—”

  The first blow landed across his shoulders, a searing flash of pain that left his fine linen shirt and his skin torn. The second followed rapidly, as he tightened his arms protectively around the maid, and at the third, which landed smartly on the back of his head, everything went black.

  Westhaven moaned, causing both women to startle then stare at him.

  “St. Peter in a whorehouse,” Westhaven muttered, bracing himself on his forearms and shaking his head. Slowly, he levered up to all fours then sat back on his heels, giving his head another shake.

  He raised a ferocious scowl to survey the room, caught sight of the chambermaid, and then the other woman. His mind stumbled around for the proper associations. She worked for him but was entirely too young for her post. Mrs.… Every housekeeper was a Mrs.…

  Sidwell? He glared at her in concentration. Sommers… no. Seaton.

  “Come here,” he rasped at her. She was a sturdy thing, on the tall side, and always moving through the house at forced march. Cautiously, she approached him.

&nbs
p; “Mrs. Seaton.” He scowled at her thunderously. “I require your assistance.”

  She nodded, for once not looking quite so much like a general on campaign, and knelt beside him. He slid an arm around her shoulders, paused to let the pain of that simple movement ricochet around in his body, and slowly rose.

  “My chambers,” he growled, leaning on her heavily while his head cleared. She made no attempts at conversation, thank the gods, but paused to open the door to his room, and then again to carefully lower him to the settee flanking the hearth in his sitting room.

  She turned to the chambermaid, who had followed them up the stairs. “Morgan, fetch the medical supplies, some hot water, and clean linens, and hurry.”

  Morgan nodded and disappeared, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  “Silly twit,” the earl muttered. “Does she think I’m in any condition to cause you mischief?”

  “She does not, but there is no need to forego the proprieties.”

  “My privacy necessitates it,” the earl bit out. “Moreover…” He paused, closed his eyes, and let out a slow breath. “As you tried to kill me, I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, madam.”

  “I did not try to kill you,” his housekeeper corrected him. “I attempted to protect your employee from what I thought were improper advances on the part of a guest.”

  He shot her a sardonic, incredulous look, but she was standing firm, arms crossed over her chest, eyes flashing with conviction.

  “I sent word I would be returning from Morelands today,” he said. “And the knocker isn’t up. You misjudged.”

  “The post has not arrived for the past two days, your lordship. The heat seems to have disrupted a number of normal functions, and as to that, your brother does not observe the niceties when he is of a mind to see you.”

  “You thought my brother would bother a chambermaid?”

  “He is friendly, my lord.” Mrs. Seaton’s bosom heaved with her point. “And Morgan is easily taken advantage of.” Morgan reappeared, bobbing another curtsy at the earl then depositing the requested medical supplies on the low table before the settee.

  “Thank you, Morgan.” Mrs. Seaton looked right at the maid when she spoke, and her words were formed deliberately. “A tea tray, now, and maybe a muffin or some cookies to go with it.”

  A muffin? Westhaven felt his lips wanting to quirk. She was going to treat a bashed skull with tea and crumpets?

  “If you would sit on the table, my lord?” Mrs. Seaton wasn’t facing him as she spoke. “I can tend to your back and your… scalp.”

  Damn it all to hell, he needed her help just to rise, shift his weight, and sit on the coffee table. Each movement sent white-hot pain lancing through his skull and across his shoulders. For all that, he barely felt it as Mrs. Seaton deftly unbuttoned his shirt, tugged it free of his waistband, and eased it away.

  “This is ruined, I’m afraid.”

  “Shirts can be replaced,” the earl said. “My father rather has plans for me, however, so let’s get me patched up.”

  “You were coshed with a fireplace poker,” Mrs. Seaton said, bending over him to sift through the hair above his nape. “These wounds will require careful cleaning.”

  She wadded up his shirt and folded it to hold against the scalp wound.

  “Passive voice,” the earl said through clenched teeth, “will not protect you, Mrs. Seaton, since you did the coshing. Jesus and the apostles, that hurts.” Her hand came up to hold his forehead even as she continued to press the linen of his ruined shirt against the bleeding wound.

  “The bleeding is slowing down,” she said, “and the wounds on your back are not as messy.”

  “Happily for me,” her patient muttered. Her hand bracing his forehead had eased the pain considerably, and there was something else, too. A scent, flowery but also fresh, a hint of mint and rosemary that sent a cool remembrance of summer pleasures through his awareness.

  A soft hand settled on his bare shoulder, but then she was tormenting him again, this time with disinfectant that brought the fires of hell raging across his back.

  “Almost done,” she said quietly some moments later, but Westhaven barely heard her through the roaring in his ears. When his mind cleared, he realized he was leaning into her, his face pressed against the soft curve of her waist, his shoulders hunched against the length of her thigh.

  “That’s the worst of it,” she said, her hand again resting on his shoulder. “I am sorry, you know.” She sounded genuinely contrite now—now that he was suffering mortal agonies and the loss of his dignity, as well.

  “I’ll mend.”

  “Would you like some laudanum?” Mrs. Seaton lowered herself to kneel before him, her expression concerned. “It’s not encouraged for head injuries.”

  “I have been uncomfortable before. I’ll manage,” the earl said. “But you will have to get me into a dressing gown and fetch my correspondence from the library.”

  “A dressing gown?” Her finely arched sable eyebrows flew up. “I’ll fetch a footman, perhaps, or Mr. Stenson.”

  “Can’t.” Westhaven tried to maneuver himself back onto the settee. “Stenson stayed at Morelands, as His Grace’s man had some time off, and no footmen or butler either, as it’s the men’s half-day.” Faced with that logic, Mrs. Seaton wrapped her arm around the earl’s waist and assisted him to change his seat.

  “A dressing gown it is, then.” She capitulated easily, leaving him staring at her retreating figure as she went to fetch his garment.

  How hard could it be to drape a dressing gown over a set of bare, masculine shoulders? Except seeing the earl, Anna had to refine on her question: A set of unbelievably well-muscled, broad, bare shoulders, God help her.

  Anna had, of course, noticed her employer on occasion in the weeks she’d been in his household. He was a handsome man, several inches over six feet, green-eyed, with dark chestnut hair and features that bore the patrician stamp of aristocratic breeding. She put his age at just past thirty but had formed no opinion of him as a person. He came and went at all hours, seldom invading the lowest floor, closeting himself for long periods in his library with his man of business or other gentlemen.

  He liked order, privacy, and regular meals. He ate prodigious amounts of food but never drank to excess. He went to his club on Wednesdays and Fridays, his mistress on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. He had volumes of Byron and Blake in his library, and read them late at night. He had a sweet tooth and a fondness for his horse. He was tired more often than not, as his father had put the ducal finances in severe disarray before tossing his heir the reins, and righting that situation took much of the earl’s time.

  Westhaven appeared to have an exasperated sort of affection for his lone surviving brother, Valentine, and grieved still for the two brothers who had died.

  He had no friends but knew everybody.

  And he was being pressured to take a wife, hence this stubborn unwillingness to leave Town in the worst heat wave in memory.

  These thoughts flitted through Anna’s mind in the few moments it took her to rummage in the earl’s wardrobe and find a silk dressing gown of dark blue. She’d bandaged his back, but if the scalp wound should reopen and start bleeding, the color of the fabric would hide any stain.

  “Will this do, my lord?” She held up the dressing gown when she returned to his sitting room, and frowned at him. “You are pale, methinks. Can you stand?”

  “Boots off first, methinks,” he replied, hefting one large foot onto the coffee table. Anna’s lips pressed together in displeasure, but she deposited the dressing gown on the settee and pushed the coffee table over at an angle. She tugged at his boots, surprised to find they weren’t painted onto him, as most gentlemen’s riding boots were.

  “Better.” He wiggled his bare toes when she’d peeled off his socks. “If you would assist me?” He held out an arm, indicating his desire to rise. Anna braced him and slowly levered him up. When he was on his feet, they stood l
inked like that for a long moment before Anna reached over and retrieved the dressing gown. She worked awkwardly, sliding it up one arm, then the other, before getting it draped across his shoulders.

  “Can you stand unassisted?” she asked, still not liking his pallor.

  “I can.” But she saw him swallow against the pain. “My breeches, Mrs. Seaton.”

  She wasn’t inclined to quibble when he looked ready to keel over at any minute, but as she deftly unfastened the fall of his trousers, she realized he intended for her to undress him. Did a man ask a woman he was going to charge with attempted murder to help him out of his clothes?

  “Sometime before I reach my eternal reward, if it wouldn’t be too great an imposition.”

  In his expression, Anna perceived he wasn’t bothered by their enforced proximity anywhere near as much as she was, and so she unceremoniously shoved his waistband down over his hips.

  Dear God, the man wasn’t wearing any smalls. Blushing furiously, she wasn’t prepared for him to thrust an arm across her shoulders and balance on her as he carefully lifted first one foot then the other free of his clothing. Again, he lost momentum as pain caught up with him, and for the space of two slow, deep breaths, he leaned on her heavily, his dressing gown gaping open over his nudity, his labored breathing soughing against her cheek.

  “Steady,” she murmured, reaching for the ends of the belt looping at his waist. She tucked his dressing gown closed and knotted it securely, but not before she’d seen…

  She would never, ever stop blushing. Not ever, if she lived to be as old as Granny Fran, who sat in the kitchen telling stories that went back to old German George.

  “To bed, I think,” the earl said, his voice sounding strained.

  She nodded, anchored her arm around his middle, and in small steps, walked him into the next room and up to the steps surrounding his great, canopied bed.

  “Rest a minute,” he bit out, leaning on her mightily. She left him propped against the foot of the bed and folded down his covers.

  “On your stomach will likely be less uncomfortable, my lord.” He nodded, his gaze fixed on the bed with grim determination. Anna took up her position at his side, and by careful steps, soon had him standing at the head of the bed. She turned so their backs were to the bed and sat with him on the mattress.