And as much as Westhaven sensed they could make a good job of marriage to one another, the earl would not under any circumstances accept Anna Seaton served up as his wife, bound and gagged by the duke’s infernal mischief.
Westhaven healed, albeit slowly, and had to agree with Douglas that what was needed was mostly sleep. On the third day, the rain stopped, on the fourth, the earl slept through the night. On the fifth, he began to grouse about returning home and was marshaling his arguments in the solitude of his room when Rose cajoled him into a visit to the stables. He managed to groom his horse and entertain Rose with a few stories of her father.
But the outing, tame as it was, had been taxing and left him overdue for a stint in bed, much to his disgust. He parted company from Rose, sending her off to draw pictures of the stories he’d told her, and sank down on his bed.
He had a feeling something was off, not right somehow in a nagging way. He peeled out of his clothes and stretched out on the mattress, but still, the sense of something missing wouldn’t leave him.
Anna, he realized as he slipped between the freshly laundered sheets. He’d gone all of two or three hours without seeing her, and her absence was tolling in the back of his mind. All the more reason, he thought, closing his eyes, to get back to Town where his routine would prevent prolonged periods of proximity such as they’d had at Welbourne.
Wanting to bed the woman—even offering to wed her—wasn’t the same as wanting to live in her pocket, after all. A man would have to be besotted to allow feelings like that.
Nine
A WEEK SPENT AT LORD AMERY’S HAD CREATED DEFINITE changes in the way Westhaven went on with the object of his unbesottedness. By necessity, while in Surrey he’d kept his hands to himself, and the enforced discipline had yielded some odd rewards.
Anna, for example, had touched him, and in ways a housekeeper would never have touched her employer. She’d bathed him, shaved him, brushed his hair, dressed and undressed him, and even dozed beside him on the big bed. As soon as his fever had abated, she’d left his most personal care to others, but the damage had been done.
Or, Westhaven thought as he tugged on his boot, the ground had been gained.
He had also had a chance to observe her over longer periods of time and watch more carefully how she interacted with others. The more he saw, however, the more puzzled he became. The little clues added up… and not to the conclusion that she was a mere housekeeper.
“What on earth has put that frown on your face?” Devlin St. Just came strolling into the earl’s townhouse bedchamber, dressed to ride and sporting a characteristic charming grin.
“I am considering a lady,” the earl replied, scrounging under his bed for the second boot.
“And frowning. What seek you under the bed, Westhaven? The lady?”
“My damned boot,” Westhaven said, extracting the missing footwear. “I sent Stenson off to Brighton with Val, to assure myself some privacy, but the result is I must look after my own effects.” He pulled on the boot, sat back, and smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit?”
“Val commissioned me to keep an eye on you,” Dev said, plopping down on the end of the bed. “Said he was decoying Stenson, so the state of your health would not become common knowledge in the ducal household.”
“I am still very obviously recovering from the chicken pox,” the earl admitted. “At least, it’s very obvious when I am unclothed; hence, Stenson was sent elsewhere.”
“His Grace came by to interrogate me.” Dev leaned back on his elbows. “Knowing nothing, I could, as usual, divulge nothing. He looked particularly choleric to me, Westhaven. Are you and he at outs?”
“I don’t think he tolerates the heat well,” Westhaven said, glancing around the room for his cravat. He’d ring for his housekeeper, who seemed to know where his clothing got off to better than he did, but with Dev on the bed, that wasn’t an option.
“He’d tolerate the heat better if he unbent a little in his attire,” Dev said. “He was in full regalia at two in the afternoon on a sweltering day. I’m surprised Her Grace lets him go about like that.”
“She chooses her battles,” Westhaven said, spying a clean pair of cravats in his wardrobe. “Do me up, would you? Nothing fancy.” He held up the linen, and Dev rose from the bed.
“So where are you off to? Chinny up.” He whipped the linen into a simple, elegant, and perfectly symmetric knot in moments.
“The wharves, unfortunately,” Westhaven said, now seeking his waistcoat.
“Why unfortunately?” Dev asked, watching his brother root around in the wardrobe.
“The stench in this heat is nigh unbearable,” Westhaven replied, extracting a lightweight green and gold paisley waistcoat from the wardrobe.
“Hadn’t thought of that. And here I thought being the heir was largely a matter of dancing with all the wallflowers and bellowing His Grace into submission every other Tuesday.”
“Don’t suppose you’d like to join me?” Westhaven asked, his goal now to locate a suitable pin for his cravat.
“I have lived these thirty and more years,” Dev said, plucking a gold pin from the vanity, “without experiencing the olfactory pleasure of the wharves on an unbearably hot day. We must remedy my ignorance. Hold still.”
He deftly dealt with the cravat and stood back to survey the results.
“You’ll do.” He nodded. “If you attempt to wear your coat before we arrive, I will disown you for lunacy.”
“You can’t disown me. You’ve been formally recognized.”
“Then I’ll tattle to Her Grace,” Dev said, grabbing his own coat, “and tell her you’ve been ill.”
“For God’s sake, Dev.” Westhaven stopped and glared. “Don’t even joke about such a thing. Fairly reports that a serious bout of chicken pox in an adult male has been blamed for a loss of reproductive function in rare cases. His Grace will have me stripped and studied within an inch of my most private life.”
“No, he will not. You’ll not allow it, neither will I, neither will Val.”
“I do not put the use of force past him,” Westhaven said as they traversed the house. “You think he appears choleric, Val, and I think he’s become less constrained by appearances.”
“He’s afraid of dying,” Dev suggested, “and he wants his legacy assured. And, possibly, he wants to please Her Grace.”
“Possibly,” Westhaven allowed as they reached the stables. “But enough of that depressing topic. How fares your dear Bridget?”
“Alas.” Dev rolled his eyes. “She has taken me into disfavor or taken another into greater favor.”
“Well, which is it? One wants the dirty details.”
“Unbeknownst to me”—Devlin rolled his sleeve down then right back up—“my Bridget had a potential Mr. Bridget waiting for her in Windsor. One cannot in good conscience thwart the course of true love. She lacked only for a modest dowry.”
“You dowered your doxy, thus proving you are a Windham,” Westhaven said. “Though you do not bear the name, you yet have His Grace’s inability to deal badly with a woman you care for.”
“Perhaps his only redeeming feature,” Dev said. “Hullo, sweetheart.” Morgan was walking out of the stables, a kitten in her hand. She offered them a perfunctory curtsy but went on her way, keeping her customary silence.
“Is she simple?”
“Not in the least.” Westhaven mounted Pericles and waited while Dev used the mounting block in his turn. “She does not speak, or not clearly, and can hear only a little, or so Val says. But she works hard and is a favorite of the older staff. She arrived with my housekeeper several months ago.”