The Heir

He finished that statement through clenched teeth, alarming A

“I have come to the point,” the earl went on, “where I comprehend why my older brothers would consider the Peninsular War preferable to the daily idiocy that comes with being Percival Windham’s heir. I honestly believe that could he but figure a way to pull it off, my father would lock me naked in a room with the woman of his choice, there to remain until I got her pregnant with twin boys. And I am not just frustrated”—the earl’s tone took on a sharper edge—“I am ready to do him an injury, because I don’t think anything less will make an impression. Two unwilling people are going to wed and have a child because my father got up to tricks.”

“Your father did not force those two people into one another’s company all unawares and blameless, my lord, but why not appeal to your mother? By reputation, she is the one who can control him.”

The earl shook his head. “Her Grace is much diminished by the loss of my brother Victor. I do not want to importune her, and she will believe His Grace only meant well.”

A

“Why, of course.” The earl gestured impatiently. “She had eight children and still has six. There will be grandchildren, and if for some reason the six of us are completely remiss, I have two half siblings, whose children she will graciously spoil, as well.”

“Good heavens,” A

“He does. Except for the one daughter of Victor’s, none of us have seen fit to reproduce. There was a rumor Bart had left us something to remember him by, but he likely started the rumor himself just to aggravate my father.”

“So find a wife,” A

“See?” The earl raised his voice, though just a bit. “Honest with my scheme? Do you know how like my father that makes me sound?”

“And is this all that plagues you, my lord? Your father has no doubt been a nuisance for as long as you’ve been his heir, if not longer.”

The earl glanced sharply at his housekeeper, then his lips quirked, turned back down, and then slowly curved back up.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked, his smiles being as rare as hen’s teeth.

“I found your little parlor maid in the hay loft,” the earl said, setting out his water glass and wine glass precisely one inch from the plate. “She discovered our mouser’s new litter, and she was enthralled with the cat’s purr. She could feel it, I think, and understood it meant the cat was happy.”

“She would,” A

“You know Morgan that well?” the earl asked, his tone casual.

“We are related,” she replied, telling herself it was a version of the truth. A prevaricating version.

“So you took pity on her,” the earl surmised, “and hired her into my household. Has she always been deaf?”

“I do not know the particulars of her malady, my lord,” she said, lifting the basket to her hip. “All I care for is her willingness to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay. Shall we serve you tea or lemonade with your luncheon?”

“Lemonade,” Westhaven said. “But for God’s sake don’t forget to sugar it.”

She bobbed a curtsy so low as to be mocking. “Any excuse to sweeten your disposition, my lord.”

He watched her go, finding another smile on his face, albeit a little one. His housekeeper liked having the last word, which was fine with him—usually. But as their conversation had turned to the question of her relation, she had dodged him and begun to dissemble. It was evident in her eyes and in the slight defensiveness of her posture.

A person, even one in service to an earl, was entitled to privacy. But a person with secrets could be exploited by, say, an unscrupulous duke. And for that reason—for that reason—the earl would be keeping a very close eye on A

Three

“BEG PARDON, MUM.” JOHN FOOTMAN BOBBED A BOW. “His lordship’s asking fer ya, and I’d step lively.”

“He’s in the library?” A

“In his chambers, mum.” John was blushing now, even as he stared holes in the molding. A

“Best see what he wants.” A

“My lord?” She knocked twice, heard some sort of lordly growl from the other side, and entered the earl’s sitting room.

The earl was dressed, she noted with relief, but barely. His shirt was unbuttoned, as were his cuffs, he was barefoot, and the garters were not yet closed on his knee breeches.

He did not glance up when she entered the room but was fishing around on a bureau among brushes and combs. “My hair touches my collar, at the back.” He waved two fingers impatiently behind his right ear. “As my valet continues to attend His Grace, you will please address the situation.”

“You want me to trim your hair?” A

“If you please,” he said, locating a pair of grooming scissors and handing them to her handles first. He obligingly turned his back, which left A

“It will be easier, my lord, if you will sit, as even your collar is above my eye level.”

“Very well.” He dragged a stool to the center of the room and sat his lordly arse upon it.

“And since you don’t want to have stray hairs on that lovely white linen,” A

“Always happy to dispense with clothing at the request of a woman.” The earl whipped his shirt over his head.

“Do you want your hair cut, my lord?” A

“Cut,” his lordship replied, giving her a slow perusal. “I gather from your vexed expression there is something for which I must apologize. I confess to a mood both distracted and resentful.”

“When somebody does you a decent turn,” she said as she began to comb out his damp hair, “you do not respond with sarcasm and i

“You have a deft touch. Much more considerate than my valet.”

“Your valet is a self-important little toady,” A

“Well, I am sorry,” the earl said, grabbing her hand by the wrist to still the comb. “I have an appointment at Carlton House this afternoon, and I most petulantly and assuredly do not want to go.”

“Carlton House?” A

He turned her hand over and studied the lines of her palm for a moment.

He smoothed his thumb over her palm. “Pri

“But you ca

“It is a tiresome damned pain in my arse,” the earl groused. “You have no wedding ring, Mrs. Seaton, nor does your finger look to have ever been graced by one.”