The Heir

“Our situation is u

The earl grabbed the dressing gown and shrugged into it, even those movements looking painful. “Nearby is a relative term. About a mile the other side of Welbourne there is something large enough to boast a church, but not in the direction of London.”

“Welbourne is where your niece lives.”

“A

“I would rather they see you unwell, Westhaven, then see you laid out for burial.”

“Are you implying I am too arrogant to accept assistance?”

“Stubborn.” A

“Perhaps it is you who are anxious, A

Her chin came up a half inch. “Who just said he’s never risen feeling so uncomfortable?”

“Unrefreshed,” the earl corrected her, considering his bodily state. He felt like pure, utter hell. His worst hangover at university did not compare with this, the flu did not, the broken arm he’d suffered at thirteen did not. He felt as if every muscle in his body had been pulled, every bone broken, every organ traumatized, and he had to piss again with a sort of hot, whiney insistence that suggested illness even to him.

“Welbourne it is,” he said on a sigh. “Just to borrow a proper coach and a sturdy team. I won’t have Amery gloating over this, nor his viscountess.”

Getting even the three miles to Welbourne was an ordeal for them both and for the horse. In the hour it had taken them to dress, load, and hitch the gig, Westhaven’s condition worsened. He sat beside A

They didn’t speak, the earl preoccupied with remaining conscious, A

The stables were closed up tight, but A

“Westhaven.” She jostled him stoutly. “We’re here. Sit up until I can get down and help you to alight.”

He complied silently and nearly fell on A

The front door opened before A

A

“You,” the fellow barked at a footman. “Have Pericles put up and see he’s offered a warm mash. You.” He fixed fierce blue eyes on A

Taken aback, A

“He is coming down with chicken pox,” A

“Douglas Allen.” The man offered her a bow. “Viscount Amery, at your service.” He jerked the bellpull and surveyed the man dripping on his couch. “Westhaven?”

“Amery?”

The earl’s voice was a croak, but one that conveyed a spark of pride.

“If you insist on attempting to travel on in your condition,” Amery said, “I will send a note forthwith to His Grace, and tattle on you. I will also hold you up to Rose as a bad example, and worse, my viscountess will worry. As she is the sole sustenance of my heir, I am loathe to worry her, do I make myself clear?”

“Ye gods…” Westhaven muttered, peering at his host. “You are serious.”

Amery quirked an eyebrow. “As serious as the chicken pox, complicated by a lung fever, and further compounded by Windham pride and arrogance.”

“Douglas?” A tall woman with dark auburn hair entered the parlor, her pretty features showing curiosity and then concern.

“Guinevere.” The man slid a shameless arm around the lady’s waist. “Look you, on yonder couch, ’tis your former betrothed, come to give us all the chicken pox.”

“Oh, Westhaven.” The woman stepped forward, but A

“My lady.” A

“She’s right.” Amery frowned. “I know I’ve had the chicken pox.”

“As have I,” Guinevere said, but she returned to her husband’s side. “And so has Rose. Douglas, you can’t let him travel like this.”

“Using the third person,” the earl rasped from the couch, “when a man is present and conscious, is rude and irritating.”

“But fun,” Amery said, coming to peruse his visitor. He put the back of his hand to the earl’s forehead and knelt to consider him at closer range. Though both men were of an age, the viscount’s gestures were curiously paternal. “You are burning up, which I needn’t tell you. I know you hold physicians in no esteem whatsoever, but will you let me send for Fairly?”

“You will not notify the duke?” Westhaven met his host’s eyes.

“Not yet, if you stay here like a good boy and get better before my Christian charity is outstripped by my honesty,” Amery said, sending his wife a glance.

“Send for Fairly,” the earl replied, “but only him, and not those damned quacks who think they attend His Grace.”

“I would not so insult Fairly,” the viscount said, rising. “Not even to aggravate you.”

While the viscount wrested permission to summon the doctor from the earl, Lady Amery conferred with the footman then turned to A

“I’m sorry,” Lady Amery said, smiling. “You have me at a loss, Miss…?”

“Mrs. Seaton,” A

“Pretty place,” Amery murmured, “but first things first.”

“The back bedroom will serve as a sick room and is being made up now,” Guinevere said. “You and the earl could both probably use hot baths and some sustenance, and I’m sure we can find you something dry to change into, as you and I appear to be of a height.”

“Come, Westhaven.” The viscount tugged the earl to his feet. “We’ll ply you with foul potions and mutter incantations by your bedside until you are recovered for the sake of your sanity. You should probably see Rose now, or she will just sneak into your room when you are feeling even worse and read her stories to you.”

It should have made him shudder, Westhaven thought as Amery tugged and carried and insulted him up to the bedroom. To be here with the man who had stopped his wedding to Gwen, and to be so ill and virtually helpless before him and Gwen. It should have been among his worst nightmares.

But as Douglas got him out of his wet clothes and shoved him into a steaming, scented bath, then fussed him into swilling some god-awful tea, Westhaven realized that what he felt was safe.

“He’ll want to notify his brother,” A