The Heir

“We’ll send him a message with the one going to Fairly,” Gwen replied, handing A

“Send it in code.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gwen set down her cup and waited for an explanation.

“It’s the duke,” A

“He most assuredly will not.” Douglas spoke from the door of the parlor, and there was something like amusement in his expression. “This is one household where His Grace’s mischief gets him nowhere. May I have a spot of tea, my love?” He lowered his long frame beside his wife, draping an arm across the back of the couch.

“How is Westhaven?” Gwen asked, fixing her husband a cup of tea.

“Sleeping, but uncomfortable. I thought you must be mistaken, Mrs. Seaton, as he has no evidence of chicken pox on his face, but your diagnosis is borne out by inspection of the rest of him.”

“I had a rather severe case as a child,” A

“I can assist,” the viscount said, “and I will do so gleefully. But you, my love, should likely avoid the sickroom.”

“I will,” Gwen said, “for the sake of the baby, and because having you see him in distress is likely enough penance even for Westhaven. He doesn’t need me gloating, too.”

A

“Westhaven said it was a miserable betrothal.”

“For all three of us,” Gwen said. “But quickly ended. You did the right thing, bringing him here. He is family, and we don’t really hold the betrothal against him, any more than we delight in his illness.”

“His sickness is serious,” A

“The man is too proud by half,” Douglas remarked, topping off his own tea cup. His wife watched, amused, but said nothing.

“It isn’t pride, my lord,” A

“Afraid.” Douglas pursed him lips thoughtfully. “Because of his brother Victor?”

“Not precisely.” A

“Hadn’t thought of that,” Douglas said, flicking another glance at his wife. “Guinevere?”

“Send for David,” Gwen said. “He’ll know how to handle the earl and how to treat the chicken pox, too.”

“We speak of the Viscount Fairly,” Douglas explained. “A family co

“He does,” A

“Fairly will know,” Douglas assured her. “But how is it, Mrs. Seaton, you and the earl come to be on our doorstep at this hour? Surely Westhaven was not fool enough to venture from Town in this downpour?”

Gwen abruptly looked fascinated with her tea cup, while A

“We traveled out to Willow Bend yesterday,” A

“Nonsense,” Amery replied, crossing his legs at the knee. It should have been a fussy gesture on a man. On him it was… elegant. “Westhaven, being a man of sense and discretion, had you on our doorstep well before dark last evening, didn’t he, Guinevere?”

“He did.” Gwen nodded, swirling her tea placidly. “He was particularly quiet at di

The viscount sent A

He poured for her, his wife smiling tolerantly as he did, and A

“Fairly can’t attend you.” Douglas waved a missive at Westhaven. “He doesn’t know if he’s had the chicken pox or not.”

“Christ. How can you not know if you’ve turned as spotted as a leopard and felt like something a leopard killed last week?”

“He was raised by his mother in Scotland until he was six and ca

“Why are you staring?” Westhaven asked irritably. “Is my face breaking out?”

“No, though I might enjoy seeing that. Fairly writes in some detail we are to provide you comfort nursing and to particularly manage any tendency you have to fevers and discourage you strongly from being bled. And you are not to scratch.”

“I don’t itch,” the earl said, “I ache.” And he wondered, when she wasn’t with him, how the viscount and his wife were treating A

“Shall I beat you at cribbage?” Douglas offered. “Or perhaps you’d like me to send in Rose?”

“She was here earlier. She lent him to me.” He held up a little brown stuffed bear.

“Mr. Bear.” Douglas nodded. “He presided over my own sickroom when I ended up with the flu down in Sussex. Good fellow, Mr. Bear. Not much of one for handing out useful advice, however.”

“We have Rose for that.” Westhaven almost smiled. “She told me to obey her mother, and I would get better.”

“Disobeying Guinevere would be rather like trying to disobey a force of nature. One does so at one’s mortal peril. She is a formidable woman.”

“She would have made a formidable duchess,” Westhaven said then realized what had come out of his mouth. “Sorry.”

“She would”—Douglas merely nodded—“but her taste in husbands is impeccable, and it is my ring she wears.”

“Does it bother you?” Westhaven held up the bear and stared into his button eyes. “My being here?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Westhaven.” Douglas rose and crossed the room to an escritoire, extracting a deck of cards and a cribbage board. “Gwen has explained to me you offered for her only because you assumed she was free to refuse you. She has since said you would have tried very hard to make the marriage happy, and I believe her. Cut for the deal.” Douglas slapped the board and the deck down on the bed.

“That’s it, then?” Westhaven turned up a two, and Douglas pitched his draw down in disgust. “I would have made her happy, no harm done?”

“If Guinevere sees no reason to dwell in the past, then why should I, as my future with Rose, little John, and Guinevere is an embarrassment of happiness?”

“My crib,” Westhaven intoned, pondering Douglas’s words. What was it like to face a future that could be described with a straight face as an embarrassment of happiness?

Douglas trounced him, going about the game with the same seriousness of purpose that he brought to every endeavor. By the time the board was put away, Westhaven’s eyes were growing heavy, and Douglas was angling in the direction of a strategic retreat. A knock on the door heralded A