The Heir

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.”

“The one with you at Amery’s?” Dev asked with studied nonchalance.

“The very one.” Westhaven shot him a look that said he wasn’t fooled by Dev’s tone. “What exactly do you want to know that you weren’t able to get out of Val?”

“Where did you find her? I am in the market for same.”

“I lured her to my employ with my endless buckets of charm,” Westhaven said dryly.

“You are charming,” Dev said when they were trotting along. “You just can’t afford to be flirtatious, as well.”

Westhaven aimed a smile at his brother, grateful for the simple understanding and support. His was grateful, as well, for his brother’s continued company throughout the rest of the afternoon, as Dev was well versed in the mechanics of bringing a cargo to or from Ireland, which was the particular focus of Westhaven’s errand.

“I am beyond glad to have that particular situation resolved,” Westhaven said as they trotted into his mews. “I didn’t know you exported your stock to France.”

“Now that the Corsican is properly half a world away, there is a raging demand for horses on the Continent. The French cavalry that galloped off to Moscow in ’12 boasted something like forty thousand horses. As best we can calculate, within a year, there were less than two thousand suitable mounts. If it has four hooves and will take a bridle, I can find a buyer on the Continent.”

“Enterprising of you. What are you doing for dinner?” Westhaven asked as they swung down from their saddles. “In fact, as you are without a housekeeper, what are you doing for the next little while?”

Devlin’s expression closed, but not before the earl saw the shadows clouding his eyes. Dev had been to war and come home, thankfully, but as a veteran of every major battle on the Peninsula, the Hundred Days, and Waterloo itself, Dev had also left pieces of his soul all over the Continent.

“If you’re thinking of a sortie to the Pleasure House,” Devlin said, “I will decline.”

“Not my cup of tea.” Westhaven shook his head. “From what Val tells me, the place has lost a little of its brilliance. I wasn’t suggesting we go carousing, in any case, but rather that you move in with me and Val.”

“Generous of you,” Dev said, pursing his lips in thought. “I have at least three horses needing stabling and regular work if they’re to be sold next spring as finished mounts.”

“We’ve room,” Westhaven said. “I’ll confess to curiosity. Are your beasts so sought after you can live on the proceeds of those sales?”

“Not just those sales,” Dev replied, though it was as personal a question as they’d ever exchanged. “But I’d appreciate having you look over my whole operation sometime, if you’ve a mind to. I am sure, with your more extensive commercial connections, you’ll see efficiencies I’ve overlooked.”

Westhaven glanced over, but Dev was accomplished at keeping his emotions to himself. There was nothing to suggest the idea was anything other than a casual fancy.

“I’d be happy to do that.”

“You might make the same offer to Val, you know,” Dev said as they dismounted. “He imports instruments from all over the Continent and has two different manufactories producing pianos, but he hasn’t wanted to impose on you regarding some of the business questions.”

“Val hasn’t wanted to impose on me? And you, Dev? Have you also not wanted to impose on me?”

Dev met his eye squarely and nodded.

“We do not envy you your burdens. We would not add to them.”

“I see,” Westhaven muttered, scowling. “And is that all you have to offer me? Burdens? Were you not more knowledgeable than I regarding the harbor at Rosslare? The packet schedule to Calais?”

“Westhaven, we think to spare you, not add to your load.”

“My lord?” Anna Seaton stood to one side, her silly cap covering her glorious hair, her demeanor tentative, and it was a measure of the earl’s consternation with his brothers he hadn’t noticed her on the terrace.

“Mrs. Seaton.” Westhaven smiled at her. “May I make known to you my dear brother, Devlin St. Just. St. Just, my housekeeper, florist, and occasional nurse, Mrs. Anna Seaton.”

“My lord.” Anna bobbed a curtsy while St. Just bowed and offered a slight, not quite warm smile.

“I am hardly a lord, Mrs. Seaton, being born on the wrong side of the ducal blanket, but I am acknowledged, thanks to Her Grace.”

“And I have offered him a place in my household,” Westhaven said, meeting his brother’s eye, “if he will have it.”

A beat of silence went by, rife with undercurrents. “He will have it,” Dev said on a grin, “until you toss me out.”

“Val’s playing might take some getting used to,” Westhaven cautioned, “but Mrs. Seaton takes the best of care of us, even in this god-awful heat.”

“Speaking of Lord Valentine?” Anna chimed in.

“Yes?” Westhaven handed off Pericles to the groom and cocked an eyebrow. The cap was more atrocious than silly, he saw, and Anna seemed tense.

“He writes he will be back from Brighton tomorrow,” Anna said, “and warns you might need to have some other task arranged for Mr. Stenson.”

“I’ll take over Stenson,” Dev said. “My former housekeeper had no skill with a needle, so Mr. Stenson can be set to looking after my wardrobe for at least the next few days.”

“That will help. Was there something further, Anna?”

“I assume dinner will be for two, my lord, and on the terrace?”

“That will do, and some lemonade while we wait for our victuals, I think. Which bedroom shall we put my brother in?”

“There is only the one remaining at the back of the house, my lord. We have time to ready it before this evening.”

He nodded, dismissing her but unable to take his eyes off her retreating figure until she was back through the garden gate. When he turned back to his brother, Westhaven found Dev eying him curiously.

“What?”

“Marry her,” Dev said flatly. “She’s too pretty to be a housekeeper and too well spoken to be a doxy. She won’t be cowed by His Grace, and she’ll keep you in fresh linens and good food all your days.”

“Dev?” Westhaven cocked his head. “Are you serious?”

“I am. You have to marry, Westhaven. I would spare you that if I could, but there it is. This one will do admirably, and she’s better bred than the average housekeeper, I can tell you that.”

“How can you tell me that?”

“Her height for one thing,” Dev said as they made for the house. “The peasantry are rarely tall, and they never have such good teeth. Her diction is flawless, not simply adequate. Her skin is that of lady, as are her manners. And look at her hands, man. It remains true you can tell a lady by her hands, and those are the hands of a lady.”

Westhaven frowned, saying nothing. Those were the very observations he had made of Anna while they rusticated at Amery’s. She was a lady, for all her wielding of dusters and wearing of caps.

“And yet she says her grandfather was in trade,” Westhaven noted when they arrived to the kitchen. “He raised flowers commercially, and she bouquets the house with a vengeance. We’re also boasting a very well-stocked pantry and a supply of marzipan for me. The sweet of your choice will be stocked, as well, as I won’t take kindly to your pinching mine.”

“Heaven forefend,” Dev muttered as Westhaven procured a fistful of cookies.

“We are permitted to spoil our dinner, as well,” Westhaven said. “Grab the pitcher, the sugar bowl, and two glasses.”

Dev did as bid and followed his brother back onto the shady back terrace. Westhaven poured them both a tall glass of lemonade, adding liberal amounts of sugar to his own.

“I haven’t had lemonade since I was a lad,” Dev remarked when he’d chugged half of his. “It refreshes.”

“Tastes better with extra sugar. Val adds cold tea to his. Try mine.”

“As I have had the chicken pox,” Dev said, sipping from Westhaven’s glass. “Give me that sugar bowl.”

They passed an amiable evening, chatting over dinner about the marriage prospects for their sisters, the house party at Morelands, and the state of British government in general.

When the earl was alone in the library at the end of the evening, he found himself wondering why he hadn’t offered his brothers the use of the townhouse earlier. It would have allowed them both to be near their sisters without residing at the ducal mansion, and it would have provided some company.

Anna had been company out at Welbourne, but in the week since their return, she’d faded back into the role of invisible housekeeper. When he walked into a room, she left. When he sat down to a meal, she was nowhere to be found. When he retired to his rooms, she’d been through earlier, cleaning and tidying then disappearing.

The door clicked softly, and as if he’d conjured her with his thoughts, Anna padded in on bare feet, clad only in her night rail and wrapper.

“Anna.” He rose, and she watched as he took in her dishabille.

“My lord,” she said and earned a thunderous scowl from him as he stalked over to her.

“What have I done, Anna, to earn your use of my title?”

“I cannot be sure we are private,” she said then blinked at her tactical error. “And I do not believe such familiarity wise.”

“Ah.” He backed away, leaning on the desk, arms crossed. “Shall we discuss this change of heart on your part? You’ve been avoiding me since we got back to Town, and don’t think to tell me otherwise.”

“You are no longer ill,” she said, raising her chin. “And you are capable of dressing yourself.”

“Barely,” he said with a snort. “So tell me, how am I to court you if you won’t stay in the same room with me? How am I to persuade you to marry me if you maneuver always to have others present when I am about? You aren’t playing fair, Anna.”

She watched him warily, trying to formulate an answer that wouldn’t aggravate him further. If she’d known he was in here, lurking in the solitude and darkness, she would have run in the opposite direction—she hoped.

“Come here.” He gentled his tone and held out a hand.

“You will take liberties,” Anna said, crossing her arms. “And you know I do not encourage your courting. I warned you your efforts would be for naught.”

The difficulty, Anna silently admitted, was that she had made no efforts of her own, efforts to secure yet another position, another identity, another escape route. Like one of her grandfather’s fat, wooly sheep, she’d just gone about her tasks, cutting flowers, airing sheets, and telling herself soon she would press his lordship for that character, soon she would explain the situation to Morgan, soon she would make inquiries at some different agencies.

A week had gone by, and she’d accomplished nothing, except another seven days of longing for a man she had no business desiring.

“You will make me work for it, won’t you?” Westhaven said with a faint smile. He pushed away from the desk and approached her silently. “That’s as it should be.”

His arms closed around her, and Anna just bowed her head, knowing even more than his kisses and his wicked caresses, the comfort of his embrace had the power to paralyze her. He was warm, vital, and strong, and while it wasn’t his aim to protect her, the illusion that he could was irresistible.

“Let me hold you,” he whispered, “or I’ll have a relapse of the chicken pox to inspire you to closer attendance of me.”

“You can’t have a relapse.”

“Actually, I can,” he murmured, his hands easing over her back, “but Fairly says it’s quite rare. Relax, Anna, I just want to feel you in my arms, hmm?”

She couldn’t remain tense, not with his big hands stroking so knowingly over her muscles and bones. He touched her the way he might touch a horse, listening with his hands for what her body would tell him without her mind’s consent.

“You need to eat more,” he said. “You’ve put weight on me but neglected yourself.”

“You lost weight, being ill,” Anna corrected him, her voice sleepier than she’d intended it. “And you have to stop this.”

“Why is that?” She felt his lips against her temple, and leaned into him a little more heavily.

“Because, I like it too well, and then you’ll be kissing me and your hands will be wandering and I will want to let them wander.”

“Good,” the earl said, humor in his voice and something else. Something not quite as relaxed as his hands might have suggested. “I do want to kiss you. Have for days, but you’ve been dodgy as a feral cat.” His lips brushed her cheek, and Anna felt her meager defenses crumbling.

“You must not,” she said, cuddling into his chest as if he could protect her from his own wayward intentions.

“I rather think I must,” he argued softly. “I have never met a lady so in want of kissing.” Those lips were moving along her jaw now, then teasing at her neck. Oh, the wretched, wretched man… Anna let her head fall to the side, vowing she would do better next time. She wouldn’t let him get past the first embrace. But for now…

She was wicked. Her brother had told her she was headstrong, unnatural, and ungrateful, and all that added up to wickedness. She should not be misleading the earl like this, should not be giving him ideas, should not be enjoying giving him ideas. But he touched her, and all the loneliness and worry and fear went away, taking her honor and common sense with them, leaving her melting and trusting and entirely too willing.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his teeth scraping gently at her skin. “Don’t think, just let me bring you pleasure, bring us both pleasure.”

“Westhaven…” she whispered, trying still to end this, to put him firmly in his place. He’d told her he would never force her; that he would stop if she asked it of him.

She could not ask it of herself, Anna thought despairingly as the earl’s lips settled softly over hers.

She tried to hold back, to keep herself aloof from his caresses and his kisses, but she had no experience with sexual self-restraint. Her hands crept up to caress his neck and jaw, her body pressed into his with shameless disregard for anything save the need to be closer, and her mouth parted on a sigh.

“Oh, not this…” She broke the kiss when he began to rock his hips against her but stayed in his arms, her forehead resting on his sternum. “You are interested, and soon you will be indecent with me again.”

“I would love to be indecent with you, Anna.”

“I cannot allow it,” she wailed. “You do not understand all of my circumstances, Westhaven. This is nothing but folly. We must stop.”

“Soon,” he assured her. “Your virtue is not at risk, Anna. Not tonight. Just let me pleasure you.”

“You want to be indecent,” she accused again, gripping his waist tightly.

“Unless you ask it of me, I will not remove my clothing,” he replied, his voice steadier than hers.

“Do you promise? You won’t even unfasten your trousers?” She lifted her face to regard him by the light of the fire.

“I will not unfasten my trousers,” he replied, his gaze rock steady with maybe a touch of humor in his green eyes. “Let me hold you and kiss you and bring you pleasure.”

If he kept his pants up, Anna reasoned, she wouldn’t be so tempted to wantonness, wouldn’t be tempted to touch him, to explore his intriguingly hard and yet delicately smooth male member with her fingers… and lips and tongue. If he kept his pants up, she could manage to keep her own wits about her.

She leaned up and kissed him, only to find herself lifted in his arms, turned, and deposited on the corner of his huge desk.

“Here.” He dragged over a chair and a hassock, the better to support her dangling feet. “If you need to hold on to something, hold on to me.”

Hold on, she did, as his lips settled over hers with unmistakable purpose. His tongue was in her mouth, thrusting in the same lazy rhythm as his hips were pushing against her sex. He wedged himself more tightly between her legs, and Anna felt something hot and needy wake up below the pit of her stomach. One of his arms stayed anchored around her back, but his free hand was wandering, stealing around her waist, leaving heat and wanting in its wake.

“Touch me, Anna.” Westhaven’s voice was a rough whisper, insistent and seductive. “Touch me however it pleases you.”

It pleased her to slide her hands over his chest, but the fine linen of his shirt wasn’t the goal she sought. Without taking her mouth from his, Anna tugged his shirttails free and slid a hand along his ribs, the feel of his warm skin bringing her some unnameable sense of relief.

“Don’t stop,” he urged, as she lifted his shirt free, all the way around his waist, and further gratified herself with the smooth, muscular planes of his back beneath her other hand. To touch him like this, skin to skin, at once soothed and aroused. She needed to touch him and couldn’t get enough of his skin beneath her hands.

“Jesus,” Westhaven hissed when Anna found his nipple. She paused, and he nipped at her neck, “Jesus, that feels good.” He shifted the angle of his hips, and Anna gasped, the sensation resulting from his rigid flesh against her sex sending a bolt of pure, hot desire skittering through her vitals.

“I like it, too,” he murmured, repeating the move but making no effort to open his falls. “Spread your legs, love. I’ll make it feel even better.”

When she grasped the meaning of his words, she complied, her own hands greedily learning the contour and sensitivities of his chest and neck and abdomen. She wanted to put her mouth on him, but his damned shirt…

“Shirt off,” she got out before drawing his tongue strongly into her mouth. She was growing frantic, but for what, she could not have said. For more, she thought. Please, almighty God, for more. They broke apart for a mere instant while Westhaven whipped the shirt over his head then plunged himself tongue-deep back into their kiss.

His hands shifted from her back to bunch the soft billows of her night rail and wrapper up in her lap.

Good, Anna thought, wanting only to be closer to him. And when Westhaven wedged himself between her legs again, she could only pull him closer, hoping he would again find that spot, that one place where the weight and thrust of his rigid length brought her such startling pleasure.

“Use me,” he growled. “Let yourself come.” Anna could not puzzle out the sense of his words but rocked her hips against him, seeking the same fit they’d found earlier.

“I can’t find…” she panted, trying to form words as Westhaven’s hand slipped lower and lower.

“I can,” he whispered, his fingers slipping over her intimate folds. His touch was infernally knowing, light, and teasing, maddening. Then he shifted the angle of his hand, so his thumb was pressing, right there, and he gave her a hint of relief with the tip of his finger inside her body.

“Westhaven,” she panted, “…dear God, what are you…?”

But his free hand had parted her night clothes enough to find a nipple and apply a gentle, pulsing pressure to it. That was all it took, just the start of attention to a breast, a bit of his finger, some pressure from his thumb, and her body seized in great, clutching spasms of pleasure.

She came silently, her body bucking against him for long fraught moments in complete abandon. When it was over, she hung limp and winded against him, shuddering as aftershocks wracked her, her cheek pressed over his heart.

Westhaven wanted nothing more than to plunge his raging erection into her wet heat and thrust like a mad bull, but his instincts suggested the moment wasn’t right. There had been too much ignorance in Anna’s responses, too little ability to anticipate and manage her own reactions.

Too much innocence.

So he held her to his chest and stroked her hair, and tried to pay attention to her and not to the indignant clamoring of his impatient cock.

“I cannot fathom what just passed between us,” she whispered.

“Has no one seen to your pleasure?” Westhaven kissed her temple, unable to stifle the smile in his voice. She might not be a virgin fresh from the schoolroom, but it pleased him to think he was the first to bring this to her. A husband exercised his rights, but a lover pleasured.

“Pleasure,” she echoed his thought, sounding inebriated. “Profound pleasure.”

“I hope so,” the earl rumbled. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” He brushed her hair back over her ear, and regarded her carefully. The disorientation on her face, coupled with the trusting, boneless weight of her in his arms caused a spike of profound affection for her to spread out from the center of his chest.

“I would like a little of the same for myself,” he whispered, arms going more tightly around her. “You will oblige me?”

“Oblige?” Anna’s brain had clearly slipped its leash, and Westhaven was hard put not to gloat.

“Let me come against you,” the earl urged, his voice intimate with anticipated pleasure. “The couch will do.” Hearing no objection, he hoisted her from the desk and laid her down on the long sofa.

“Lovely,” he whispered, coming down on top of her.

On top of her, thank Christ, he was at long last on top of her.

He blanketed her there on the couch, for the first time laying his half-naked body over hers, though he was careful with his weight. His lips found hers, his hand strayed to her breast, and he thought he heard her sigh “lovely” as she lifted up her hips, trying to stroke herself against him again.

“Easy,” he murmured, nipping at her earlobe. “I promised not to remove my own clothing unless at your request; you will have to oblige.”

Or, he reasoned, he could come in his knickers like the schoolboy he’d once been. But Anna was tugging at his falls and gently extracting his cock from his clothing.

“Much better,” he breathed, feeling himself grow more aroused now that he was free of his clothing.

He took his time, though it had been a long, frustrating week, apparently for them both. There was a hint of revenge in the languor with which he went about this loving. He kept his kisses slow and sweet, and he only gradually let her have the full weight of his hips, snugging his cock low against her belly. But Anna took a little revenge of her own, as her hands were free to roam his back, his chest, into his hair, over his features. He groaned quietly when she found his nipples then less quietly when she fastened her mouth on one and her fingers on the other.

“Oh, love, I can’t… Jesus, Anna…”

She eased off but didn’t desist completely, and then he felt her tilt her hips, the better to trap him against her. Her arms urged him to rest on her more fully.

“I like it,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. “I like your weight on me, like you being around me, above me.”

Encouraged by the rasp in her voice as much as her words, he began to thrust with more purpose, firmly putting aside the temptation to shift his hips and hilt himself in the wet heat of her. Her tongue found his nipple again, but this time he arched his back to make the angle easier for her.

“Your mouth, Anna,” he rasped, “please… God in heaven.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, suckled at him, and clamped her hand tightly on his buttocks as he thrust hard against her. When the warmth of his seed coursed onto her stomach, she held him all the more closely, until he levered up on his elbows and stared down at her in the firelight.

He lasted only a moment, suspended above her, before she slipped a hand around his nape and urged him back down against her. He capitulated to her silent request and was soon breathing in counterpoint with her, as naturally as if they’d made love every night for years. She traced patterns on his back, sifted her hands through his hair, and took his earlobe in her mouth for the occasional nip.

“One of us,” the earl said, “is going to have to get up. I nominate you.”

“Happy to serve,” Anna murmured drowsily. “But can’t fit it onto the schedule just at the moment.”

“Suppose that leaves me.” The earl sighed and heaved up, first onto straight arms then to his feet. His stood above her, brooding down at her half-naked, utterly relaxed sprawl so long she self-consciously moved to close her legs.

“Don’t,” he said, but it was a request, for all he didn’t state it as such. “Please. You are lovely.” But he moved away, sensing her defenses were weak, and she needed a moment. When he turned back to her, he’d pulled up his breeches but not buttoned them. To his shamelessly primitive delight, she’d not covered herself, not sat up, nor in any way disturbed the wanton pose in which he’d left her.

“Let me.” The earl sat down at her hip and began to dab gently at her with his dampened handkerchief. He made a sensual game out of it, stroking the cool cloth over her stomach, up under her breasts, and down to her sex. When she shifted her dressing gown, likely thinking to afford herself some small modesty, he applied a gentle pressure to the inside of her thigh.

“Let me,” he repeated. He held the cloth against her, and Anna closed her eyes, her blush evident even by firelight.

“Anna Seaton.” He leaned down and brushed his lips over her heart. “The pleasures you and I could share…” He said no more, feeling strangely off balance by their encounter. He set aside the cloth, pushed the halves of her clothing even farther to the side, and climbed over her again.

He wasn’t ready to bounce up and take himself upstairs to bed, wasn’t ready to dive back into the last few pieces of correspondence, wasn’t ready to pour himself a brandy and take it up to his balcony. Completely out of character for him, all he wanted to do was stay here with Anna, holding her and being held by her.

The feeling was mutual, he guessed, as Anna’s arms went around his shoulders. She kissed his cheek, and with her hands, urged his head down to her shoulder. Westhaven obliged, keeping himself awake by force of will.

This situation with Anna was proving more complicated than he wanted it to be. With Elise, he would have been out the door by now. She had accommodated him, but in hindsight, Westhaven saw it was barely even that. Elise had never let her fingers drift over his scalp like this, making delicious circles on his skin. She would never have clutched at his buttocks, the better to hold him to her. Elise would never—probably not even if he’d asked it of her—put her mouth to his nipple.

And he would most assuredly not have asked it of her, not in a million years.

You shouldn’t have had to ask. He could hear Anna’s tart tones in his head, even as he knew the thought was also his own.

Anna was different, he conceded. Just how different, he hadn’t accurately seen when he’d initially proposed. She held him at arm’s length, or tried to, then capitulated with sweet abandon, leaving him disoriented, so great had been his pleasure.

“Love?” He raised up on his forearms and brushed her hair off her forehead. “How are you? You’re too quiet, and you leave a fellow to fret.”

“I am… beyond words.” Anna smiled up at him. And he knew what thoughts were stirring in her busy brain: She should be vexed by this turn of events, troubled, dismayed, and she would be—soon. But not just yet, not with her body still languorous and pleased with itself, pleased with him.

He kissed her forehead. “I hope you’re beyond words in a positive sense.”

“I am.” She sighed and stretched, bringing her pelvis up against his.

“None of that.” He smiled and nuzzled at her neck, then slipped lower, going up on his knees to take a nipple into his mouth. Anna merely cradled his head against her and sighed again.

“Next time,” he murmured, resting against her sternum, “I will know where to start. You have sensitive breasts, my dear. Inspiringly so.”

“None of that.”

“None of what?” He raised his face to regard her in puzzlement.

“None of that next-time talk,” Anna clarified. “This was a lapse.”

Westhaven hung above her, considering, even as he ignored the considering being done by his cock. “We need to discuss this, and for that, you will have to be decently covered.”

“I will?”

His took his weight and warmth away from her and fortified himself with the disappointment in her voice.

“You will.” He sat at her hip and began to straighten her clothing, but paused to brush his thumb over her pubic curls. “When this next time comes around, that we are not going talk about, I will put my mouth on you here.” He closed his fingers over her sex. “You will enjoy it, but not half so much as I.”

She looked surprised then intrigued as he closed her buttons and bows, and the earl concluded she was a virgin to oral sex as well as orgasms. Mr. Seaton, God rest his lazy, inconsiderate, bumbling, unimaginative, selfish soul, had much to answer for.

“Up you go.” He tugged Anna to a sitting position then settled down beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her head rested against his chest, and her hand stole onto his bare stomach.

He yawned sleepily. “I should put on a shirt if we’re to have a meaningful discussion.”

“You needn’t,” Anna assured him. “It won’t take long at all to tell you this sort of thing has to stop.”

“Going back on your word, Anna?” Westhaven leaned over to kiss her temple and to again inhale the fragrance of her hair.

“I agreed not to seek another position until the end of summer,” she reminded him. The glow in Westhaven’s body faded a tad with each clipped syllable. “I did not agree to become your light-skirt.”

“Were you a virgin, you would still be considered chaste.”

“But I wouldn’t be for much longer if this keeps up.”

Westhaven knew some genuine puzzlement. “I will not force you, Anna.”

“You won’t have to,” she bit back. “I will spread my legs for you just as eagerly as I did tonight.”

“With results just as pleasurable, one hopes, but we’re talking past each other, Anna. Why won’t you let yourself enjoy my advances? That’s the real issue. If you have a reason of any substance—a husband somewhere, a mortal fear of intercourse, something besides your silly conviction earls don’t marry housekeepers—then I will consider desisting.” He punctuated his comment with a soft kiss to her neck.

“Keep your lips off me, please.” Anna straightened away from him but didn’t move off the couch. “I cannot think. I do not even know right from wrong when you start with your kisses and your wandering hands. You don’t mean to do it, but you leave me helpless and lost and… You have no clue what I mean, do you?”

“In truth,” the earl said, urging her head back down to his shoulder, “I do. You would be astonished, Anna, at how surprised I am at the way matters have progressed between us, and I am not often surprised.”

“Well, then,” Anna huffed, “all the more reason to give up this courting you seem so bent on.”

“Can’t say I agree with you.” His lips grazed her temple again, completely without conscious thought on his part. “And you have yet to name me a single reason why you could not wed me. Have you taken holy orders?”

“I have not.”

“Have you a mortal fear of copulating with me?”

She buried her nose against his shoulder and mumbled something.

“I will take that for a no. Are you married?”

“I am not.” And because he heard what he wanted to hear and insisted on hearing, the earl missed the slight hesitance in her answer.

“So why, Anna?” He bit her earlobe gently. “Those were my teeth, not my lips, mind you. We’ve gone only so far as lovers, and already you must know we would bring each other pleasure upon pleasure. So why do you play this game?”

“It isn’t a game. There are matters I hold in confidence, matters I will not discuss with you or anyone, that prevent me from committing to you as a wife should commit.”

“Ah.” The earl was listening now and heard the resolution with which she spoke. “I will not pry a confidence from you, but I will make every effort to convince you to confide in me, Anna. When a man marries, his wife’s goods become his, but so too, should her burdens.”

“I’ve given you my reason.” She lifted her head to regard him closely. “You will leave me in peace now? You will give up this notion of courting me?”

“Knowing you are burdened with confidences only makes me that much more convinced we should be wed. I’d take on your troubles, you know.”

“You are a good man,” Anna said, touching his cheek, her expression both solemn and sad, “but you cannot be my husband, and I cannot be your wife.”

“I will content myself with being your suitor, as we agreed, though now, Anna Seaton, I will also be encouraging your trust, as well.” He kissed her palm to emphasize his words. “One last question, Anna.” The earl kept hold of her hand. “If you were free of these obligations that you hold in confidence, would you consider my suit then?”

He was encouraged she couldn’t give him an immediate no, encouraged she’d offered him the smallest crumb of a confidence, encouraged they’d been more intimate with each other than ever before—encouraged, but also… concerned.

“I’d consider it,” she allowed. “That is not the same as accepting it.”

“I understand.” He smiled at her. “Even a duke mustn’t take his duchess for granted.”

Anna fell asleep in the secure circle of his arms, her weight resting against him, his lips at her temple. As he carried her to her bedroom, the earl reflected that for a woman who insisted there be no next time, Anna had certainly been reluctant to bring an end to things this time.

It boded well, he thought, kissing her forehead as he tucked her in. All he needed to do now was gain her confidence and meet these obligations she was so determined to carry alone. She was a housekeeper, for pity’s sake, how complicated could her obligations be?

Anna awoke the next morning with a lingering sense of sweetness, of stolen pleasures not quite regretted, and—most incongruous of all—of hope. Hope that somehow, she might find a way to extricate herself from the situation with Westhaven that didn’t leave them enemies. Westhaven was doing exactly as he said he would: He was giving her pleasure, pleasure beyond her wildest imaginings, pleasure she could keep for herself in memory long after her dealings with him were over, and she would give a great deal to see that those memories were not tainted with a bitter parting.

And under that hope there beat against the cage of reason and duty the wings of another hope, one she didn’t even acknowledge: The hope that somehow, she might not have to leave him, not at the end of the summer, not any time soon. She could not marry him, she accepted that, but to leave him might prove equally impossible, and what options did that give her?

Anna was practical by nature, so she forced herself to leave those questions for another time, got out of bed, dressed, and went about her day. Memories of the night preoccupied her, though, and she forgot to don one of her homely lace caps.

She also forgot to chide Morgan for the wisps of hay sticking to her skirts, and she almost forgot to put extra sugar in the earl’s first glass of lemonade. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing him again, and yet she yearned for the sight of him.

The man and his ideas about courting were botheration personified.

“Post for ye, Missus.” John Footman handed her a slim, worn missive posted from a remote inn on the Yorkshire dales, and Anna felt all the joy and potential in the day collapse into a single, hard lump of dread.

“Thank you, John.” Anna nodded, her expression calm as she made her way to her private sitting room. She rarely closed the door, feeling the space was one of few places the servants could congregate with privacy, particularly as Mr. Stenson would never set a sanctimonious toe on her carpet.

But she closed the door before reading her missive. Closed it and locked it then sat down on the sofa and stared into the cold grate, trying to collect her courage.

Finding the exercise pointless, she carefully slit the seal on the envelope and read the brief contents:

Beware, as your location may be known.

Just that one cautionary sentence, thank God. Anna read it several times then tore both letter and envelope into tiny pieces, wrapped them into a sheet of foolscap, and put them onto the hearth grate to burn later that evening.

Beware as your location may be known.

A warning, but understandably vague. Her location may be known; it may not be. Her location—Southern England? London? Mayfair? Westhaven’s household?—may be known. She pondered the possibilities and decided to assume that her location meant she’d been traced to London, at least, which meant her adoption of the profession of housekeeper might also be known and that Morgan was in service with her, as well.

All in all, it amounted to looming disaster and ended, utterly, any foolish fantasies about dallying with the earl for the rest of the summer. Unlocking the door, Anna assembled her writing supplies and penned three inquiries to the employment agencies she’d noted when she and Morgan had passed through Manchester. Bath was worth a try, she decided, and maybe Bristol, as well. A port town had possibilities inland locations did not.

Without volition, her mind had shifted into the calculating, rational, unsentimental habits of a woman covering her tracks. If it hurt her to leave Nanny Fran, to uproot Morgan again, to part from the earl, well, she told herself, the fate trying to find her would hurt more and for a much longer time.

She assessed the room, mentally inventorying the things she’d brought with her, the few things she’d acquired while in London. Nothing could be left behind that might give her away, but little could be taken with them when they left.

She’d done this twice before—prepared, packed, and executed an escape, for that’s how she had to think of it. Morgan would have to be warned, and she wasn’t going to like this turn of events one bit. Anna didn’t blame her, for here, in the earl’s house, Morgan wasn’t treated like a mute beast. The other servants were protective of her, and Anna had a sneaking suspicion Lord Valentine felt the same way.

It was no way to live, but Anna had cudgeled her brain, and there seemed to be no alternative. When they ran out of hiding places in England, then the Americas were a possibility, but Anna hated to think of going so far from home.

“Beg pardon, Missus?” John Footman was at her door, smiling, which told her it wasn’t a summons from the earl, thank God. “Lunch be served, unless you’d like a tray?”

“I’ll be along, John.” Anna smiled up at him. “Just give me a minute.”

She completed her correspondence and tucked it into her reticule. It wouldn’t do for the rest of the household to know she was corresponding with employment agencies, much less in what cities. It wouldn’t do for them to know she was upset, wouldn’t do for them to know she’d soon be leaving, with or without the character Westhaven had promised her.

She got through lunch, feeling frozen inside and frantic at the same time. In the few months she’d held her position, she’d come to treasure the house itself, taking pride in its care and appearance. She treasured the staff, as well—with the exception of Stenson, but even he was dedicated to faithful execution of his duties. They were good people, their lives lived without substantial duplicity or deception. Such a one as she wasn’t destined to fit in with them for long.

“Morgan?” Anna murmured as they rose from lunch, “will you join me for a moment?”

Morgan nodded. Anna slipped her arm through Morgan’s and led her out to the back gardens, the only place where privacy might be assured. When they were out on the shaded terrace, Anna turned to face Morgan directly.

“I’ve had a letter from Grandmama,” Anna said slowly but distinctly. “She warns us we may have been traced to London. We need to move on, Morgan, and soon.”

Morgan’s expression, at first joyous to think they’d heard from their grandmother, then wary, knowing it could be bad news, finally became thunderous. She scowled mightily and shook her head.

“I don’t want to leave either,” Anna said, holding the younger woman’s eyes. “I truly would not if there were any choice, but there is no choice, and you know it.”

Morgan glared at her and shook a fist.

“Fight,” she mouthed. “Tell the truth.”

“Fight with what?” Anna shot back. “Tell the truth to whom? The courts? The courts are run by old men, Morgan, and the law gives us no protection. And stuck out on the dales, we wouldn’t be able to get to the courts, and well you know it.”

“Not yet,” Morgan mouthed, still glaring daggers. “Not so soon again.”

“It’s been months,” Anna said on a sigh, “and of course we can’t go immediately. I need a character from his lordship, and I have to find positions for us elsewhere.”

“Go without me.”

“I will not go without you,” Anna said, shaking her head. “That would be foolish in the extreme.”

“Split up,” Morgan persisted. “They need only one of us.”

Anna stared at Morgan in shock. The last sentence had been not just lipped but almost whispered, so close was it to audible speech.

“I won’t let that one be you,” Anna said, hugging her and deciding against making a fuss over Morgan’s use of words. “And we’ll fight if we have to.”

“Tell Lord Val,” Morgan suggested, less audibly. “Tell the earl.”

“Lord Val and the earl cannot be trusted. They are men, too”—Anna shook her head—“in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I noticed.” Morgan’s glare was temporarily leavened by a slight smile. “Handsome men.”

“Morgan Elizabeth James”—Anna smiled back—“shame on you. They might be handsome men, but they can’t change the laws, nor can we ask them to break the law.”

“Hate this,” Morgan said, laying her head on Anna’s shoulder. She raised her face long enough for her sister to see the next words. “I miss Grandmother.”

“I do, too.” Anna hugged her close. “We will see her again, I promise.”

Morgan just shook her head and stepped back, her expression resigned. This whole mad scheme had been undertaken more than two years ago, “just until we can think of something else.” Well, it was two years, three positions, and many miles later, and nothing else was being thought of. In those years when a gently bred young girl—even one who appeared unable to hear or speak—should be thinking of beaus and ball gowns, Morgan was sweeping grates, lugging buckets of coal, and changing bed linens.

Anna watched her go, her heart heavy with Morgan’s disappointment but also with her own. Two years was a long time never to see home or hearth, always to look over your shoulder for those meaning you harm. It was never supposed to go on this long, but as Anna contemplated her remaining years on earth, all she could see was more running and hiding and leaving behind the things—and people—that really mattered.