The Heir (4 page)

Elise held him all the more tightly, her legs vised around his waist.

With a sudden wrench, he broke her scissor hold and lunged back.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” he roared. He sat back on his heels, panting with frustrated lust, while Elise stared up at him, eyes dazed with passion and anger.

“Why?” she yelled back. “Why for once couldn’t you just come like most men and not be so goddamned careful? You can’t just fuck, Westhaven. You have to be a damned duke even in this!”

“What on earth are you going on about?” He
speared her with an incredulous look. “You know my terms, Elise, and…”

He watched her face, and realization dawned.

“Oh, Elise.” He climbed to the side of the bed and sat with his back to her, lungs heaving. “You let Renfrew plant his bastard in your belly and hoped to pass it off as mine.” He didn’t need to see her eyes to know he’d come across yet another ducal ploy to trap him into marriage. Renfrew was tall, green-eyed, brown-haired, and randy as a goat.

“His Grace promised…” Elise wailed quietly. “His man said if I conceived, the duke would see us wed.”

Westhaven shook his head in exasperation, “Elise, the duke would not have seen us wed when I told him the child was Renfrew’s.”

“And how would he have known that?”

“I am not stupid, Elise, and I have never spent my seed inside you. My father would believe me in that much, at least,” he said as he rose.

“Where are you going?” She sat up, closing the dressing gown around her as if he might peek at her nakedness.

“I am going to take a cold bath, I suppose.” He began to sort through his clothes. “Would you prefer diamonds, emeralds, or rubies?”

“All of the above,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “You were a damned lot of work, Westhaven.”

“Was I really?” He was momentarily nonplussed by the thought but then resumed dressing. “How so?”

“This is just sex.” Elise waved her hand at the bedroom in general. “But still, it’s sex with another
person
.”

“You don’t think I know you are a person? I didn’t see to your pleasure?” he asked, more curious than he wanted to let on.

“You.” She glared at him with reluctant affection. “You probably had a list in your pocket as you set out today: Replace right hind shoe on gelding; draft terms for running the universe; visit Elise; meet cronies at the club. Except you don’t have cronies. And when you get here,” she ranted on, “kiss her cheek, and carefully disrobe. After folding each article of clothing precisely
so
, twiddle her bubbies, twiddle her couche, insert cock, and stir briskly for five minutes. Oh”—she threw up her hands—“just forget I opened my mouth.”

“Twiddle, Elise?” Westhaven said, sitting next to her on the bed. “I perceive you are disappointed in me, but twiddle is a bit harsh. And given your sentiments, perhaps it’s best you aren’t going to be my duchess, hmm?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I would likely have killed you, Westhaven, though you aren’t a bad fellow underneath it all.”

“A ringing endorsement.” He rose then turned and studied her. “What will you do, Elise? Renfrew is pockets to let, for all that he’s a good time.”

“I don’t know, but I’d appreciate it if you’d give me some time to figure it out.”

“Take all the time you need.” He hugged her, a simple, affectionate gesture that seemed somehow appropriate. “I believe I’ll swear off mistresses for the nonce, and the lease here is paid up through the year, so you might as well put the place to use.”

“Most generous. Now be gone with you.” Elise shoved him away from her. “I’m swearing off titles. I’ll find myself a rich, climbing cit and get the blighter to marry me, bastard and all.”

“Seriously, Elise.” He paused to force her to meet his eyes. “I’ll provide if there’s a child. You will allow it.” He put every ounce of ducal authority into his expression, and she visibly shrank from his gaze.

“I will.” She nodded, swallowing.

“Then good-bye.” He bowed, as if they’d just shared a waltz, and kissed her cheek.

Westhaven left his mistress’s pretty little house, thinking he should have been angry with Elise and most especially with his father. The duke, though, had simply covered a logical base: If Westhaven were already swiving a woman, it made sense that woman was the most likely to conceive his child.

But Elise, as a mother? Good God… His Grace must be getting senile.

Mentally, Westhaven found himself adding to his list of tasks to complete: Send parting gift to Elise, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, if possible; replace Elise; draft epistle to His Grace, decrying his suborning of bastardy.

And had Val not sent him an alert, would Westhaven have seen through Elise’s ploy?

He should just damned marry, he thought as he gained the steps to his townhouse. But if finding a mistress had been difficult, finding a woman worthy to be his duchess
and his wife
was going be almost impossible.

“The prodigal returns,” a voice sang out in his front hallway.

“Valentine?” Westhaven found himself smiling at his younger brother, who lounged in the doorway to the library. “You left our sire unsupervised? Our sisters unprotected?”

“I’m up only for the weekend.” Val shoved away from the door and extended a hand. “I got to fretting about you, and His Grace is under the supervision of Her Grace, which should be adequate for a few days.”

“Fretting about me?”

“I overheard Renfrew bragging.” Val turned to lead his brother into the library. “Then it occurred to me my note was perhaps not clear enough.”

“Elise and I have come to an amicable if somewhat costly parting. I will call upon Renfrew in the near future to suggest, quite discreetly, that should he see fit to precede me into holy matrimony, a token of my good wishes would be forthcoming.”

Val whistled. “Elise was playing a desperate game. The girl has cheek.”

“She and Renfrew would understand each other,” Westhaven said, “and I’ve been looking for a way to unload Monk’s Crossing. It takes two weeks each year just to put in an appearance there, and it isn’t as if we’re lacking for properties.”

“Why not sell what isn’t entailed? You wear yourself out, Gayle, trying to keep track of it all and staying on top of His Grace’s queer starts.”

“I have sold several properties that were only marginally producing, and I should be doing a better job of keeping you informed of such developments, as you are, dear Brother, the spare of record.”

“Yes,” Val said, holding up a hand, “as in, ‘spare
me.’ I’ll pay attention if you insist, but please do not intimate to His Grace I give a hearty goddamn for any of it.”

“Ah.” Westhaven smiled, going to the sideboard to pour them each a finger of brandy. “Except you do. How are the manufactories coming?”

“I don’t think of them as manufactories, but we’re managing.”

“Business is good?” Westhaven asked, hoping he wasn’t offending his brother.

“Business in the years immediately following decades of war is going to be unpredictable,” Val said, accepting his drink. “People want pleasure and beauty and relief from their cares, and music provides that. But there is also a widespread lack of coin.”

“In some strata,” Westhaven agreed. “But organizations, like schools and churches and village assemblies are not quite as susceptible to that lack of coin, and they all buy pianos.”

“So they do.” Val saluted his brother with his glass. “I hadn’t thought of that, because I myself have never performed in such venues, but you are right. This confirms, of course, my bone-deep conviction you are better suited to the dukedom than I.”

“Because I have one minimally useful idea?” Westhaven asked, going to the bell pull.

“Because you think about things, endlessly, and in depth. I used to think you were slow.”

“I am slow, compared to the rest of the family, but I have my uses.”

“You don’t honestly believe that. You are not as outgoing as our siblings, perhaps, but we lack your
ability to concentrate on a problem until the damned thing lies in tiny pieces at our mental feet.”

Westhaven set aside his drink. “Perhaps, but we needn’t stand here throwing flowers at each other, when we could be stuffing ourselves with muffins and lemonade.”

“Traveling does give one a thirst, and it is hotter than blazes, even at Morelands. Speaking of flowers, though, your establishment has benefited from the warmer weather.” He nodded at the flowers around the room.

“My housekeeper,” Westhaven said, going to the door to order tea. “Mrs. Seaton is…”

“Yes?” Westhaven saw Val was watching him closely, as only a sibling alert to the subtleties might.

“One can keep a house tidy,” Westhaven said, “and one can make it… homey. She does both.”

He’d noticed it, after his mishap with the fireplace poker earlier in the week. If he looked closely, the details were evident: The windows weren’t just clean, they sparkled. The woodwork gleamed and smelled of lemon oil and beeswax; the carpets all looked freshly sanded and beaten; the whole house was free of dust and clutter. And more subtly, air moved through the rooms on softly fragrant currents.

“She must be feeding you properly, as well,” Val noted. “You’ve lost some of that perpetually lean and hungry look.”

“That is a function of simply having my own home for the past few months. His Grace wears on one, and our sisters, while dear, destroy a man’s peace regularly.”

“His Grace sets a very childish example.” Val put his empty glass back on the sideboard. “I think you do well being both brother and earl, and you did better getting the damned power of attorney from him and corralling his ridiculous impulses where they can do little harm. That was particularly well done of you, Westhaven.”

“At too high a price.”

“But you didn’t end up marrying the lady,” Val pointed out, “so all’s well.”

“All will not be well until I have presented His Grace with several legitimate grandsons, and even then, he’ll probably still want more.” He went to the French doors overlooking his terrace as he spoke.

“He’ll die eventually,” Val said. “Almost did last winter, in fact.”

“He was brought down more by the quacks who bled him incessantly than by lung fever itself.” Westhaven glanced over his shoulder at his brother and scowled. “If I am ever seriously ill, Valentine, you must promise to keep the damned quacks and butchers away from me. A comely nurse and the occasional medicinal tot, but otherwise, leave it in the hands of the Almighty.” He swiveled his gaze back to the terrace and watched as Mrs. Seaton appeared, baskets and shears in hand while she marched to the cutting garden along one low stone wall.

“You put me on the spot.” Val smiled. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t do everything in my power to keep you alive, despite your wishes to the contrary?”

“Then pray for my continued good health.” Mrs. Seaton was bareheaded today, her dark mane pulled
back into a thick knot at her nape. By firelight, he knew, there were red highlights in that hair.

Lemonade arrived, complete with fat muffins, fresh bread with butter, sliced meats and cheese, sliced fruit, and a petite bouquet of violets on the tray. Nestled in a little folded square of linen were four pieces of marzipan, glazed to resemble fruit.

“This is tea at your house of late?” Val arched an eyebrow. “No wonder you look a bit more the thing. I will move in directly, provided you promise to tune the piano.”

“You should, you know,” Westhaven said. He was putting together a plate, but his words had come out far less casually than he’d planned. “I know you don’t like staying at the ducal manse, and I have more than enough room here.”

“Wouldn’t want to impose,” Val said, reaching for his own share of the bounty, “but that’s generous of you.”

“Not generous. The truth is… I could use the company. I miss your music, in fact. There’s a neighbor, or somebody, who plays late at night, but it isn’t you, for all that I enjoy it. I thought I’d have a harder time keeping track of His Grace were I to set up my own place, but I’ve been surprised at how little effort he makes to elude my scrutiny.”

The door opened without the obligatory knock, and Mrs. Seaton marched into the room.

“I beg your pardon, your lordship, Lord Valentine.” She stopped, her basket of flowers bouncing against her skirts. “My lord, I thought you’d be at your appointment until this evening.”

Twiddling my mistress’s bubbies
, Westhaven thought with a lift of an eyebrow.

“Mrs. Seaton.” Val rose, smiling as if he knew he was viewing the source of his brother’s happier household and healthier appearance. “My compliments on the offerings to be had here for tea, and the house itself looks marvelous.”

“Mrs. Seaton.” The earl rose more slowly, the display of manners hardly necessary for a housekeeper.

“My lords.” She curtsied but came up frowning at Westhaven. “Forgive me if I note you rise slowly. Are you well?”

The earl glanced at his brother repressively.

“My brother is not in good health?” Val asked, grinning. “Do tell.”

“I merely suffered a little bump on the head,” the earl said, “and Mrs. Seaton spared me the attentions of the physicians.”

Mrs. Seaton was still frowning, but the earl went on, forestalling her reply. “You may tend to your flowers, Mrs. Seaton, and I echo my brother’s compliments: Tea is most pleasant.”

“I’ll dice you for the marzipan,” Val said to the earl.

“No need,” Mrs. Seaton offered over her shoulder. “We keep a goodly supply in the kitchen, as his lordship favors it. There are cream cakes and chocolates, as well, but those are usually served with the evening meal.” She busied herself with substituting fresh flowers for the wilted specimens as the fragrance of roses, lavender, and honeysuckle wafted around the room.

Val eyed his brother. “Perhaps I will avail myself of your hospitality after all, Westhaven.”

“I would be honored,” Westhaven said absently, though he noted the speculation in his brother’s eyes. Mrs. Seaton was humming a little Handel; Westhaven was almost sure it was from the
Messiah
. She turned to go but flashed them a smile and a little curtsy on her way.