Page 3 of The Heir
He liked order, privacy, and regular meals. He ate prodigious amounts of food but never drank to excess. He went to his club on Wednesdays and Fridays, his mistress on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. He had volumes of Byron and Blake in his library, and read them late at night. He had a sweet tooth and a fondness for his horse. He was tired more often than not, as his father had put the ducal finances in severe disarray before tossing his heir the reins, and righting that situation took much of the earl’s time.
Westhaven appeared to have an exasperated sort of affection for his lone surviving brother, Valentine, and grieved still for the two brothers who had died.
He had no friends but knew everybody.
And he was being pressured to take a wife, hence this stubborn unwillingness to leave Town in the worst heat wave in memory.
These thoughts flitted through Anna’s mind in the few moments it took her to rummage in the earl’s wardrobe and find a silk dressing gown of dark blue. She’d bandaged his back, but if the scalp wound should reopen and start bleeding, the color of the fabric would hide any stain.
“Will this do, my lord?” She held up the dressing gown when she returned to his sitting room, and frowned at him. “You are pale, methinks. Can you stand?”
“Boots off first,methinks,” he replied, hefting one large foot onto the coffee table. Anna’s lips pressed together in displeasure, but she deposited the dressing gown on the settee and pushed the coffee table over at an angle. She tugged at his boots, surprised to find they weren’t painted onto him, as most gentlemen’s riding boots were.
“Better.” He wiggled his bare toes when she’d peeled off his socks. “If you would assist me?” He held out an arm, indicating his desire to rise. Anna braced him and slowly levered him up. When he was on his feet, they stood linked like that for a long moment before Anna reached over and retrieved the dressing gown. She worked awkwardly, sliding it up one arm, then the other, before getting it draped across his shoulders.
“Can you stand unassisted?” she asked, still not liking his pallor.
“I can.” But she saw him swallow against the pain. “My breeches, Mrs. Seaton.”
She wasn’t inclined to quibble when he looked ready to keel over at any minute, but as she deftly unfastened the fall of his trousers, she realized he intended for her toundresshim. Did a man ask a woman he was going to charge with attempted murder to help him out of his clothes?
“Sometime before I reach my eternal reward, if it wouldn’t be too great an imposition.”
In his expression, Anna perceived he wasn’t bothered by their enforced proximity anywhere near as much as she was, and so she unceremoniously shoved his waistband down over his hips.
Dear God,the man wasn’t wearing any smalls. Blushing furiously, she wasn’t prepared for him to thrust an arm across her shoulders and balance on her as he carefully lifted first one foot then the other free of his clothing. Again, he lost momentum as pain caught up with him, and for the space of two slow, deep breaths, he leaned on her heavily, his dressing gown gaping open over his nudity, his labored breathing soughing against her cheek.
“Steady,” she murmured, reaching for the ends of the belt looping at his waist. She tucked his dressing gown closed and knotted it securely, but not before she’d seen…
She would never,everstop blushing. Not ever, if she lived to be as old as Granny Fran, who sat in the kitchen telling stories that went back to old German George.
“To bed, I think,” the earl said, his voice sounding strained.
She nodded, anchored her arm around his middle, and in small steps, walked him into the next room and up to the steps surrounding his great, canopied bed.
“Rest a minute,” he bit out, leaning on her mightily. She left him propped against the foot of the bed and folded down his covers.
“On your stomach will likely be less uncomfortable, my lord.” He nodded, his gaze fixed on the bed with grim determination. Anna took up her position at his side, and by careful steps, soon had him standing at the head of the bed. She turned so their backs were to the bed and sat with him on the mattress.
He paused again, his arm around her shoulders, catching his breath.
“My correspondence,” he reminded her.
She gave him a dubious scowl but nodded. “Don’t move, your lordship. You don’t want to fall and hit your head again.”
She took her leave at the stirring pace Westhaven associated with her, leaving him to admire the view again and consider her advice—were he to die, his brother Valentine would not forgive him. Carefully, he toed the chamber pot from under the bed, made use of it, replaced the lid as quietly as he could by hooking the handle with his toes, then pushed it back out of sight.
God, he thought as he gave his cock a little shake, his housekeeper had seen the ducal family jewels…
He should have been wroth with indignation, to be subjected to her perusal, but all he felt was amusement and a vague gratitude she would provide him the care he needed. She could have sent for a physician, of course, but Westhaven hated doctors, and his housekeeper must have known it.
Reaching across the bed carefully, he rearranged pillows so he could rest on his side. That movement so pained his back, that when his housekeeper returned, he was still sitting on the bed.
He arched an eyebrow. “Tea?”
“It can’t hurt,” she replied, “and I brought iced lemonade, as well, as the warehouse just stocked your icehouse this morning.”
“Lemonade, then.”
