“St. Peter in a whorehouse,” Westhaven muttered, bracing himself on his forearms and shaking his head. Slowly, he levered up to all fours then sat back on his heels, giving his head another shake.

He raised a ferocious scowl to survey the room, caught sight of the chambermaid, and then the other woman. His mind stumbled around for the proper associations. She worked for him but was entirely too young for her post. Mrs.… Every housekeeper was a Mrs.…

Sidwell? He glared at her in concentration. Sommers… no. Seaton.

“Come here,” he rasped at her. She was a sturdy thing, on the tall side, and always moving through the house at forced march. Cautiously, she approached him.

“Mrs. Seaton.” He scowled at her thunderously. “I require your assistance.”

She nodded, for once not looking quite so much like a general on campaign, and knelt beside him. He slid an arm around her shoulders, paused to let the pain of that simple movement ricochet around in his body, and slowly rose.

“My chambers,” he growled, leaning on her heavily while his head cleared. She made no attempts at conversation, thank the gods, but paused to open the door to his room, and then again to carefully lower him to the settee flanking the hearth in his sitting room.

She turned to the chambermaid, who had followed them up the stairs. “Morgan, fetch the medical supplies, some hot water, and clean linens, and hurry.”

Morgan nodded and disappeared, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“Silly twit,” the earl muttered. “Does she think I’m in any condition to cause you mischief?”

“She does not, but there is no need to forego the proprieties.”

“My privacy necessitates it,” the earl bit out. “Moreover…” He paused, closed his eyes, and let out a slow breath. “As you tried to kill me, I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, madam.”

“I did not try to kill you,” his housekeeper corrected him. “I attempted to protect your employee from what I thought were improper advances on the part of a guest.”

He shot her a sardonic, incredulous look, but she was standing firm, arms crossed over her chest, eyes flashing with conviction.

“I sent word I would be returning from Morelands today,” he said. “And the knocker isn’t up. You misjudged.”

“The post has not arrived for the past two days, your lordship. The heat seems to have disrupted a number of normal functions, and as to that, your brother does not observe the niceties when he is of a mind to see you.”

“You thought my brother would bother a chambermaid?”

“He is friendly, my lord.” Mrs. Seaton’s bosom heaved with her point. “And Morgan is easily taken advantage of.” Morgan reappeared, bobbing another curtsy at the earl then depositing the requested medical supplies on the low table before the settee.

“Thank you, Morgan.” Mrs. Seaton looked right at the maid when she spoke, and her words were formed deliberately. “A tea tray, now, and maybe a muffin or some cookies to go with it.”

A muffin? Westhaven felt his lips wanting to quirk. She was going to treat a bashed skull with tea and crumpets?

“If you would sit on the table, my lord?” Mrs. Seaton wasn’t facing him as she spoke. “I can tend to your back and your… scalp.”

Damn it all to hell, he needed her help just to rise, shift his weight, and sit on the coffee table. Each movement sent white-hot pain lancing through his skull and across his shoulders. For all that, he barely felt it as Mrs. Seaton deftly unbuttoned his shirt, tugged it free of his waistband, and eased it away.

“This is ruined, I’m afraid.”

“Shirts can be replaced,” the earl said. “My father rather has plans for me, however, so let’s get me patched up.”

“You were coshed with a fireplace poker,” Mrs. Seaton said, bending over him to sift through the hair above his nape. “These wounds will require careful cleaning.”

She wadded up his shirt and folded it to hold against the scalp wound.

“Passive voice,” the earl said through clenched teeth, “will not protect you, Mrs. Seaton, since you did the coshing. Jesus and the apostles, that hurts.” Her hand came up to hold his forehead even as she continued to press the linen of his ruined shirt against the bleeding wound.

“The bleeding is slowing down,” she said, “and the wounds on your back are not as messy.”

“Happily for me,” her patient muttered. Her hand bracing his forehead had eased the pain considerably, and there was something else, too. A scent, flowery but also fresh, a hint of mint and rosemary that sent a cool remembrance of summer pleasures through his awareness.

A soft hand settled on his bare shoulder, but then she was tormenting him again, this time with disinfectant that brought the fires of hell raging across his back.

“Almost done,” she said quietly some moments later, but Westhaven barely heard her through the roaring in his ears. When his mind cleared, he realized he was leaning into her, his face pressed against the soft curve of her waist, his shoulders hunched against the length of her thigh.

“That’s the worst of it,” she said, her hand again resting on his shoulder. “I am sorry, you know.” She sounded genuinely contrite now—now that he was suffering mortal agonies and the loss of his dignity, as well.

“I’ll mend.”

“Would you like some laudanum?” Mrs. Seaton lowered herself to kneel before him, her expression concerned. “It’s not encouraged for head injuries.”

“I have been uncomfortable before. I’ll manage,” the earl said. “But you will have to get me into a dressing gown and fetch my correspondence from the library.”

“A dressing gown?” Her finely arched sable eyebrows flew up. “I’ll fetch a footman, perhaps, or Mr. Stenson.”

“Can’t.” Westhaven tried to maneuver himself back onto the settee. “Stenson stayed at Morelands, as His Grace’s man had some time off, and no footmen or butler either, as it’s the men’s half-day.” Faced with that logic, Mrs. Seaton wrapped her arm around the earl’s waist and assisted him to change his seat.

“A dressing gown it is, then.” She capitulated easily, leaving him staring at her retreating figure as she went to fetch his garment.

How hard could it be to drape a dressing gown over a set of bare, masculine shoulders? Except seeing the earl, Anna had to refine on her question: A set of unbelievably well-muscled, broad, bare shoulders, God help her.