Grace Burrowes - The Heir

“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 cannot consult with that lady regarding his early health. He has no recollection of having had the illness, either, so he is being cautious.” Douglas sat on the end of the bed and surveyed the patient.

“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 Anna. Douglas was a stickler, at least with regard to manners and decorum, for all he’d been willing to break some rules to prevent Gwen’s marriage to the earl—a lot of rules, come to that.

“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 Anna’s turn at the earl’s bedside and allowed Douglas to leave in search of his wife.

“I see you have a friend.” Anna nodded at the bear.

“A guardian bear, Rose claims.” The earl again brought the bear up to face him and frowned thoughtfully. “He seems a solid sort, if a bit reserved.”

“Rather like the viscount.”

“Douglas?” The earl smiled at her characterization. “Don’t underestimate him, as my father and I did. He appears to be a proper little Puritan, tending his acres and adoring his wife, but Heathgate, Greymoor, and Fairly all listen when Douglas deigns to address a topic.”

“He does seem to adore his viscountess, but I believe he is just a protective sort of man in general.”

“Protective?” The earl considered the word, but his brain was becoming as creaky as the rest of him. “Perhaps. He certainly dotes on Rose and would cheerfully strangle any who sought to do her harm.”

“He has a problem with his memory, though,” Anna said, opening a bottle of lotion and sniffing at it. “His wife is similarly afflicted.”

“They are? That’s news to me, as both of them exhibit frightening mental acuity.”

Anna put the lid back on the bottle. “If anybody asks them, they will recall we joined them for an early dinner last night, and you were somewhat subdued, but Rose was quite glad to see you.”

Westhaven’s eyebrows shot up then crashed down.

“Gwen told you this?” he asked, surprise warring with gratitude.

“No,” Anna said, her voice echoing with disbelief. “It was Amery’s idea.”

“Perhaps she married the better man after all.”

“MY, MY, MY.” DOUGLAS FROWNED AS HE CLOSED THE door to the sick room. “Is this the state Mrs. Seaton left you in, susceptible to any draft and breeze?”

“It is not.” The earl sighed, trying to recall where he’d last put the chamber pot. “I was hot, and that nightshirt of yours itches like the very devil.”

“Behind the screen,” the viscount suggested. “A close stool and a chamber pot. I’ll leave if you like, or assist.”

“Neither.” Westhaven made his way across the room, Douglas watching impassively.

“I thought you’d gained some flesh,” Douglas remarked. “A closer inspection suggests I was right. You were getting too thin.”

“I was.” The earl yawned behind the privacy screen. “But, Anna… Mrs. Seaton has taken me in hand and seen to my meals. Part of the problem was an uninspired cook.”

“And your housekeeper inspired her?”

“Anna… Mrs. Seaton interviewed the duchess’s cook, who takes pride in knowing the preferences of each member of the family. The menus became interesting.” The earl emerged from behind the screen, eyed the bed, and gathered his energy. “And she fussed at me did I not eat, told me I was offending my kitchen staff.”

“Up you go.” Douglas took him unceremoniously by one spotted arm and boosted him up the step to the bed. “Hold still.” He dropped the nightshirt over the earl and peered at him. “You are ill,” Douglas concluded on a sigh. “Best get back in bed, and behave yourself. Tonight will likely be the worst, and tomorrow night, but after that, you should be on the mend.”

“Douglas?” Westhaven sat on the edge of the bed, and to his surprise, Amery sat beside him.

“Hmm?”

“When you were courting Gwen,” Westhaven said, finding the bear among his pillows, “did you…?”

“Did I what?” Douglas prompted. “Mrs. Seaton will be returning with your next infusion, and hopefully some food, so you’d best spit it out, as she’s guarding you rather carefully.”

“She is?”

“She left your side to eat, but otherwise, unless I’m here, she is,” Douglas replied. “You had a question?”

“When you were courting Gwen,” the earl tried again. “Was there an almost constant…? I mean, did you find your thoughts turning always to…?”

“I swived her every chance I got,” Douglas interjected. “And if I couldn’t be inside her, I held her or held her hand or just looked at her like a starving man looks at a banquet he can’t eat. The situation was particularly disturbing, because I had come to a point in my life where any kind of passion was beyond me, including the carnal.”

“Why do you tell me this? It cannot be easy to part with such a confidence; not for you, and not to me.”

“I am meddling,” Douglas confessed, his blue eyes warming with humor. “I have my wife’s permission, so it isn’t quite as difficult as if I were acting without her knowledge.”

“Meddling?”

“Encouraging your situation with Mrs. Seaton,” Douglas clarified. “I believe you would suit.”

“As do I. She is not of like mind.”

“Then you must change her mind. If that means a very slow recovery, then so be it. You are the Moreland heir, after all, and no chances must be taken with your health.”

The earl smiled crookedly. “A slow recovery… by God. I never stood a chance against you, did I?”

“One hoped not.” Douglas rose. “Though you assuredly scared the hell out of me and put rather a wrench in my plans with Guinevere. You were never my enemy, nor hers. Rather, the duke was the common nuisance.”

Douglas left the bedroom to admit Anna bearing a tray. She stayed with the patient when the viscount departed, and the next hour was spent nagging Westhaven to eat, making him as comfortable as she could, and letting him drift off to sleep until he woke in the small hours of the morning.

“Anna?” His voice was a croak.

“Here.” She rose from the chair and sat on the bed at his hip.

“Feel like hell.”

“Your fever is high,” Anna said, the back of her hand on his forehead. “Now that you are awake, I can sponge you off, if you’d like. It will cool you down and probably soothe your skin, as well.”

He nodded, and Anna brought bath sheets, a basin, and sponge to the bed. She got him arranged on top of the covers, his lower half covered by a blanket, the rest of him exposed and resting on layers of toweling.

“Fairly had a groom deliver this. It’s witch hazel and some herbal infusions to help your skin heal.” The cool sponge touched his skin, and Westhaven sighed. She brought it again and again down the length of his back, his arms, his shoulders, and sides, then shifted the blanket to bathe his legs and feet. She started the whole process over again and again, until he was nearly resting comfortably, his fever abating. By morning, Westhaven could honestly say he was at least no worse.