“Grandpapa was in a temper,” Rose said, bouncing on the mattress. “His neck was red, and I think his physicians ought to examine him.”

“Apoplexy isn’t something I would wish on even him,” Douglas said. “Rose, don’t bounce so high, you’ll hit the canopy.” This inspired Rose to reach up and try to touch the canopy on every leap, while Val scowled at his brother.

“You really do not look well, Westhaven,” he concluded. “How in the hell did His Grace get word you were ill in the first place?”

“I know not,” the earl replied wearily.

“Spies,” Greymoor said. “Might I have an introduction to the other lovely lady in the room before we get to that?”

“My apologies,” Douglas said. “Mrs. Anna Seaton, may I make known to you Andrew Alexander, Lord Greymoor. Mrs. Seaton is visiting with us while Westhaven recuperates.”

“What about me?” Rose flopped down on the bed. “You didn’t bow to me, Cousin Andrew.”

“You get off that bed and make a proper curtsy,” Lord Andrew said, “and I will make you a proper bow.” He scooped up Rose as she made an elaborate curtsy. “Magic misses you,” Lord Andrew whispered. “He’s telling George just how much right now.”

“Oh, can I go visit Sir Magic before you leave?” Rose squealed, perfectly content to remain cuddled against her mother’s cousin.

“Of course, but I think there are weighty matters to discuss first.” He sat on the bed with Rose and tossed an expectant look at the earl. “Westhaven, what’s wrong with you?”

“He has the chicken pox,” Rose volunteered. “You know, where you get all spotty and itchy and cranky?”

“I noticed the cranky part.” Greymoor nodded. “You must have a serious case, Westhaven, the symptoms have been in evidence for some time. I don’t see the spots, though.”

In reply, the earl hiked the sleeve of his dressing gown, exposing a spotty, hairy, muscular forearm.

“Poor blighter,” Lord Andrew murmured. “Had ’em myself when I was seven.”

“Seems we’ve all had them,” Lord Valentine commented, “except for Fairly.”

Westhaven sat down wearily. “I am told I’m recuperating despite the absence of a quack, but it seems we should send somebody downstairs to keep His Grace from further mischief.”

“I’ll go with you, Douglas,” Greymoor said, “and referee your entertainment of the duke. Val, can you valet your brother?”

“Of course.” Val rose and extended a hand to Anna. “Mrs. Seaton, as my brother appears to be recovering, you have my thanks.” He drew her to her feet, smiling a particularly warm smile.

“Anna?” Westhaven caught her eye, and she turned a curious gaze on him. “My thanks, as well.” She nodded and silently took her leave.

“Come, Rose.” Greymoor snatched up his small cousin. “We have an assignation in the stable with two handsome knights.”

Val closed the door behind the entourage and met his brother’s eyes.

“I will raid Amery’s wardrobe,” Val said, “and then we will talk, brother.”

The instant his brother was gone, Westhaven stepped behind the privacy screen, making the best use of the rare moment of solitude. God, how had his brother Victor survived the years of being an invalid, with no privacy, no hope, no possibility of recovery?

Looking as healthy as he possibly could, flanked by his brother, his host, and Lord Greymoor, Westhaven spent the next hour balancing the need to control his father with the respect due one’s ducal sire. It was a long, largely unpleasant hour, made bearable only by Greymoor’s willingness to occasionally distract the duke with insolent humor, and then, before His Grace got truly bilious, with talk of horses.

When the others had drifted off, leaving the duke alone with his heir and his spare, His Grace speared his son with a hard look.

“You two.” The duke shook his head. “Don’t think I am not appreciative of the interest you take in our Rose, but I know you’re up to something, and I won’t rest until I know what it is.”

“Tell me,” Westhaven asked, his tone bored, “does Her Grace know you’ve gone haring off in this downpour to bother Amery with your odd starts?”

“Your mother should not be needlessly worried.”

“And wasn’t it just such weather that precipitated your near fatal bout of lung fever, Your Grace?”

“Hush, boy,” the duke hissed. “Don’t be making your mother to fret, I say. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Behave yourself, and we won’t have to tattle on you, Your Grace. Don’t behave yourself, and you will leave us no choice.”

“Behave myself.” The duke scowled. “Behave myself; this from a grown man who has no mistress, no wife, no fiancée… Behave myself. You behave yourself, Westhaven, and see to the succession.”

He swept out with perfect ducal hauteur, leaving Val and his brother to roll their eyes behind His Grace’s back. The silence, in the wake of the duke’s ranting and posturing, was profoundly comforting.

“Sit,” Val said. “Or would you prefer to return to your room?”

“I should go back upstairs,” the earl replied. “But, Val? I think he’s getting worse. More heedless, to come out here and invade Amery’s home… Gwen and Douglas would have been within their rights to have him barred from their property.”

“He is Rose’s grandfather,” Val said as they gained Westhaven’s room. “But I agree. Since Victor died, and since his own illness, I think our papa has become almost obsessed with the need for heirs.”

“I nominate you.”

“And I nominate you,” Val responded. “Shall we sit?”

“We shall. I find my energy greatly depleted; though rest is helpful, the effect is temporary. When I lie down, I go out like the proverbial candle.”

“I’ll get your boots.” Val pushed him into a wing chair, hauled off his brother’s boots, and ordered them up some breakfast.

“So you spent three nights with Mrs. Seaton,” Val said, apropos of nothing.

“I did,” the earl admitted, closing his eyes. “I behaved, Valentine.” Barely, but he did. “She is a decent woman, and I would not force my attentions on any female.”

“Your attentions?” Val’s eyebrows rose. “His Grace will be marching you both down the aisle posthaste if he learns of your folly.”

“She won’t be marched, and neither will I. He did that to me once before, Val, and I won’t let it happen again.”

“He did it to you, and he did it to Gwen, who had one hell of a lot more family at her back than Mrs. Seaton does. If he can outflank Heathgate, Amery, Greymoor, and Fairly, what chance would one little housekeeper stand against him?”

“You raise a disturbing point, Valentine”—the earl frowned—“though His Grace manipulated Gwen into accepting my proposal largely by threatening her family. If Mrs. Seaton has no family, then she is less vulnerable to His Grace’s machinations.”

“Talk to her, Westhaven.” Val rose and went to answer a tap on the door. “Make her understand what risks she’s dealing with, and just what a desperate duke will do to see his heir wed.” He opened the door, admitting a footman pushing a breakfast trolley.

As the earl joined his brother for tea, toast, and a few slices of orange, he considered that Val was right: If Anna Seaton had weaknesses or vulnerabilities, it was best she disclose them to the earl, for sooner or later, if the duke learned of them, he would be exploiting them.

And as much as Westhaven sensed they could make a good job of marriage to one another, the earl would not under any circumstances accept Anna Seaton served up as his wife, bound and gagged by the duke’s infernal mischief.

Westhaven healed, albeit slowly, and had to agree with Douglas that what was needed was mostly sleep. On the third day, the rain stopped, on the fourth, the earl slept through the night. On the fifth, he began to grouse about returning home and was marshaling his arguments in the solitude of his room when Rose cajoled him into a visit to the stables. He managed to groom his horse and entertain Rose with a few stories of her father.