Grace Burrowes: The Heir

“I am loathe to attempt the use of pen and ink while recumbent,” he said, peering at her over wire-rimmed spectacles. “If you’d please fetch the lap desk and attend me?”

“Of course.” Anna disappeared into the sitting room to retrieve the lap desk, but returned to the bed only to realize there was no chair for her to sit upon.

“The end of the bed will do.” The earl gestured impatiently. Anna permitted herself to toss him a peevish look—a very peevish look, given the impropriety—but scuffed out of her slippers and climbed on the bed to sit cross-legged, her back against a bedpost.

“You are literate?” the earl asked, inspecting her again over his glasses.

“In French, English, and Latin, with a smattering of German, Gaelic, Welsh, and Italian.”

His eyebrows rose momentarily at her tart reply, but he gave her a minute to get settled then began to slowly recite a memorandum to one of his land stewards, commending the man for progress made toward a sizeable crop of hay and suggesting irrigation ditches become a priority while the corn was maturing.

Another letter dealt with port sent to Morelands at the duke’s request.

Yet another went to the widow of a man who’d held the living at one of the estate villages, expressing sorrow for her loss. And so it went, until a sizeable stack of correspondence was completed and the hour approaching midnight.

“Are you tired, Mrs. Seaton?” the earl asked as Anna paused to trim the pen.

“Serving as amanuensis is not that taxing, my lord,” she said, and it hadn’t been. His voice was beautiful, a mellifluous baritone that lost its habitual hauteur when he was concentrating on communication, leaving crisp consonants and round, plummy vowels redolent of education and good, prosperous breeding.

“Would that my man of business were so gracious,” the earl said. “If you are not fatigued, then perhaps I can trouble you to fetch some libation from the kitchen. Speaking at such length tires the voice, or I wouldn’t ask it.”

“Is there anything else I could get you from the kitchen?” she asked, setting the desk on the night table.

“Perhaps one of those muffins,” he allowed. “My digestion is tentative, but the last one stayed down easily enough.”

“The last two,” she said over her shoulder.

He let her have the last word—or two—and also let himself enjoy the sight of her retreating backside again. He’d put her age well below thirty. The Corsican’s years of mischief had left a record crop of widows in many lands, perhaps including his housekeeper.

And more than just young, he was seeing for the first time that she was pretty. Oh, she didn’t emphasize it, no sane woman in service would. But to the earl’s discerning eye, her drab gowns hid a marvelous figure, one enforced proximity had made all too apparent to him. Her hair was a lustrous shade of dark brown, shot with red and gold highlights, and her eyes a soft, luminous gray. The cast of her features was slightly exotic—Eastern, Mediterranean, or even Gypsy. She was the antithesis of his mistress, a petite, blond, blue-eyed woman who circulated easily on the fringes of polite society.

He wondered on a frown why he’d chosen a diminutive woman for his intimate attentions, as tall women fit him better. But then, finding a mistress of any description was no easy feat. Given his station, the earl was unwilling to frequent brothels. He was equally loathe to take his chances on the willing widows, knowing they would trap him in marriage just as quickly as their younger counterparts would.

So that left him with Elise, at least when she was in Town.

Still frowning, he picked up an epistle from his brother, who was standing guard at Morelands while the duke and duchess enjoyed a two-week holiday there. Valentine was happiest in the country, playing his piano at all hours and riding the countryside.

The man was no fribble, though, and he’d appended a little postscript to his report: “The land you rent on Tambray is being ploughed, if not planted, by Renfrew in your absence. One wonders to whom the harvest will fall.”

Elise’s rented house was on Tambray Street, and Baron Renfrew was one of those fun-loving, randy young lords the ladies doted on. Well, let Elise have her fun, the earl mused, as his arrangement with her was practical. When they were both in Town, he expected her to be available to him by appointment; otherwise, she was free to disport where she pleased, as was he.

If he had the time—and the inclination—which, lately anyway, he did not.

“Your drink, my lord.” Mrs. Seaton placed a tray on the foot of the bed and held a glass out for him.

He glanced at the tray then regarded her thoughtfully. “I believe it might be more comfortable on the balcony, Mrs. Seaton.”

“As you wish, my lord.” She set the glass back on the tray, opened the French doors, and shifted to stand beside his bed. Carefully, he levered himself over to the side of the bed and waited for her to sit beside him and slip an arm around his waist.

“What is that scent?” he asked, pausing when she would have risen.

“I make my own,” she said, glancing over at him. “Mostly lavender, with a few other notes. It turned out particularly well this year, I think.”

He leaned in and sniffed at her, assessing.

“Lavender and something sweet,” he decided, ignoring the presumptuousness of his gesture. “Lilies?”

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Seaton was blushing, her gaze on her lap. “The details will shift, depending on one’s sense of smell, and also with the ambient scents.”

“You mean with what I’m wearing? Hadn’t thought of that. Hmm.”

He gave her another little sniff then squared his shoulders to rise. To his unending disgust, he had to steady himself momentarily on his housekeeper’s shoulder. “Proceed,” he said when his head had stopped swimming. They were soon out in the silky summer darkness of his balcony.

“Honeysuckle,” he said, apropos of nothing but the night air.

“There is some of that,” Mrs. Seaton said as they closed in on a padded wicker chaise. His balcony overlooked the back gardens, and a soft breeze was stirring the scents from the flowers below.

“Sit with me,” the earl said as he settled onto the chaise. Mrs. Seaton paused in her retreat, and something in her posture alerted him to his overuse of the imperative. “Please,” he added, unable to keep a hint of amusement from his tone.

“You were not born to service,” the earl surmised as his housekeeper took a seat on a wicker rocking chair.

“Minor gentry,” she concurred. “Very minor.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“A younger sister and an older brother. Your lemonade, my lord?”

“Please,” he replied, recalling he’d sent her down two flights in the dark of night to fetch it.

But it was a moonless night and dark as pitch on the balcony, so when Mrs. Seaton retrieved the drink, she reached for his fingers with her free hand and wrapped his grip around the glass.

“You are warm,” she said, a frown in her voice. She reached out again, no doubt expecting to put the back of her hand against his forehead but instead connecting with his cheek. “I beg your pardon.” She snatched back her hand. “Do you think you are becoming fevered?”

“I am not,” he replied tersely, setting down his drink. He reached for her hand and brought it to his forehead. “No warmer than the circumstances dictate.”

He felt—or thought he felt—her fingers smooth back his hair before she resumed her seat. The gesture was no doubt intended as maternal, and it was likely Elise’s protracted absence that had him experiencing it as something much less innocent.