Grace Burrowes - The Heir

“Bad luck, that.” Dev sipped his drink. “Her troubles are behind her now.”

“And she has neither brother nor family seat to show for it,” the earl said gently, “though if I haven’t thanked you before, Devlin, I am thanking you now for pulling that trigger. Helmsley was a disgrace.”

“I was aiming for his hand, though. I grabbed your pistol, and I’ve never shot with it before. I apologized to Anna and Morgan both, but they just tried to make me feel better.”

“I am ordering you to feel better. Anna herself said Helmsley was morally or rationally broken somehow. Could you imagine selling any one of our sisters to Stull?”

“No,” Dev said, “and that perspective does put it in a more manageable light. But back to your proposals, as the tale grows fascinating.”

“Well, I blundered on,” the earl said. “She was to marry me for legal reasons, if all else failed, to prevent kidnapping charges, since I hadn’t prevented the kidnapping attempt. She was to marry me to spike Stull’s guns and so forth. One has to be impressed at the single-minded focus of my proposals, particularly when juxtaposed with their consistent failure to impress.”

“Juxtaposed,” Dev mused. “Very ducal word. So you fell on your arse.”

“I did, and my sword. Shall we have another drink?”

“One more”—Dev waggled a finger—“and that’s it.” He did the honors, even remembering to sugar the lemonade heavily first. “This is a delightful summer concoction, though it needs mint or something.”

“It needs a taller glass.”

“So you are done proposing?” Dev sipped his drink.

“I am. I forgot to propose for the one reason that might have won the prize.”

“That being?”

“She loves me.” Westhaven smiled wistfully. “She cannot bear to think of the rest of her life without me.”

“That reason.” Dev nodded sagely. “I will remember that one, as it would not have occurred to me either. Do you think it will occur to Anna?”

“I hope to God it does.” The earl took a long pull of his drink. “I cannot make a move at this point unless she invites it.”

“Why not? Why not just ride out there, special license in hand, and lay down the law? You haven’t tried that approach. You can name it after me, the Devlin St. Just Proposal of Marriage Option Number Seven.”

“Dev, I fear you are getting a bit foxed.”

“A bit, and I am not even the one trying to drown my sorrows. Am I not the best of brothers?”

“The very best,” the earl agreed, his smile carrying a wealth of affection. “But I cannot exercise option number seven, as that option was preempted by the lady’s late brother. She did not tolerate attempts to lay down the law.”

“He’s dead,” Dev observed. “Not much appeal to that approach. So what now?”

“Wait. Sooner or later, Anna’s condition will become apparent even to her, and then I can only hope she will recall who it was that got her pregnant.”

Dev lifted his glass. “Another good reason for having a candle lit when you’re swiving one you want to keep. I think our little brother would benefit from such profound wisdom. Where has he got off to?”

As if summoned by magic, Val strode through the door, his expression bleak, his gaze riveted on the decanter.

“There’s good news and bad news,” Dev said as he slid his drink into Val’s hand. “The good news is we are going to be uncles again, God willing. The bad news is that so far, Westhaven’s firstborn will be taking after me rather than the legitimate side of the family.”

“And this is bad news, how?” Val asked.

Dev grinned. “Is he not the best of little brothers?”

“The very best,” the earl agreed, pouring them all another round.

Fortunately for Westhaven, Anna’s note did not arrive for another two days. By that point, he, Dev, and Val had sworn not to overimbibe for the next twenty years and endured the hangovers required to make the vow meaningful.

Westhaven,

I am bound by my word to seek your assistance should I find myself in difficulties. The matter is not urgent, but I will attend you at Willow Bend at your convenience. My regards to your family, and to St. Just and Lord Valentine most especially.

Anna James

PS You will soon be running out of marzipan. Mr. Detlow’s sweet shop will be expecting your reorder on Monday next.

Being a disciplined man, the earl bellowed for Pericles to be saddled, barked an order to Cook to see about the marzipan, snatched up the package he’d been saving for Anna, and was on his way out of Town at a brisk trot within twenty minutes of reading her note. A thousand dire possibilities flitted through his mind as Pericles ground up the miles.

Anna had lost the baby, she had mismanaged her finances, she had decided not to buy the place, but rather, to move back north. She’d found some hapless swain to marry, the neighbors were not treating her cordially, the house had dry rot or creeping damp, or the stables had burned down again.

Only as he approached the turn to the lane did he realize he was being needlessly anxious. Anna had sent for him about a matter that wasn’t urgent, and he was responding to her summons. Nothing more, nothing less. He brought his horse down to the walk, but for some reason, his heart was determined to remain at a gallop.

“Westhaven?” Anna greeted him from the drive itself, where she was obviously involved in some gardening task. Her dress was not brown or gray but a pretty white, green, and lavender muslin—with a raised waistline. She had on a floppy straw hat, one that looked to have seen better days but was fetching just the same, and her gloves were grubby with honest Surrey dirt.

“You certainly got here quickly.” Anna smiled at him.

He handed off his horse to a groom and cautiously returned the smile. She looked thinner, true, but there were freckles on her nose, and her smile was only a little guarded.

“It is a pleasant day for a ride to the country,” Westhaven responded, “and though the matter you cited isn’t urgent, delay seldom reduces the size of a difficulty.”

“I appreciate your coming here. Can I offer you a drink? Lemonade? Cider?”

“Lemonade,” the earl said, glancing around. “You have wasted no time making the place a home.”

“I am fortunate,” Anna said, following his gaze. “As hot as it has been, we’ve finally gotten some rain, and I can be about putting in flowers. Heathgate has sent over a number of cuttings, as have Amery and Greymoor.”

They would, the scoundrels.

“I’ve brought along a few, as well,” the earl said. “They’re probably in the stables as we speak.”

“You brought me plants?” Anna’s eyes lit up as if he’d brought her the world.

“I had your grandmother send for them from Rosecroft. Just the things that would travel well—some Holland bulbs, irises, that sort of thing.”

“You brought me my grandfather’s flowers?” Anna stopped and touched his sleeve. “Oh, Westhaven.” He glanced at the hand on his sleeve, wanting to say something witty and ducal and perfect.

“I thought you’d feel more at home here with some of his flowers,” was all that came to mind.

“Oh, you.” Anna hugged him, a simple, friendly hug, but in that hug, he had the first glimmering hope that things just might come right. She kept his arm, wrapping her hands around it and toddling along so close to his side he could drink in the lovely, flowery scent of her.

“So what is this difficulty, Anna?” he asked as he escorted her to the front terrace.

“We will get to that, but first let us address your thirst, and tell me how your family goes on.”