Grace Burrowes - The Heir

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.”

He paused as they reached the front door then realized her grandmother and sister would likely join them inside the house. “Come with me.” He took her by the hand and tugged her along until they were beside the stream, the place where they’d first become intimate. She’d had a bench placed in the shade of the willows, so he drew her there and pulled her down beside him.

“I told myself I’d graciously listen to whatever you felt merited my attention,” he began, “but, Anna, I have been worried about you, and now, after several weeks of silence, you send me two sentences mentioning some problem. I find I have not the reserves of patience manners require: What is wrong, and how can I help?”

A brief paused ensued, both of them studying their joined hands.

“I am expecting,” she said quietly. “Your child, that is. I am… I am going to have a baby.” She peeked over at him again, but he kept his eyes front, trying to absorb the reality behind her words.

He was to be a father, a papa, and she was to be the mother of his child.

His children, God willing.

“I realize this creates awkwardness,” she was prosing on, “but I couldn’t not tell you, and I felt I owed it to you to leave the decision regarding the child’s legitimacy in your hands.”

“I see.”

“I don’t gather you do,” Anna said. “Westhaven, I’d as soon not raise our child as a bastard, so I am asking you to marry me. We do suit, in some ways, but I will understand if you’d rather choose another for your duchess. In fact, I’ve advised you to do just that on more than one occasion. I will understand.”

Another pause while Anna studied their joined hands and Westhaven called upon every ounce of ducal reserve to keep from bellowing his joy to the entire world.

“I must decline,” he said slowly, “though I comprehend the great honor you do me, and I would not wish bastardy on our progeny either.”

“You must decline?” Anna repeated. There was disappointment in her tone, in her eyes. Disappointment and hurt, and even in the midst of overwhelming joy, he was sorry for that. There was no surprise, though, and he was even more sorry for that.

“I must decline,” the earl repeated, his words coming a little faster than he intended, “because I have it on great good authority one accepts a proposal of marriage only when one cannot imagine the rest of one’s life without that person in it, and when one is certain that person loves one and feels similarly in every respect.”

Anna frowned at him.

“I love you, Westhaven,” she reminded him, “I’ve told you this.”

“You told me on one occasion.”

Anna held up a hand. “I see the difficulty. You do not love me. Well, I suppose that’s honest.”

“I have not been honest,” the earl corrected her swiftly, lest she rise and he give in to the need to tackle her bodily right there in the green grass.

“At the risk of differing with a lady, I must stand firm on that one point, but I can correct the oversight now.” He slipped off the bench and took her right hand in both of his as he went down on one knee before her.

“I love you,” he said, holding her gaze. “I love you, I cannot foresee the rest of my life without you, and I hope you feel similarly. For only if you do feel similarly will I accept your proposal of marriage or allow you to accept mine.”

“You love me?”

“For God’s sake.” He was off his knee in an instant, dusting briskly at his breeches. “Why else would I have tried to keep my bloody paws off you when you were just eight and twenty feet down the hall? Why else would I have gone to my father—Meddling Moreland himself?—to ask for help and advice? Why else would I have let you go, for pity’s sake, if I didn’t love you until I’m blind and silly and… Jesus, yes, I love you.”

“Westhaven.” Anna reached out and stroked a hand through his hair. “You are shouting, and you mean this.”

“I am not in the habit of lying to the woman whom I hope to make my duchess.”

That, he saw, got through to her. Since the day she’d bashed him with her poker, he’d been honest with her. Cranky, gruff, demanding, what have you, but he’d been honest. So he was honest again.

“I love you, Anna.” His voice shook with the truth of it. “I love you. I want you for my wife, my duchess, and the mother of all of my children.”

She cradled her hand along his jaw, and in her eyes, he saw his own joy mirrored, his incredulity that life could offer him a gift as stunningly perfect as the love they shared, and his bottomless determination to grab that gift with both hands and never let go.

She leaned into him, as if the weight of his honesty were too much. “Oh, you are the most awful man. Of course I will marry you, of course I love you, of course I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But you have made me cry, and I have need of your handkerchief.”

“You have need of my arms,” he said, laughing and scooping her up against his chest. He pressed his forehead to hers and jostled her a little in his embrace. “Say it, Anna. In the King’s English, or no handkerchief for you.”

He was smiling at her, grinning like a truant schoolboy on a beautiful day.

“I love you,” Anna said. Then more loudly and with a fierce smile, “I love you, I love you, I love you, Gayle Windham, and I would be honored to be your duchess.”

“And my wife?” He spun them in a circle, the better to hold her tightly to his chest. “You’ll be my wife, and my duchess, and the mother of my children?”

“With greatest joy, I’ll be your wife, your duchess, and the mother of all your children. Now please, please, put me down and kiss me silly. I have missed you so.”

“My handkerchief.” He set her down on the bench, surrendered his handkerchief with a flourish, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “And my heart, not in that order.”

And then he bent his head and kissed her silly.

ANNA WINDHAM, COUNTESS OF WESTHAVEN, WAS enjoying a leisurely measure of those things which pleased her most: peace and quiet at the end of the evening and anticipation of her husband’s exclusive company in the great expanse of the marital bed.

“I can wait, Anna.” Her husband’s voice shook a little with his mendacity, and behind those beautiful green of his eyes, there was both trepidation and heat. “It’s been only a few months, and you must be sure.” He stood beside the bed, peering down at her where she lay.

“It has been eternities,” Anna said, “and for once, your heir appears to have made an early night of it. Come here.” She held out her arms, and in a single moment, he was out of his dressing gown and settling his warmth and length over her.

“Husband, I have missed you.”

“I’m right here. I will always be here, but we can’t rush this. You’ve had a baby, given me my heir, and you must prom—”

She kissed him into silence then kissed him into kissing her back, but he was made of ducally stern stuff.

“Anna, I’ll be careful. We’ll take it slowly, but you need to tell—”

She got her legs wrapped around his flanks and began to undulate her damp sex along the glorious length of his rigid erection.

Take it slowly. What foolishness her husband spouted.

“We’ll be fine,” she whispered, lipping at his ear lobe. “Better than fine.”

As they sank into the fathomless bliss of intimate reunion, they were fine indeed, and then much, much, much better than fine.

It takes a village to transform a first-time author’s aspirations into the lovely book you’re reading now. At the risk of leaving out a few deserving villagers, I’d like to thank my editor, Deb Werksman, who has been patient and supportive over a long haul, and my agent, Kevan Lyon, who has been forbearing with an author who has more enthusiasm than industry expertise (for now!). The art department, marketing, and copy-editing folks all deserve an enthusiastic nod, along with editorial assistants and numerous other contributors.

And first, last and always, I must thank my family, whose emphasis on education and the life of the mind resulted in my having enough imagination to create The Heir. Enjoy!

Grace Burrowes is the pen name for a prolific and award-winning author of historical romances. Her manuscripts have finaled or garnered honorable mention in the New Jersey Romance Writers Put Your Heart in a Book contest, the Indiana Romance Writers Indiana Golden Opportunity contest, the Georgia Romance Writers Maggie contest, the Virginia Romance Writers Fool for Love contest, and the Spacecoast Romance Writers Launching a Star contest. She won the historical category in both the Maggie and the Indiana Golden Opportunity contests. She is a practicing attorney specializing in family law and lives in rural Maryland. Grace can be reached through her website, graceburrowes.com, and through her email at graceburrowes@yahoo.com.