“Steady,” she murmured, reaching for the ends of the belt looping at his waist. She tucked his dressing gown closed and knotted it securely, but not before she’d seen…

She would never, ever stop blushing. Not ever, if she lived to be as old as Granny Fran, who sat in the kitchen telling stories that went back to old German George.

“To bed, I think,” the earl said, his voice sounding strained.

She nodded, anchored her arm around his middle, and in small steps, walked him into the next room and up to the steps surrounding his great, canopied bed.

“Rest a minute,” he bit out, leaning on her mightily. She left him propped against the foot of the bed and folded down his covers.

“On your stomach will likely be less uncomfortable, my lord.” He nodded, his gaze fixed on the bed with grim determination. Anna took up her position at his side, and by careful steps, soon had him standing at the head of the bed. She turned so their backs were to the bed and sat with him on the mattress.

He paused again, his arm around her shoulders, catching his breath.

“My correspondence,” he reminded her.

She gave him a dubious scowl but nodded. “Don’t move, your lordship. You don’t want to fall and hit your head again.”

She took her leave at the stirring pace Westhaven associated with her, leaving him to admire the view again and consider her advice—were he to die, his brother Valentine would not forgive him. Carefully, he toed the chamber pot from under the bed, made use of it, replaced the lid as quietly as he could by hooking the handle with his toes, then pushed it back out of sight.

God, he thought as he gave his cock a little shake, his housekeeper had seen the ducal family jewels…

He should have been wroth with indignation, to be subjected to her perusal, but all he felt was amusement and a vague gratitude she would provide him the care he needed. She could have sent for a physician, of course, but Westhaven hated doctors, and his housekeeper must have known it.

Reaching across the bed carefully, he rearranged pillows so he could rest on his side. That movement so pained his back, that when his housekeeper returned, he was still sitting on the bed.

He arched an eyebrow. “Tea?”

“It can’t hurt,” she replied, “and I brought iced lemonade, as well, as the warehouse just stocked your icehouse this morning.”

“Lemonade, then.”

His rooms were at the back of the house, heavily shaded and high-ceilinged. They remained particularly comfortable, probably because the clerestory windows had been left open, the better to draw the heat up and out.

Mrs. Seaton handed him a tall, sweating glass, which he sipped cautiously. She’d sugared it generously, so he took a larger sip.

“You aren’t having any?” he asked, watching as she moved around the room.

“You are my employer.” She went to the night table and retrieved a pitcher, giving the little bouquet in the window a drink. “Your roses are thirsty.”

“So is it you who has turned my house into a flower shop?” Westhaven asked as he finished his drink.

“I have. You have a very pretty house, my lord. Flowers show it to advantage.”

“You will waken me if I fall asleep for more than an hour or so?” he asked, unable to reach the nightstand to place his glass on the tray. She took the glass from his hand and met his eyes.

“I will check on you each hour until daybreak, my lord, but as you had neither tea nor supper, I think you had best try a little food before you lie down.”

He eyed the tray whereupon Mrs. Seaton had set a plate sporting a big, sugary muffin that looked to be full of berries.

“Half of that.” He nodded warily. “And sit if you please.” He thumped the mattress. “I cannot abide a fluttering female.”

“You sound like your father sometimes, you know,” she said as she sliced the muffin in half and took her place beside him. “Imperious.”

“Ridiculous, you mean,” he said as he glanced skeptically again at the muffin then tried a bite.

“He is not ridiculous, but some of his machinations are.”

“My housekeeper is a diplomat”—the earl sent her a sardonic smile—“who makes passably edible muffins. Might as well eat the whole thing rather than waste half.”

“Would you like some butter on this half?”

“A touch. How is it you know of my father’s machinations?”

“There is always gossip below stairs.” She shrugged, but then must have realized she was perilously close to overstepping. She paused as she slathered butter on his muffin. “It is said he spies on you at your regular appointments.”

“What is ridiculous,” the earl retorted, “is to think the old rascal is tricking the young ladies who waylay me at every social function, Mrs. Seaton. Those lambs go willingly to slaughter in hopes of becoming my duchess. I won’t have it.” And as for spies in his mistress’s house, Westhaven thought darkly… Ye gods. “Despite my father’s scheming, I will choose my own duchess, thank you very much. Did you bring up only one of these things?” He waved his last bite of muffin at her.

“On the off chance that they were passably edible, I brought up two. A touch more butter?” She withdrew the second muffin from the linen lining a little basket at the side of the tray.

He caught her eye, saw the humor in it, and found his own lips quirking.

“Just a touch. And perhaps a spot more lemonade.”

“You aren’t going to have me brought up on charges, are you?” She posed the question casually then frowned, as if it had come out of her mouth all unintended.

“Oh, that’s a splendid notion,” the earl said as he accepted the second muffin. “Tell the whole world the Moreland heir was subdued by his housekeeper who thought he was trying to molest a chambermaid in his own home.”

“Well, you were. And it wasn’t well done of you, my lord.”

“Mrs. Seaton.” He glared down his nose at her. “I do not accost women under my protection. Her buttons were caught in the mesh of the screen, and she could not free herself. Nothing more.”

“Her buttons…?” Her hand went to her mouth, and in her expression, Westhaven could see his explanation put a very different light on her conclusions. “My lord, I beg your pardon.”

“I’ll mend, Mrs. Seaton.” He almost smiled at her distress. “Next time, a simple ‘My lord, what are you about?’ might spare us both a great lot of indignity.” He handed her his glass. “I will have my revenge, though.”

“You will?”

“I will. I make a terrible patient.”

Anna was dozing off after dark when she heard the earl call her from the other room.

“My lord?”

“In here, and I will not shout in my own home for the attention of my own staff.”

Oh, he was going to make a perfectly insufferable duke, she fumed as she got to her feet and crossed to his bedroom. “What can I do for you?” she asked as pleasantly as she could.

“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.