Page 46 of The Heir
“Send for David,” Gwen said. “He’ll know how to handle the earl and how to treat the chicken pox, too.”
“We speak of the Viscount Fairly,” Douglas explained. “A family connection of Gwen’s, and friend of mine. He is a skilled physician, and we trust him, as, apparently, does Westhaven.”
“He does,” Anna said. “And in Fairly’s absence, he would tolerate the attendance of…”—she struggled to recall the names—“Pugh, Hamilton, and there was a third name, but it escapes me.”
“Fairly will know,” Douglas assured her. “But how is it, Mrs. Seaton, you and the earl come to be on our doorstep at this hour? Surely Westhaven was not fool enough to venture from Town in this downpour?”
Gwen abruptly looked fascinated with her tea cup, while Anna felt like a butterfly, pinned to a specimen board by the viscount’s steady blue eyes.
“We traveled out to Willow Bend yesterday,” Anna said, knowing this man would not tolerate untruths. “And then the rain caught us unawares. I convinced the earl to come here this morning only when he realized he had fallen ill.”
“Nonsense,” Amery replied, crossing his legs at the knee. It should have been a fussy gesture on a man. On him it was… elegant. “Westhaven, being a man of sense and discretion, had you on our doorstep well before dark last evening, didn’t he, Guinevere?”
“He did.” Gwen nodded, swirling her tea placidly. “He was particularly quiet at dinner, though Rose was in transports to see him.”
The viscount sent Anna an indecipherable look. “The child has no sense with those she loves. None at all. Takes after her dear mama. More tea, Mrs. Seaton?”
He poured for her, his wife smiling tolerantly as he did, and Anna felt the love between them almost as strongly as she felt her own gratitude toward them. Someday, she thought, I want to love a man so thoroughly that even when he pours tea for my guests, it is merely one more reason to be pleased with him and with my life because he is in it.
“Fairly can’t attend you.” Douglas waved a missive at Westhaven. “He doesn’t know if he’s had the chicken pox or not.”
“Christ. How can you not know if you’ve turned as spotted as a leopard and felt like something a leopard killed last week?”
“He was raised by his mother in Scotland until he was six and cannot consult with that lady regarding his early health. He has no recollection of having had the illness, either, so he is being cautious.” Douglas sat on the end of the bed and surveyed the patient.
“Why are you staring?” Westhaven asked irritably. “Is my face breaking out?”
“No, though I might enjoy seeing that. Fairly writes in some detail we are to provide you comfort nursing and to particularly manage any tendency you have to fevers and discourage you strongly from being bled. And you are not to scratch.”
“I don’t itch,” the earl said, “Iache.” And he wondered, when she wasn’t with him, how the viscount and his wife were treating Anna. Douglas was a stickler, at least with regard to manners and decorum, for all he’d been willing to break some rules to prevent Gwen’s marriage to the earl—a lot of rules, come to that.
“Shall I beat you at cribbage?” Douglas offered. “Or perhaps you’d like me to send in Rose?”
“She was here earlier. She lent him to me.” He held up a little brown stuffed bear.
“Mr. Bear.” Douglas nodded. “He presided over my own sickroom when I ended up with the flu down in Sussex. Good fellow, Mr. Bear. Not much of one for handing out useful advice, however.”
“We have Rose for that.” Westhaven almost smiled. “She told me to obey her mother, and I would get better.”
“Disobeying Guinevere would be rather like trying to disobey a force of nature. One does so at one’s mortal peril. She is a formidable woman.”
“She would have made a formidable duchess,” Westhaven said then realized what had come out of his mouth. “Sorry.”
“She would”—Douglas merely nodded—“but her taste in husbands is impeccable, and it is my ring she wears.”
“Does it bother you?” Westhaven held up the bear and stared into his button eyes. “My being here?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Westhaven.” Douglas rose and crossed the room to an escritoire, extracting a deck of cards and a cribbage board. “Gwen has explained to me you offered for her only because you assumed she was free to refuse you. She has since said you would have tried very hard to make the marriage happy, and I believe her. Cut for the deal.” Douglas slapped the board and the deck down on the bed.
“That’s it, then?” Westhaven turned up a two, and Douglas pitched his draw down in disgust. “I would have made her happy, no harm done?”
“If Guinevere sees no reason to dwell in the past, then why should I, as my future with Rose, little John, and Guinevere is an embarrassment of happiness?”
“My crib,” Westhaven intoned, pondering Douglas’s words. What was it like to face a future that could be described with a straight face as an embarrassment of happiness?
Douglas trounced him, going about the game with the same seriousness of purpose that he brought to every endeavor. By the time the board was put away, Westhaven’s eyes were growing heavy, and Douglas was angling in the direction of a strategic retreat. A knock on the door heralded Anna’s turn at the earl’s bedside and allowed Douglas to leave in search of his wife.
“I see you have a friend.” Anna nodded at the bear.
