Page 53 of The Heir
“He’d tolerate the heat better if he unbent a little in his attire,” Dev said. “He was in full regalia at two in the afternoon on a sweltering day. I’m surprised Her Grace lets him go about like that.”
“She chooses her battles,” Westhaven said, spying a clean pair of cravats in his wardrobe. “Do me up, would you? Nothing fancy.” He held up the linen, and Dev rose from the bed.
“So where are you off to? Chinny up.” He whipped the linen into a simple, elegant, and perfectly symmetric knot in moments.
“The wharves, unfortunately,” Westhaven said, now seeking his waistcoat.
“Why unfortunately?” Dev asked, watching his brother root around in the wardrobe.
“The stench in this heat is nigh unbearable,” Westhaven replied, extracting a lightweight green and gold paisley waistcoat from the wardrobe.
“Hadn’t thought of that. And here I thought being the heir was largely a matter of dancing with all the wallflowers and bellowing His Grace into submission every other Tuesday.”
“Don’t suppose you’d like to join me?” Westhaven asked, his goal now to locate a suitable pin for his cravat.
“I have lived these thirty and more years,” Dev said, plucking a gold pin from the vanity, “without experiencing the olfactory pleasure of the wharves on an unbearably hot day. We must remedy my ignorance. Hold still.”
He deftly dealt with the cravat and stood back to survey the results.
“You’ll do.” He nodded. “If you attempt to wear your coat before we arrive, I will disown you for lunacy.”
“You can’t disown me. You’ve been formally recognized.”
“Then I’ll tattle to Her Grace,” Dev said, grabbing his own coat, “and tell her you’ve been ill.”
“For God’s sake, Dev.” Westhaven stopped and glared. “Don’t even joke about such a thing. Fairly reports that a serious bout of chicken pox in an adult male has been blamed for a loss of reproductive function in rare cases. His Grace will have me stripped and studied within an inch of my most private life.”
“No, he will not. You’ll not allow it, neither will I, neither will Val.”
“I do not put the use of force past him,” Westhaven said as they traversed the house. “You think he appears choleric, Val, and I think he’s become less constrained by appearances.”
“He’s afraid of dying,” Dev suggested, “and he wants his legacy assured. And, possibly, he wants to please Her Grace.”
“Possibly,” Westhaven allowed as they reached the stables. “But enough of that depressing topic. How fares your dear Bridget?”
“Alas.” Dev rolled his eyes. “She has taken me into disfavor or taken another into greater favor.”
“Well, which is it? One wants the dirty details.”
“Unbeknownst to me”—Devlin rolled his sleeve down then right back up—“my Bridget had a potential Mr. Bridget waiting for her in Windsor. One cannot in good conscience thwart the course of true love. She lacked only for a modest dowry.”
“You dowered your doxy, thus proving you are a Windham,” Westhaven said. “Though you do not bear the name, you yet have His Grace’s inability to deal badly with a woman you care for.”
“Perhaps his only redeeming feature,” Dev said. “Hullo, sweetheart.” Morgan was walking out of the stables, a kitten in her hand. She offered them a perfunctory curtsy but went on her way, keeping her customary silence.
“Is she simple?”
“Not in the least.” Westhaven mounted Pericles and waited while Dev used the mounting block in his turn. “She does not speak, or not clearly, and can hear only a little, or so Val says. But she works hard and is a favorite of the older staff. She arrived with my housekeeper several months ago.”
“The one with you at Amery’s?” Dev asked with studied nonchalance.
“The very one.” Westhaven shot him a look that said he wasn’t fooled by Dev’s tone. “What exactly do you want to know that you weren’t able to get out of Val?”
“Where did you find her? I am in the market for same.”
“I lured her to my employ with my endless buckets of charm,” Westhaven said dryly.
“You are charming,” Dev said when they were trotting along. “You just can’t afford to be flirtatious, as well.”
