am best suited.”
A little silence followed his departure, with the earl frowning pensively at the library door. Anna went back to the last of her assigned letters, and a few minutes later, heard the sound of scales tinkling through the lower floors of the house.
“Will he really play for four hours?” she asked.
“He will play forever,” the earl said, “but he will practice for at least four hours each day. He spent more time at the keyboard by the age of twenty-five than a master at any craft will spend at his trade in his lifetime.”
“He is besotted,” Anna said, smiling. “You really don’t mind the noise?”
“It is the sound of my only living little brother being happy,” the earl said, tossing down his pen and going to stand in the open French doors. “It could never be noise.” The earl frowned at her over his shoulder. “What? I can see you want to ask me something. I’ve worked you hard enough you deserve a shot or two.”
“What makes you happy?” she asked, stacking the completed replies neatly, not meeting his eyes.
“An heir to a dukedom need not be happy. He need only be dutiful and in adequate reproductive health.”
“So you are dutiful, but that evades the question. Your father manages to be both duke and happy, at least much of the time. So what, future Duke of Moreland, makes you happy?”
“A good night’s sleep,” the earl said, surprising them both. “Little pieces of marzipan showing up at unlikely spots in my day. A pile of correspondence that has been completed before luncheon, thank ye gods.”
“You still need to read my efforts,” Anna reminded him, pleased at his backhanded compliment, but troubled, somehow, that a good night’s sleep was the pinnacle of his concept of pleasure.
The earl waggled his fingers at her. “So pass them over, and I will find at least three misspellings, lest you get airs above your station.”
“You will find no misspellings, nor errors of punctuation or grammar.” Anna passed the stack to him. “With your leave, I will go see about luncheon. Would you like to be served on the terrace, my lord, and will Lord Valentine be joining you?”
“I would like to eat on the terrace,” the earl said, “and I doubt my brother will tear himself away from the piano, when he just sat down to his finger exercises. Send in a tray to him when you hear him shift from drills to etudes and repertoire.”
“Yes, my lord.” Anna bobbed a curtsy, but his lordship was already nose down into the correspondence, his brow knit in his characteristic frown.
“Oh, Mrs. Seaton?” The earl did not look up.
“My lord?”
“What does a child suffering chicken pox need for her comfort and recuperation?”
“Ice,” Anna said, going on to name a litany of comfort nursing accoutrements.
“You can see to that?” he asked, looking up and eyeing his gardens. “The ice and so forth? Have it sent ’round to Tolliver’s?”
“I can,” Anna replied, cocking her head to consider her employer. “Regularly, until the child recovers.”
“How long will that take?”
“The first few days are the worst, but by the fifth day, the fever has often abated. The itching can take longer, though. In this heat, I do not envy the child or her parents.”
“A miserable thought,” the earl agreed, “in comparison to which, dealing with my paltry letters is hardly any hardship at all, hmm? There will be more marzipan at lunch?”
“If your brother hasn’t plundered our stores,” Anna said, taking her leave.
She didn’t see the earl smile at the door nor see that the smile didn’t fade until he forced himself to resume perusing her drafts of correspondence. She wrote well, he thought, putting his ideas into words with far more graciousness and subtlety than old Tolliver could command. And so the chore of tending to correspondence, which had threatened to consume his entire day, was already behind him, leaving him free to… Wonder what gave him
A little silence followed his departure, with the earl frowning pensively at the library door. Anna went back to the last of her assigned letters, and a few minutes later, heard the sound of scales tinkling through the lower floors of the house.
“Will he really play for four hours?” she asked.
“He will play forever,” the earl said, “but he will practice for at least four hours each day. He spent more time at the keyboard by the age of twenty-five than a master at any craft will spend at his trade in his lifetime.”
“He is besotted,” Anna said, smiling. “You really don’t mind the noise?”
“It is the sound of my only living little brother being happy,” the earl said, tossing down his pen and going to stand in the open French doors. “It could never be noise.” The earl frowned at her over his shoulder. “What? I can see you want to ask me something. I’ve worked you hard enough you deserve a shot or two.”
“What makes you happy?” she asked, stacking the completed replies neatly, not meeting his eyes.
“An heir to a dukedom need not be happy. He need only be dutiful and in adequate reproductive health.”
“So you are dutiful, but that evades the question. Your father manages to be both duke and happy, at least much of the time. So what, future Duke of Moreland, makes you happy?”
“A good night’s sleep,” the earl said, surprising them both. “Little pieces of marzipan showing up at unlikely spots in my day. A pile of correspondence that has been completed before luncheon, thank ye gods.”
“You still need to read my efforts,” Anna reminded him, pleased at his backhanded compliment, but troubled, somehow, that a good night’s sleep was the pinnacle of his concept of pleasure.
The earl waggled his fingers at her. “So pass them over, and I will find at least three misspellings, lest you get airs above your station.”
“You will find no misspellings, nor errors of punctuation or grammar.” Anna passed the stack to him. “With your leave, I will go see about luncheon. Would you like to be served on the terrace, my lord, and will Lord Valentine be joining you?”
“I would like to eat on the terrace,” the earl said, “and I doubt my brother will tear himself away from the piano, when he just sat down to his finger exercises. Send in a tray to him when you hear him shift from drills to etudes and repertoire.”
“Yes, my lord.” Anna bobbed a curtsy, but his lordship was already nose down into the correspondence, his brow knit in his characteristic frown.
“Oh, Mrs. Seaton?” The earl did not look up.
“My lord?”
“What does a child suffering chicken pox need for her comfort and recuperation?”
“Ice,” Anna said, going on to name a litany of comfort nursing accoutrements.
“You can see to that?” he asked, looking up and eyeing his gardens. “The ice and so forth? Have it sent ’round to Tolliver’s?”
“I can,” Anna replied, cocking her head to consider her employer. “Regularly, until the child recovers.”
“How long will that take?”
“The first few days are the worst, but by the fifth day, the fever has often abated. The itching can take longer, though. In this heat, I do not envy the child or her parents.”
“A miserable thought,” the earl agreed, “in comparison to which, dealing with my paltry letters is hardly any hardship at all, hmm? There will be more marzipan at lunch?”
“If your brother hasn’t plundered our stores,” Anna said, taking her leave.
She didn’t see the earl smile at the door nor see that the smile didn’t fade until he forced himself to resume perusing her drafts of correspondence. She wrote well, he thought, putting his ideas into words with far more graciousness and subtlety than old Tolliver could command. And so the chore of tending to correspondence, which had threatened to consume his entire day, was already behind him, leaving him free to… Wonder what gave him
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