Andrew: Lord of Despair (4 page)

“Astrid!” Felicity came trotting from the front terrace. “I am so very glad to see you!”

“Felicity, you must not exert yourself in your condition,” Astrid chided as the footman handed her out of the coach.

“Save your scolds for somebody who will listen,” Felicity countered, hugging Astrid as closely as an increasing belly would allow. “I seem to have too much energy in the mornings these days, and none at all after that. Come. Gareth and Andrew are off working the hounds, so we have time to visit before they join us for luncheon.”

“Andrew is here?” Warmth bloomed inside her at the thought. Friends could be glad to spend a little time together, particularly friends who were also family of a sort.

“He arrived last night, and he is staying with us until Lady Heathgate makes her progress up from Sussex. This avoids the awkwardness of having Andrew reside at Enfield with Cousin Gwen, who considers herself responsible for running Enfield.”

“And how fares cousin Gwen?” Astrid asked as they gained the house and headed for the library. A statuesque redhead answering to the name Guinevere had attended Felicity’s wedding, but Astrid couldn’t recall much about the woman except height, a retiring quality, and vivid green eyes that had looked out on the world with both intelligence and caution.

Felicity paused outside the library. “The more time we spend here ruralizing, the better I get to know Guinevere Hollister, and the more I like her. Still, her situation will present Andrew with a delicate challenge. She doesn’t want to live anywhere except Enfield, and he won’t leave her there to get by on her own much longer.”

“Perhaps Andrew should marry her?” Astrid asked as casually as she could. The idea had no appeal. No appeal whatsoever, though a few years ago, Guinevere had been a handsome woman indeed—a tall, handsome woman.

Felicity led Astrid into the library, a room Astrid hadn’t visited since before her wedding. Andrew had goaded her into taking her first few sips of brandy here, and the decanters still stood in a row on the sideboard.

“Most people frown on first cousins marrying,” Felicity said, “though it’s certainly done. And I would hope for Andrew and Gwen, if they marry, they marry someone they esteem greatly, not somebody who merely holds a property interest in common. Wouldn’t you want Andrew to have the kind of marriage you had with Herbert?”

The words came out, though Astrid regretted them even as they rushed past her lips: “Merciful saints,
no
.”

Consternation, then pity filled Felicity’s eyes. “I am so sorry.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. I should not have spoken so honestly.” Though here in her sister’s house, Astrid could not make herself recite the platitudes one more time:

Herbert was a dear fellow.

Herbert was taken too soon.

Herbert will be greatly missed.

And Astrid would keep the more vexing truths to herself, as well: Herbert had had a mistress he’d spent more time with than he did his wife, and upon whom he’d lavished funds he could ill afford. His mistress was probably tall, red-haired, and pretty too.

“I suspected you were putting a good face on things,” Felicity said, pushing the draperies back to let the sun shine through a pair of French doors. “I feared you tolerated Herbert, and I can’t figure out why you chose him. You had other offers.”

“I did love him, Lissy,” Astrid said, sinking down onto a couch. And why did this assertion sound so forlorn? He’d seemed steady at first, not dull. Dependable, rather than boring. Fair, whereas Andrew was dark.

Whatever that had to do with anything.

“Of course you loved him.” Felicity joined her with the sort of undignified descent common to ladies on the nest. “You weren’t
in
love
with him.”

Rather than meet her sister’s gaze, Astrid instead studied Felicity’s hands, and noticed the lack of a wedding ring.

“I was not in love with my husband,” Astrid said, her own ring feeling abruptly tight on her finger. “I can’t go around admitting that, or I will be consumed with guilt.” Or possibly with anger. “I miss the man, I am sorry he died so young, and I am, in some ghastly moments, relieved, all at once—you will forget I said that. But then there is this pregnancy too, and it all gets tangled and uncomfortable. I cannot say I like being a widow any better than I liked most aspects of being a wife.”

Felicity had taken the place beside her, which meant Astrid could read her sister’s expression only in profile. “Will it be very difficult, putting up with me and Gareth?”

Ah, the blessed comfort of sibling honesty. “Pretending my marriage was more than it was is wearying. In truth, even David sensed my husband was, to use David’s words, a crashing bore.” In the drawing room and in the… elsewhere. Hadn’t Herbert’s mistress taught him anything?

Felicity hugged her, a tendency toward affection being another of her sister’s symptoms of impending parturition. “I am sorry, for you and Herbert both. You are young, though. We can find you a more dashing fellow next time, right?”

Astrid slipped off her ring and tucked it into a pocket. Yet more honesty was in order. “None of that talk, if you please. I have something few women my age can dream of, Felicity. I have the independence of widowhood, with my whole life ahead of me. I
do
not
seek to ally myself with another man in the foreseeable future, if at all.”

Felicity began fussing the tea service, a pretty blue jasperware ensemble that included—thank God and the kitchen staff—a sizable array of cakes.

“Then you will allow your life to be guided by Douglas Allen’s whims until such time as your child is grown to independence?”

Sometimes, one honest, insightful sister and one honest, insightful brother were more support than a grieving, pregnant widow ought to have to bear.

“My life has become complicated,” Astrid said. “This child becomes more precious to me with each passing day, but the future you describe, one as Douglas’s poor relation, holds no appeal whatsoever.”

“Then marry a fellow who will stand up to Douglas and protect you and your child,” Felicity said. “You will esteem greatly any man who protects you and this baby from Douglas’s interference.”

That was the uncomplicated, optimistic reasoning of a woman happily married.

“Marriage for the rest of my life is a high price to pay for the simple privilege of raising my own child.” And if the child were a boy, he could go off to public school as young as age six. The idea made Astrid positively ill, as ill as the thought of eel pie made her—also livid.

Felicity passed her a plate of cakes even before pouring the tea. “All you need contend with now is enjoying your stay here and letting us love you. You should feel free to discard your blacks, tame the squirrels, spend the day grooming horses or lying about reading Sir Walter Scott. I am thrilled you have come to Willowdale, and I know Gareth is pleased as well.”

“He won’t be when I’ve beaten the pants off him at billiards a few times.”

“Oh, please,” came a masculine voice from the doorway, “if anyone is to lose his pants to you, Astrid, why not me?”

“Andrew!” Astrid rose from the couch and wrapped her arms around him, unable to quell a bolt of delight at the very sight of him. “You rapscallion, lurking in doorways and sneaking up on us. I had no idea you would be staying here when I decided to visit.” And this was the best of all, because
had
she known, she’d likely have declined Felicity’s invitation. “I shall be ever so willing to beat you at billiards as well, or darts, or cribbage, though you may keep your pants.”

“Yes, yes, or backgammon, or piquet, or what have you. I come to renew my acquaintance with my brother’s family, and instead I’ll get a trouncing on every hand. Perhaps I’ll cut my visit short.” His tone was teasing, while his eyes were serious.

“You must not.”

“Shall I ring for sandwiches?” Felicity interjected. “And, Andrew, what have you done with my spouse?”

“I am here, my lady,” Gareth said from behind Andrew’s back. He cuffed Andrew aside and came into the room, raising a dark eyebrow at Astrid. “No greeting for me?”

“Gareth.” Astrid approached her brother-in-law with the intention of kissing his cheek. She found herself enveloped in a hug instead.

“I am done neglecting you,” he growled softly. “I will force you to stay with us until your spirits are restored, or Felicity will take stern measures with me.” When Gareth let Astrid go, he bussed Felicity’s cheek. “When is luncheon, Wife? Chasing my brother all over the shire has worked up my appetite.”

“And when aren’t you hungry?” Felicity asked, smiling as Andrew snitched two tea cakes off the tray and passed one to his brother. “We can eat a proper meal within the hour, but first we will let Astrid get settled and unpacked. And both of you fellows could use a bit of freshening as well.”

“I can take a hint,” Andrew said, snitching another cake. “I will join you all at table and endeavor to sit upwind of my fragrant elder brother.”

Astrid tried not to watch Andrew’s retreating backside, though Herbert had never cut such a dash in his breeches, for all he considered himself quite the sportsman.

“I had best go start on my unpacking,” Astrid said, knowing the maids would have already hung up her dresses. Gareth’s voice stopped her before she made it to the door.

“I meant what I said, about restoring your spirits, Astrid. While you are with us, you must do what pleases you. If we could do your grieving for you, we would. In the alternative, we offer you whatever use of our home and our company you need.”

He made this well-intended speech with his arm around what remained of Felicity’s waist, forming a two-person marital bulwark of goodwill and good cheer.

“Thank you,” Astrid said before fleeing the library. She was in tears within moments of shutting her bedroom door, though she couldn’t have said why exactly she was crying. Rather than dwell on that question, she took off her slippers—were they also becoming a trifle snug?—eased down onto the bed, and curled up under a quilt.

Something tickling her nose awakened her. She batted the annoyance away, only to have it return moments later. When she opened her eyes, she found Andrew smiling down at her, a long stem of wild aster in his hands. He brushed her nose with it once more, bringing Astrid fully awake.

“Dratted man…”
Dear, dratted man.
Astrid struggled to sit up, her efforts impeded by Andrew sitting on her blanket. He lifted his hips enough for her get into a sitting position, then continued to study her.

“So, Astrid, how are you?” He gently bopped her nose with the aster.

“Sleepy.” Though Andrew Alexander on her bed was waking her up nicely. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”
And
why
must
you
look
so
delectably
handsome
even
when
you’re being silly?

He only smiled at her and bopped himself on the nose with the flower. “The bedroom door is wide open, your highness. Felicity asked me to fetch you down for luncheon. I called from the hallway, but you did not rouse, so I came in here, and was considering how best to wake you, when a toad came hopping along and stole my best idea. He left you this token of his thanks.” Andrew waved the flower.

“You are ridiculous.”

“And you are smiling, but also dodging my question: How do you feel, princess?”

Astrid scooted around on the bed until she was sitting beside him, hip to hip. She’d purposely put herself at his side so she wouldn’t be faced with his direct gaze, lest the kindness she glimpsed there have her weeping again.

“I tell myself I am doing better, Andrew, because I am not moping constantly. But it’s like swampy footing. You think you’ve found a solid patch, and then without warning, you are on your backside and struggling not to go under. I shift instantly from anger to sadness to indifference to relief to… anything you can think of.”

He took her hand in both of his and gave her knuckles a kiss.

“You keep looking for those solid patches, princess, but it can’t be easy, trying to deal with both the loss of your husband and the changes that come with bearing a child. You were smart to come out here, though.”

She gave in to the pleasure of leaning into his solid warmth. Andrew had promised her, long ago, she would be
safe
with him. She still felt safe with him.

Damnably so.

“I am—
was
—an awful wife. I’m angry with Herbert, and not just for dying.” She could see now that she’d been angry with her clodpated husband for most of their marriage, though his death had added sadness to her ire.

And Herbert had likely been exasperated with her, too.

“If you are angry with Herbert, you mustn’t think anything of it, Astrid.” Andrew spoke slowly, the flower cast aside on the coverlet. “God knows I raged at my father and brother for drowning. I still do. But you loved Herbert, though he has left you too soon. You are entitled to be peeved.”

Peeved… Astrid liked that word better than the alternatives. Peeved was a playful version of anger, susceptible to humor and cajolery. And she had loved Herbert, though rather like a governess loved an indulged and not-too-bright charge.

“I shall be a peeved princess, then. I am also a peckish princess. Shall we go downstairs?”

He quizzed her on the way as if he were a midwife or Astrid’s fussy old auntie: Was she eating, sleeping, getting some fresh air? Did she travel out from Town comfortably? Was there anything she needed? Astrid was relieved to reach the terrace where Gareth and Felicity were already seated at a table.

“Someday,” Astrid said as they neared the table, “I am going to ask you about that giving-birth business. You said you’d seen it, once.”

“Not a suitable topic for the table, sweetheart, but someday, I will tell you.” Sweetheart. Andrew used the endearment so casually, and yet in two years of marriage, Herbert had never referred to her as anything other than “my lady” or, if they weren’t in company, “Astrid.”