Andrew: Lord of Despair (3 page)

Andrew did not resume buttering his bread. “Answer the question.”

“No, Douglas hasn’t given offense, unless you call an awkward kiss on the forehead offense. He did, however, offer to manage my widow’s portion for me, and yesterday reminded me I have use of the dower house at Amery Hall, as well as the use of the town house for as long as I prefer.”

“And you found this offensive?” In truth, it was decent of the man.

“I did, Andrew. Firstly, I am a widow now, and one of the very few benefits of that unhappy state is the freedom to manage my own funds, to transact business, and to make contracts for necessaries. Secondly, I felt somehow that, by insisting I have the town house as long as I pleased, Douglas was hurrying me from it. Thirdly, he is a notably cold man, and any affectionate overture from him, however well intended or proper, makes me uneasy.”

“I recall when affectionate overtures did not make you uneasy at all, Astrid.”

Mistake.
Serious, horrendous mistake, and Andrew knew it even as the words were leaving his stupid, gauche, ill-mannered mouth. He had been doing so well, taking on the role of brother-in-law and friend, and then he had to bring up their past.

“Ungentlemanly, Andrew,” Astrid said mildly. “I was an inexperienced girl, and you were merely allowing me a taste of where flirtation might lead. Have you any sweets in your kitchen?”

Andrew studied the composed features on the
sweet
in his kitchen for a moment too long.

He had given her her first kiss; she had appropriated the second. He had, while Gareth and Felicity looked on in tolerant amusement, goaded her into taking her first awkward sips of brandy, he had put his life at risk for her safety, and on one occasion, he had abused her innocence terribly.

And then fled to the Continent rather than risk worse misbehavior, despite having vowed at the age of fifteen never to set foot on a sailing vessel again.

If it was friendship she sought, then despite the cost to him, his friendship she would have. As she swiped her finger over a dab of jam on the edge of her plate, he recalled her question.

“You crave sweets. Felicity sent over some muffins yesterday,” he told her. “She thinks I am too thin and knows this is the staff’s day off, so she sends provisions.”

“You
are
too thin,” Astrid said, digging through the bread box and locating the tray of muffins. “And you look tired, Andrew. Are
you
getting adequate rest and food?”

“I’ve gained some weight since returning. My clothes are not so loose, anyway. You are the one who is too slender, Astrid. Trust me on this.”

And he ought to know, having left England haunted by the memory of intimate familiarity with her curves and hollows.

“Seeing as we’re both in want of nutrition, let us have at the muffins, shall we?” she suggested, bringing the whole tray to the table.

“More tea to wash them down with, or can I convince you to drink milk instead?” She’d always favored milk, but she was no longer a young miss fresh from the schoolroom—and, damn the luck, all the prettier for her added maturity.

“A cold cup of milk has some appeal right now, though part of the reason I have lost weight is I am a bit queasy from time to time.”

“You can thank your offspring for that,” Andrew said, pouring the milk from a jug in the pantry and bringing it to her. “And you have to visit the necessary incessantly, have odd cravings for food, and nap at unusual hours.” Her breasts might also be sensitive, though Andrew kept that possibility to himself and repaired to the far side of the table.

Astrid looked momentarily nonplussed. “How in the world do you know all that?”

They were family; she was a widow. The occasional blunt exchange between them wasn’t that far outside the bounds of propriety—he wished.

“My brother, the selfsame saintly man who is now married to your sister, told me not long after I came down from university that increasing women are often available for dalliance, and with their husbands’ tacit consent.” He wasn’t willing to say more. The look of fascination on Astrid’s face suggested he’d already said too much.

“You’ve
dallied
with women who were pregnant?”

No, he had not
, but they had certainly offered to dally with him with a regularity that had felt like the fist of fate laid repeatedly and forcefully across his jaw.

“I didn’t dally with the frequency Gareth did, I assure you. I attended a birth once, if you must know. Messy business, but wonderful.” He wanted her to know the wonderful part, even if it meant he embarrassed them both.

Astrid’s hand went to her flat abdomen, and she looked up at Andrew in confusion. “I really am… expecting,” she said, consternation in her voice.

“Which really is wonderful.” He smiled across the table at her and bit into a muffin, lest he betray how earnestly he meant that sentiment. “Drink your milk.”

And yet, he could be glad for her about this, which was reassuring. That he was also jealous as hell of the dear, departed, unimpressive Amery was of no moment.

She drank her milk, and they each polished off a muffin in thoughtful silence. When the remains of the meal were strewn across the table, Andrew rose to put the food away.

“I can help,” Astrid said, standing up with quick purpose, then sitting down just as quickly. “As soon as my head clears.”

“Botheration, Astrid.” Andrew was beside her in an instant, his hand on the back of her neck as he lowered himself to straddle the bench she sat on. He scooted up, so she sat between his spread legs, and gently brought her to lean against his chest.

“Steady,” he admonished, rubbing a hand along her back. “You can’t move too quickly. Even if you aren’t light-headed, the more the child grows, the more it will affect your balance. Catch your breath, and then school yourself to a greater display of dignity.”

He hadn’t meant to scold so thoroughly, but she’d gone as white as some exotic orchid. She subsided against him with uncharacteristic meekness, sending a bolt of alarm through the pleasant torture of holding her against his body.

“Andrew?”

“Hmm?”

“I want you to promise me something,” Astrid said, her ear over his heart.

“I do not make promises lightly.” If he could help it, he did not make them at all.

“Nor do I, Andrew Alexander, though I have promised you to take better care of myself, to eat well, to rest, to groom horses, and whatnot. I would like a promise from you in return.”

He sensed impending doom, which had ever been his fate where she was concerned. “What promise would you have?”

“Don’t leave again until I have this baby?”

She had no right to ask that of him, but Astrid had seldom concerned herself with rights or proprieties. As he marshaled his sound, logical arguments, she marched on.

“Until you came upon me today, I had not cried for my husband because
nobody
was
there
to
comfort
me
. I had not even spoken his name to anybody, because
nobody
asked
me
about
him
. I had not eaten a meal in days because
nobody
shared
a
meal
with
me
. I had not considered my fatigue and nausea were related to pregnancy because
there
is
no
one
to
discuss
it
with
.”

Andrew resisted the urge to hold her more tightly, and still, she wasn’t finished with her tirade.

“Yes, I could impose on Felicity and Gareth, but I have imposed on them incessantly over the past four years, and particularly the past four weeks. Moreover, Felicity’s condition is as delicate as mine, and she should not be forced to bear my worries. You are good for me, Andrew, and I am asking you not to leave England until this child is born or the pregnancy otherwise ends.”

He was doomed, but then, he’d been doomed for years—for his entire adulthood at least.

“I will not leave England until your child is born. That is the only way your pregnancy will end,” Andrew said, sounding like his imperious older brother. “But England is a big place, Astrid Worthington Allen.”

She nestled against him, making a little sound of contentment, and doom acquired painful new depths.

“You are good for me, Andrew, and knowing you have not gone abroad somewhere to fight bears or charm snakes will help keep my mind at ease.”

He had fought her memory and charmed the occasional willing woman in aid of that battle, only to lose every skirmish. “Astrid, we both know I have also been, on more than one occasion, not good for you at all, and then I left without a word.”

“You had to leave,” Astrid said, “though I do not entirely fathom why. And you are good for me. Do not argue with a lady, Andrew, particularly not at table.”

He fell silent, knowing his next gauntlet of woes had just begun. Astrid was unwilling to face it, but a man who had treated her as Andrew had was not an honorable man. He’d known it at the time, had known it for years before, but she ignored this aspect of him.

She was pregnant, grieving, and exhausted, though she’d probably not even realized that last burden. Even as she leaned against him on the hard bench, she was dozing off. And it was sweet to hold her, sweet to be able to offer her the simple kindnesses of friendship.

Haring off to the four corners of the globe hadn’t solved what was wrong with Andrew. Being a friend to Astrid for the next few months might be closer to the penance he needed to serve, but he wasn’t looking forward to it.

No, he most assuredly was not looking forward to it one bit.

He let her sleep for an hour, until his behind was numb on the bench. She roused then, smiled at him brilliantly, thanked him, and stepped into the coach that would take her back to her solitary residence.

Douglas Allen apparently enjoyed the entire Allen family complement of tenacity, for Astrid had not been home fifteen minutes when he reappeared at her parlor door.

“Sister.” The new Viscount Amery bowed deeply. “How fare you?”

Herbert’s younger brother—younger by eleven months—was a better-looking copy of the original. Whereas Herbert had been of medium height and his physiognomy merely pleasant, Douglas Allen was above average in height, and his more sharply cast features shaded closer to handsome, though it was a cold variety of handsome. His blue eyes held a depth Herbert’s had lacked, and his wheat-blond hair—unlike Herbert’s—showed no signs of thinning. Astrid had wanted to like Douglas—Herbert had liked him, for the most part—but Douglas took a while to warm up to.

“Douglas.” Astrid offered him a curtsy. “Good of you to come. May I offer you some tea?” Interesting, how normal she could sound, how normally she could act, when her insides were still in riot as a result of time spent with Andrew.

“Tea would be appreciated, my lady, though I can’t stay long. I merely thought to stop by and see how you are getting on.”

Astrid poked her head into the hallway and summoned a footman to fetch them a fresh pot. Returning to the sitting room, she gestured to the couch. “Shall we sit?”

Douglas obliged her by taking the chair flanking the couch, though he courteously waited for her to be seated first.

He was like that. Courteous, deliberate, reserved, and excruciatingly polite. He would make an altogether more convincing viscount than her husband had. As that thought wandered through her head, she became aware, again, of the clock ticking and the violent impulses the sound engendered.

Though in Andrew’s company she’d not felt the least bit violent.

“I am glad you have stopped by.” She was not glad; she was not unhappy. She was, however, in jeopardy of losing her wits. “I’ve considered your comments regarding my continued tenure in this house, and you should know—”

Douglas held up a staying hand before Astrid could tell him her recently decided plans. “You became part of the Allen family the day you accepted my brother’s suit, and I won’t hear talk of your having to move when Herbert’s death is not but a month past. You must stay here as long as you please, comforted by familiar surroundings.”

More than a month. Thirty-four days ago, Douglas had stood in this very room and informed her her spouse of not quite two years had been killed in a shooting accident. She had thanked her brother-in-law politely for bringing her the news, unable to absorb it, but had been determined not to fall weeping into Douglas’s arms.

As she had into Andrew’s.

“Astrid?” Douglas was looking at her with concern, and Astrid had to focus to pick up the thread of their conversation. Andrew had looked entirely too thin, was the problem.

And entirely too dear.

“I’ve decided to accept my sister’s invitation to join her when she removes to Surrey later this week,” Astrid said, though she’d yet to inform Felicity of this decision. “While the surroundings here are familiar, they are also rendered… uncomfortable by Herbert’s absence. I don’t think I would miss him quite as painfully were I not so constantly faced with…”

With what? With the fact that she was too young to have the dream of a family of her own taken from her?

With wondering if Douglas had told Herbert’s mistress of her protector’s death? Had anybody told the woman?

Douglas surprised her by taking her hand in his. “Herbert was taken from you too soon, and without any chance for the two of you to make plans for the eventuality of his death. You need not worry—not about money, not about a place to live, not about your security. The dower house at Amery Hall is now yours for your lifetime, and I will be happy to manage your widow’s portion as well.”

Manage
her
widow’s portion?
Astrid no more wanted Douglas handling her finances than she wanted to wear mourning for the next years, or wanted to remove to the moldering confines of the Amery dower house. Legalities and trust documents notwithstanding, she would manage her own finances, thank you very much, or at the very least, consult Gareth or her brother, David, rather than turn one penny over to Douglas.

Astrid blocked out the sound of the ticking clock, murmured platitudes, and had the footman fetch her lavender shawl in hopes the combination of lavender and black with her blond coloring might make Douglas bilious. Two and a half polite eternities passed before Douglas rose and called for his hat, cane, and gloves.

“Thank you for coming by,” she said, trying to appreciate the gesture.

“Your welfare is my concern, Astrid. Should you need anything, you must not hesitate to ask.”

Why did he have to sound like a disapproving headmaster?

“You are kind, Douglas,” she said, glad to be walking him to the door. When she thought she had him on his way, he turned to regard her once more.

“Shall I have the solicitors draw up a power of attorney? I’m sure they could see to it without delay.” His expression was one of polite concern—his expression was often one of polite concern.

“Douglas, it’s too soon for me to think about such things. I know the finances need to be dealt with, but I cannot make myself take such steps yet.”

To her relief, he tapped his hat onto his head.

“If you are not up to making decisions, that is all the more reason to leave troublesome financial details to me. Still, my lady, you must do as you see fit. I will see you before your remove to Surrey, and I’ll have Mother join us.”

“That would be lovely.”
It
would
be
hell.

“Perhaps Henry or I will jaunt down to Surrey to check on you, if the weather’s fine? I would, of course, allow my host the courtesy of notice before presuming to visit.”

Astrid didn’t dignify that with a reply, because it was a veiled criticism of her recent visit to the Allen family solicitors.
That
had been appallingly awkward. Without David glaring at them and making implied threats, Astrid would have fared quite poorly. Even with David’s formidable presence beside her, there had been a goodly quantity of dodging, throat clearing, and paper shuffling.

“I’m sure Heathgate will always open his home to family,” Astrid said, wishing it were not so.

The only time she’d felt a sense of sanctuary since Herbert’s death had been when she’d been wrapped in Andrew Alexander’s arms, hearing his gentle scolds, and breathing in the clean, dear scent of him.

Which meant a remove from Town and the temptations thereof was all the more prudent.

***

“Where’s the little widow?” Henry asked after he’d kissed his mother’s cheek.

Urania Dupres Allen, of the Dorchester Dupres, stifled a sigh as her younger surviving son appropriated her favorite chair.

“I did not give you leave to sit, Henry, and I do believe your breath smells of spirits.” His breath reeked exactly as his father’s breath had usually reeked, truth be told.

“Come, Mama, you cannot begrudge me a tot now and then. The Scots prefer to start their day with a wee dram, and they’re a hardier race for it.”

The Scots were also impoverished, uncouth, and impossible to understand. Urania rang for the tea tray, exacting a small vengeance for the disappointment that was her surviving sons, for Henry—again like his father—despised tea. She took a seat away from the sunlight streaming through the window, a lady’s complexion being one of her most important assets.

Particularly a lady of a certain age, particularly a lady with a redhead’s fair skin, who used the occasional very light henna treatment on that hair.

“You asked me about Astrid, but why should I have any notion of her whereabouts? I wasn’t aware she’d started leaving her house yet.” The house that was a deal more comfortable than the pokey establishment Douglas provided for his mother.

Herbert had promised her better quarters as soon as the lease was up. If only dear Herbert had lived…

Henry helped himself to the lemon drops in the candy dish on the side table. “I couldn’t imagine Astrid had anywhere to go except to visit you—or perhaps that sister of hers.”

Astrid had said something about visiting her sister, but hadn’t extended the invitation to include her dear mama-in-law.

Henry’s tone suggested visiting either one’s sister, the marchioness, or one’s mama-in-law, the dowager viscountess, was a dire fate, though why Astrid’s whereabouts were Henry’s business, Urania did not know.

“Must you take three lemon drops at once, Henry?”

He grinned. “First you complain about my breath, then you complain about my efforts to freshen it. How would I go on without your weekly scoldings, dear ma’am?”

The rascal was going to ask her for money, or an introduction, or some favor or other. He set aside his Tuesday mornings to spend time with her, but of his other comings and goings, Urania maintained a determined ignorance. Though he hardly seemed to use them, he rented rooms closer to the City, and Urania remained in purposeful ignorance of what went on there, too.

“Without my guidance, you would go straight to perdition,” she said. The housekeeper brought in the tea tray, meaning scoldings—and requests for funds—had to wait a few moments. Henry did not rise to take the heavy tray from the older woman, something Douglas, for all his other shortcomings, would have done.

“What do you hear from your brother?” Urania asked as she poured out. She did not give Henry a chance to decline his tea, and skimped on his sugar. Douglas was always prosing on about economies, now, wasn’t he?

“I hear a lament, Mama.” Henry produced a flask from his vest pocket, doctored his tea without so much as a murmured apology, and put the flask away. “I hear from Douglas that the late viscount’s men of business have much to answer for, and that we must be prepared for economies.”

Urania had raised her sons to have the manners of gentlemen, though Herbert and Douglas had caught on sooner than Henry seemed to. Henry was her baby, though, and a man was entitled to grieve the loss of his favorite brother in his own way.

“Douglas has a great fondness for sermons regarding economies,” Urania allowed. To her own tea, she added as much sugar as she pleased, but no milk, because a lady must be mindful of her figure.

Henry crunched up his lemon drops and drained his teacup at a gulp. “I don’t think Astrid has much regard for Douglas’s sermons, either. Douglas is nearly certain she dodged him when he came to call on her recently.”

Dodged Douglas? Urania admitted a hint of admiration for the girl’s ingenuity. “I don’t think Douglas approves of dear Astrid. She is something of an original.” This was not a compliment. What had Herbert been thinking to marry such a lively young woman? Other viscounts’ daughters came with settlements every bit as generous as Astrid’s had been.

“Astrid is something of an extravagance,” Henry said, popping another lemon drop into his mouth. “Douglas cannot abide extravagances. I don’t think he honestly misses Herbert as much as he resents having to deal with all that Herbert’s death has thrust upon him—Herbert’s widow most of all.”

Urania couldn’t help herself. Henry was her baby; in his way he doted on his mama, and he never preached about economies. “You would have made a better viscount than poor Douglas. He’s simply not… he hasn’t the breadth of view you and Herbert shared.” A breadth of view that could overlook dressmakers’ bills, and knew that a gentleman’s turnout had much to do with his reputation in Society.

“Mama, I do love you, though I’m afraid you’re not going to be very proud of me.”

She’d been proud of Herbert. Sometimes. “More tea?”

“Please.” He held out his cup, and Urania filled it to the brim, not bothering with any sugar at all.

“You are short of funds, Henry?”

“Just a trifle. One can’t exactly ask Douglas for an advance on one’s allowance, can one?”

Yes, one could, if one had backbone. Urania unpinned the brooch she’d chosen that morning from among those given to her by her late husband. She passed it silently to her son, who took it and slipped it into the same pocket where he stowed his flask.

Amethysts had never become her, and they were such small stones, too.

“Mama, what would I do without you?”

“You would have this house to yourself,” she said. “Drink your tea.”

Henry complied, this time without adding any wicked potation to his tea—likely because his flask was empty. Urania turned the discussion to the informal invitations Henry might accept—marrying for money was an honorable solution to many a respected family’s dilemma, and it was a far less irksome path than Douglas’s blasted economies.

Henry tolerated about ten minutes of Urania’s gentle prodding—a man mourning his brother couldn’t accept
formal
invitations, after all—and rose to take his leave. His parting kiss was a truly foul combination of spirits, lemon, and milky tea.

“I won’t be in for supper,” he said needlessly, because he was seldom in for supper until the weather was horrible. “Thanks much for your company.”

He patted his pocket, and the brooch clicked against the flask.

“Henry, some day I will no longer have ugly brooches to pass into your keeping.”

This seemed to amuse him. “Is Astrid importuning you for your ugly brooches too?”

Astrid, being in mourning, was barely permitted to wear even ugly brooches. Then the sense of Henry’s question sank in.

“She does not deserve your insults, Henry. Astrid’s portions were generous, and she’ll manage quite well on them, I’m sure.”

Urania suffered another noxious parting kiss from her son, and waited until the front door had banged closed after him before she rang for tea cakes to go with her second cup.

Astrid might manage on her portion; she might not. That was for Astrid to take up with Douglas, and if Douglas grew nigh apoplectic when dealing with a lady’s inability to keep within a budget, well, that was nothing for Urania to concern herself over. Nothing at all.

***

The day Astrid had chosen to travel out to Surrey was overcast, but the rains held off, and thus her coach tooled up the Willowdale drive less than two hours after leaving Town.