Andrew: Lord of Despair (5 page)

Gareth stood while Andrew held Astrid’s chair, and the conversation turned to the state of the approaching harvest at Enfield.

“We’ll be taking the boys to play with Rose tomorrow, and that should give Gareth another opportunity to look things over. You are welcome to join us, Andrew, and you too, Astrid,” Felicity said as the soup was served.

Andrew picked up his spoon. “I did not know Cousin Gwen was married, much less widowed.”

Astrid slathered butter on a roll, but found it odd Andrew wouldn’t know his tall, lovely cousin had a child—and a husband.

“Gwen is not widowed, that I know of,” Felicity answered in the same even tones. “Astrid, you must leave some butter for the rest of us, particularly this fellow to my right, who is glowering to see someone beat him to the butter.”

“Is Gwen married then?” Andrew asked.

“That blessing has apparently not yet befallen her,” Felicity replied. “Astrid, you are not touching your soup.”

“Sorry, Lissy. Perhaps in a moment.” If her stomach would only settle. “It smells lovely.” It smelled… fishy, which did not exactly appeal.

“Excuse me,” Andrew interjected, “but am I to understand my cousin has given birth to a child out of wedlock, and she has endured this situation alone, without any word to me, to Gareth, or to Mother?”

“You are,” Gareth said, pausing in his own diligent efforts with the butter. “Grandfather neglected to inform us, and as an adult, Gwen has always been damnably retiring. When Mother or I would pay a call, the child was simply kept in the nursery. We would still be in ignorance if my man Brenner hadn’t inquired of the housekeeper regarding the child’s antecedents, and received a lot of prevarication in reply. Because Gwen was a dependent of the late baron, and you now control the estate, I did not feel it my place to take the matter in hand, other than to see to it she and the girl were getting on well enough.”

Andrew did not look mollified by this recitation, any more than Astrid’s belly was mollified when a footman quietly removed her soup bowl. “I gather you also did not feel it your place to quiz Cousin Gwennie regarding the child’s paternity?” Andrew asked.

Astrid admonished the two bites of roll she’d downed to remain in their assigned location, and wondered if Cousin Gwen would find Andrew’s protectiveness as attractive as Astrid did.

“Gareth did not quiz Gwen,” Felicity said, “and my guess is neither will you. Guinevere Hollister is a formidable lady, and I do not think she will suffer interrogation gladly. I’ve already tried. Now that you have nearly scraped the glaze from the crockery, Husband, may
I
have the butter?”

“But of course.” Gareth smiled at his wife pleasantly, though there was little butter left. Felicity gestured to a footman to bring a fresh pat and to remove the rest of the soup bowls.

The next offering was beefsteak, which dubious delight had Astrid studying the yellow daisies embroidered on the hem of the tablecloth.

Andrew picked up his knife and fork. “Please tell Gwen to expect me the day after tomorrow, weather permitting, and assure her she need not worry for her future or that of the child. What is the youngster like?”

Felicity obligingly launched into a description of the little girl, whose name was Rose.

“You will be pleased to know,” Gareth said as he cut into a rare steak, “Enfield seems to prosper. One can make an estate look profitable on paper, while hiding a wealth of problems. Grandfather truly loved his land, though, and it shows. Gwen has stewarded the estate brilliantly since his departure.”

They talked of ditches and drains, marling, and sheep pens, as each man demolished his steak, until Astrid shoved away from the table with a muttered, “Excuse me.”

She moved off blindly, dashing around the corner of the house, and then she was on her hands and knees, heaving what little she’d eaten into a bed of blue pansies. When she’d lost her feeble attempt at lunch, she was treated to a bout of the dry heaves, which left her with watering eyes, sore ribs, and a burning resentment toward the man who’d brought such a condition upon her.

A white linen napkin dangled before her. “Here.”

Rubbishing
lovely.
She took the napkin and wiped her face. A goblet of water came next, held in an elegant male hand. She held the goblet against her burning cheek as she sank back onto her haunches.

Pansies symbolized thoughts. Astrid’s thoughts didn’t bear speaking.

“I am feeling much better now, thank you, though I am none too pleased with my sister for allowing you to come after me.”

“Up you go,” Andrew commanded. He plucked the water from her hand and raised her enough to seat her on a stone bench flanking the flower bed. Then, he hunkered in front of her, surveying her as he brushed her hair back off her forehead.

“Drink something.” He handed her the water, rose, and paced off a few feet.

Astrid obeyed, more to rinse the taste from her mouth than because she was thirsty or wanted Andrew getting notions about the effectiveness of the imperative voice. “I truly will feel better in a moment. Or at least it seems to work that way.”

Andrew perused her as she sat sipping her water and wishing a hole in the ground would swallow her up. “You’ve lost more weight in the two weeks since I last admonished you to eat, Astrid, and you were no bigger than my finger to begin with. What exactly made you ill?”

Now he must scold her, because profound mortification was not punishment enough. She spoke slowly and clearly rather than start in ranting. “Bearing a child makes me ill.”

“No,” he countered patiently. “What food disagreed with you?”

“The butter.” And the sight of those rare steaks. “I love butter, and I wanted it so badly. The soup and the rare beef, and the vegetables… It all has no appeal. In my present condition, most cooked food strikes me as slimy.”

That had Andrew looking uncomfortable and his hand straying over his flat abdomen. “We have to find out what you can keep down, Astrid. You’ve lost flesh when you should be gaining it, and you’re only, what, a couple of months along?”

“More or less.”

“And this indigestion is probably part of the fatigue you’re complaining of as well. You need to keep up your strength.”

“Yes, your lordship,” she snapped back. Since when did bearing a child mean being treated like one?

“Now, now,” he chided with a grin. “Just recall all the fun you had conceiving this baby.”

Astrid fisted both hands rather than pummel her dearest, densest friend in all the world—meaning no disrespect to her cat. “You are not funny, Andrew. I would like to go to my room.”

His smile faded, suggesting he wasn’t lost to all instincts for self-preservation. “I will be happy to escort you.” He drew her to her feet and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, then matched his steps to hers. In an added bit of consideration, he took her into the kitchens by way of the stillroom door rather than the back terrace. “Is there anything you might like to nibble on?” he asked as they passed the pantry.

Astrid wanted to tell him she was never going to nibble on anything again, except she was, in fact, hungry. What appealed most was not food, however, but her big, soft bed, waiting for her in her nice, quiet room.

“My appetite has quite deserted me.” Along with her dignity, of course.

“Let me put it differently. Is there anything you might be able to keep down?”

“Bread, and maybe a smidgen of jam. Meadow tea, possibly.”

Andrew sat her on a bench in the main kitchen and gathered the items she’d named onto a tray, along with a few peppermints. He took the tray in two hands and winged his elbow at Astrid in invitation. She rose, steadied herself, and let him walk her up to her bedroom, even as she wondered how he’d known—when she had not—that peppermints would appeal most strongly of all.

Andrew kicked the door shut behind them and set the tray on top of the bureau. His hands didn’t shake, and he hadn’t raised his voice even a little, though panic was rioting through his body. Astrid had gone so pale, and the defeat in her eyes…

“Do you want to eat in bed?”

“I would get crumbs all over and have even more trouble resting.”

Her room was a pretty, airy space dominated by a big, fluffy bed under a white quilted counterpane. “Why not put the tray by the chaise?”

“That will do.”

Her tone suggested anything would do, provided it resulted in Andrew leaving her in peace.

Andrew drew a hassock up to serve as a table beside the chaise near the window. “Your feast, my lady.” He swept her a bow. He would dance a damned jig in the altogether if it would put a smile on Astrid’s face.

“Thank you, Andrew. Now go away.” Astrid glared at him, a true expression of displeasure. “I want to be alone, and I will never recover from the ignominy of being indisposed while you looked on. It wasn’t well done of you.”

And he would never recover from the sight of her distress, but Felicity and Gareth had just
sat
there, arguing over the butter as if Astrid pelted away from the table regularly.

“Astrid, it’s only me, and you’d best let somebody show you some concern when you haven’t a spouse or a mama to take you in hand.”

“Hah,” she retorted, hoisting herself onto the bed. “Do you think for one minute dear Herbert would have stood about while I behaved indelicately, much less ‘taken me in hand’ as you’ve done? You have an exalted opinion of the typical young English lord. Now go.”

She was about to cry. He should have realized it sooner, because that’s what all her writs of ejectment were about. He crossed the room, sat next her on the bed, and hauled her up against his side.

“Not again,” she muttered as the first tears trickled down her cheeks. Andrew drew her head to his shoulder and handed her a handkerchief, turning his body so she could rest more easily against him.

“Just cry, sweetheart. You have reason enough.”
And
please, for the love of God, eat something before you disappear altogether.

He rubbed her back, he kissed her hair, he prayed, and he silently cursed the departed Herbert for abandoning his wife when she needed him, and
why
had his lordship left her side? To tramp through some chilly grouse moor, half-drunk at the break of day?

“I suppose,” Astrid said without lifting her head from his shoulder, “you will make me eat something now?”

“I will ask you to eat something. I can’t make you do anything, Astrid.” Nobody had ever been able to make her do anything, but somehow, Herbert Allen had coaxed her into marrying him.

Andrew had purely hated the man for that halfway to Constantinople and back, even as he’d also been relieved Astrid was safely spoken for.

Astrid got off the bed and took herself to sit on the chaise. The bread was fresh, and the preserves were raspberry, her favorite, if memory served. Andrew stayed seated on the bed, unwilling to give up his vigil until she had slowly munched her way through a slice of jam and bread. When she would have fixed a second, he spoke up.

“Why don’t you pause there and see if it’s likely to stay with you?” he asked, setting the tray on the night table.

“Good thought.” And she looked marginally restored, which was an even better thought. “Time for a nap, I think.” Her words were underscored by a yawn, and Andrew took her mug of meadow tea from her hand.

“Then a nap you shall have,” he said, lifting the quilt off the bed and bringing it to the chaise. He draped the comforter over her, but folded the bottom of it back to expose the hem of her skirts.

He was now going to presume significantly, but if his various amours had been honest, Astrid would thank him for it. Before she could protest, he removed her slippers and dragged the hassock to the foot of the chaise.

“You nap,” he said as he straddled the hassock, “while I attend your feet.” He cradled her right foot in his hands—why were her feet cold on a mild summer day?—his thumbs working in circles over the sole. The first time he’d done this, the lady had asked him for it.

Her gratitude for his attentiveness had been such that, thereafter, he’d known to offer.

Astrid closed her eyes. “Nothing that feels this good can possibly be proper.”

“Enjoy it anyway.” For in some way,
he
was enjoying it. He enjoyed getting his hands on her in any fashion—he always would—but he also enjoyed that he could comfort her without taking anything for himself.

She drifted into sleep, and yet he lingered, knowing it was improper in the extreme and not giving a bloody damn. When Felicity and Gareth had to have long since remarked his absence, he kissed Astrid’s forehead in parting, then—to comfort himself—brushed his mouth over her lips and took his leave.

***

For the next week, Astrid tolerated ceaseless cosseting from her host’s brother.

Andrew urged her to eat small, bland meals when she was neither hungry nor queasy. He read to her under the willow trees by the stream; he kept her company when she visited the stables. He complimented her attire when she ventured into lavender or gray; he challenged her to billiards, darts, and cribbage when she felt more energetic.

And gradually, she lost some of the haunted, bewildered feeling she’d borne since Herbert’s death.

A day came along that was the best weather early autumn could offer: dry, sunny, warm, and with a slight breeze. Andrew appeared in the library, looking windblown and happy from a morning hacking out with his brother, a hamper in one hand, and a blanket over his shoulder.

“Time for your constitutional, my lady,” he announced. “Who knows when we’ll have another such opportunity? Gareth’s rheumatism predicts an early, harsh winter.”

“Gareth doesn’t have rheumatism.” Astrid set aside her Radcliffe novel, a labyrinthine Italianate tale of a heroine not worth the name who was carted from stuffy little cottages to prison cells to convents.

“Winter might still be early and harsh,” Andrew said.

Yes, it might, and partly in response, Astrid allowed Andrew to stroll her down to the stream bank at the lazy pace suited to the glorious afternoon.

“Here?” He’d picked a spot in dappled sunlight, warm but private, sheltered from the errant breeze and any prying eyes.

“This will suit nicely.” Astrid grabbed two corners of the blanket to spread it on the springy grass. She plopped down and began to remove her shoes—Andrew hadn’t touched her feet for the past week, and she hadn’t stopped thinking of the feel of his hands when he had. “A bit of wading is in order while I can still see my feet.”

He followed suit, pulling off his boots and stockings, though the smile he gave her was either patient or long-suffering.

Astrid was soon in the water, her skirts bunched up in one hand as she teetered about on the smooth limestone streambed. “This water feels so lovely. I wish I could dive out into the middle of the stream and turn into a mermaid.”

“And wouldn’t that make a nice mess of your pretty frock,” Andrew reminded her as he skipped a stone on the tranquil surface. Skipping stones was an attractive, elementally male activity, and yet Astrid couldn’t imagine her great sportsman of a late husband managing it.

“I would take my frock off, silly. How does one
do
that?” she asked as the ripples on the water spread from where the stone eventually disappeared. Andrew waded over to her and scrounged on the streambed for a small, round, flat rock.

“You want to find a rock like this.” He held it out to her. “Disk-shaped and smooth. You have to sort of flick it, but get your arm into it too, like so.”

This attempt bounced six times, which had Astrid peering about for a likely candidate. She, however, did not acquire the knack of “sort of flicking” even after a number of attempts, and was soon glaring at the stream.

Andrew, laughing at her frustration, found another perfect skipper and grabbed her hand.

“Here.” He put the rock in her hand and fitted her fingers around it. Then he stood behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist. With his other hand, he cradled the back of her hand and slowly drew her arm back. “You let go when your wrist snaps.”

When he whipped her arm forward in a smooth arc, she released the stone, so it nicked the water three times before sinking in the middle of the stream.

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, leaning back against Andrew’s chest. She’d been hoping for seven, but three was a nice start. “Find me another!”

But when she would have turned, Andrew did not release the arm he’d tucked against her midriff. He kept her anchored against his body, and Astrid became aware, one sensation at a time, of their position.

The cool water glided gently around her calves with the softest of laps and ripples. The ripe afternoon sunshine fell across the trees, stirred by the merest suggestion of a breeze against her cheek. The scent of a clean, well-washed male teased at her nose.

And the ridge of Andrew’s erection nudged against her back.

“This is perfect,” she murmured.

Andrew didn’t want
her
in any special way. He wanted any willing female, of course, and he liked her well enough, but her senses confirmed what she’d known four years ago: he could desire her.

The twin demons of widowhood and impending motherhood haunted a woman sorely, and thus Andrew’s desire was doubly reassuring: he could
still
desire her.

“Perishing hell,” he muttered. Then he slogged his way out of the stream, leaving Astrid unbalanced and more than a little puzzled.

She tottered after him up the bank, and sat on the blanket beside him while he tried to pull his stockings on over his wet feet. “What are you doing, Andrew?”

“Getting us the hell back up to the house.”

“Why?”

He shot her an exasperated look. “Because I can’t
do
this.”

“Can’t do what?”

“God’s holy bones, Astrid.” He threw his stocking at his boots. “I can’t keep spending so much time with you alone, acting the perfect gentleman, stepping and fetching, and behaving as if
I
don’t desire you
.”

The ire seemed to go out of him when his last words hung for long moments in the ensuing silence.

“I am making hash of this,” he said quietly. “Look, Astrid, we both know you are entitled to more than what I have to offer, and if I were half the man you deserve—”

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. She didn’t move otherwise, which left her sitting partly turned away from him. When she spoke, she adopted a quiet, dispassionate tone that she intended to land like so many hammer blows for all its calm.

“I was married for two years to the esteemed Herbert, Viscount Amery, an affable man much admired by his peers for his seat when riding to hounds and his ability to hold strong drink in great quantities. He never held his wife, however, but rather, visited her three Sunday evenings a month. His valet would inquire of her maid if such a thing were appropriate, women’s bodies having inconvenient tendencies at times.”

She hunched in on herself, lest she give in to the inconvenient temptation to shout, and kept speaking in the same prosaic tones because, by God’s holy
ears
, somebody was going to hear this from her.

“When he came to my bed, he would creep into my room in complete darkness and raise the hem of my nightgown only so far. At least I assume it was he—I never saw his face when he attended to his conjugal duties. He would arrive fully aroused, and insert only the tip of his member into my body, expel his seed with something like a grunt, kiss my forehead, and take himself very considerately off to his room. He never attempted to arouse me, and when, early in the marriage, I tried to encourage a more participative approach to our relations, he had his mother—his
mother
—discreetly explain that passion in a gently bred lady was a vulgar and unappealing trait.”

This recitation made her feel smaller, like a seed ready to drift aloft on the autumn breeze, light and insubstantial. Because Andrew hadn’t tromped away on his wet, bare, horrified feet, she took a steadying breath and went on. “A proper husband would never be so gauche as to inflict passion on his wife, but would limit such behaviors to the base vessels toward whom it was appropriate. My failure to grasp this fundamental truth could be attributed to the absence of a mother to guide me. My
dear
husband was willing to overlook my unfortunate behavior.”

She was shaking, and not with cold. “Amery was being considerate, you see, by keeping a mistress, whom he visited several times a week, and for whom he paid every expense, while my pin money barely covered necessities for our household. He was being considerate by never once touching my breasts, by never kissing my mouth, by never allowing me the pleasure you gave me once long ago.”

She was brittle with anger, nigh fracturing with it, and yet her voice remained calm. Maybe her marriage had taught her something of value after all. Another steadying breath, and she hefted her verbal hammer again.

“With equal consideration, his efforts were apparently adequate to get me with child, which situation curtails most of my options and a good deal of my health as well.”

A taut silence stretched when Astrid finished speaking, and she wondered if she’d destroyed the friendship Andrew had extended to her. A husband’s loss she was learning to bear, but to lose Andrew…

“That miserable, arrogant, ignorant, inexcusably
inept
little prick,” Andrew expostulated, seizing her by the shoulders and pressing her down to the blanket. “At least I won’t get you pregnant.”

To her immense, profound,
immeasurable
relief, he was all over her, his tongue tracing her lips and thrusting inside with lazy eroticism. He blanketed her with his body, letting the ridge of his erection rest along her belly. His fingers brushed at her face, her hair, her neck, and then his hand wandered up along her ribs, to settle—finally,
finally
—over one ripe, sensitive breast.