“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.”
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.
Four
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 Felic
ity 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.
Andrew; Lord Of Despair Page 5