Andrew

by Grace Burrowes

  She would have to get into the habit of lying to him, because he physically relaxed at that pronouncement and let his hands trail down to knead her buttocks. Were she not wrapped in his arms, she’d likely find that worth crying over.

  Instead, she kissed his chest. “I see now why wicked men are in such demand. You know things.”

  Andrew’s hand on her backside paused. “It isn’t wickedness to pay attention to what pleasures a lady. It’s consideration and a bit of patience. These are courtesies your husband, more than anyone else, should have shown you. On his late and benighted behalf, I apologize, Astrid.”

  He meant the apology, she thought in amazement. The idea that Herbert could not have even comprehended what Andrew was apologizing for showed Astrid in glaring relief what a mistake her marriage had been—as if she hadn’t suspected she was in trouble before the wedding night was over.

  “And I should apologize to Herbert’s memory for not being the wife he hoped he was marrying,” she said, realizing—admitting—Herbert had probably sensed their mutual mistake too.

  “On his late behalf, I accept your apology. Now, my friend, where do you see matters going from here? What are your terms, Astrid?”

  The exchange, simple and odd as it was, settled something in Astrid that had needed settling. She and Herbert had meant well by each other when they’d agreed to marry, and maybe, in time, they would have been a better match. It helped, though, to realize they hadn’t intended to disappoint each other.

  “Terms of what?” she asked, nuzzling Andrew’s ear.

  He heaved a sigh that had her rising and falling on his chest like flotsam in the surf.

  “Astrid, please do not fence with me. I ought not to be here with you at all, and yet, as usual, my better judgment is overtaken by lust. The decision to be made is what to do about that now.”

  He did not sound disgruntled, he sounded martyred, and yet his hands were the embodiment of heaven on her naked flesh.

  “I would not see you unhappy, Andrew. We can consider this afternoon a stolen pleasure, a moment out of time between friends, something not to be repeated.”

  “Is that what you want?” he asked, toying with a lock of her hair.

  He was brave. “No. I do not want one stolen moment. I want time with you, however much you are willing to give me. Perhaps you are a distraction from my grief and my worries. Perhaps you are reassurance after a marriage that hadn’t much promise when Herbert died. Possibly you are the best friend I will ever have or something in between all the foregoing. I know I do not want only one stolen moment with you.”

  This virtuosic display of understatement had the intended effect of banishing more of the tension from Andrew’s body.

  “I suppose we shall have a small affair then.” He reached his conclusion with his lips pressed to her temple. “For the duration of my enforced visit here, you may expect me to importune you for your favors, to bother you constantly with my base appetites, to jump out at you from odd corners, intent on seduction. And then we will consider our stolen moment to have run its course. Will that suit?”

  They might have been discussing whether to share the polonaise or the minuet. She wanted to smack him, also to remain with him on the blanket until the sun had burned her bum pink.

  The duration of his enforced visit… a few days, maybe a few weeks.

  No time at all, and yet Astrid had already shared more with Andrew than she’d ever thought to have with him. On a bolt of sad insight she realized she would pack more pure, genuine loving into two weeks with Andrew than she had into two years with her lawfully wedded husband.

  So she answered him with a kiss, followed by a lazy exploration of his nipple with her tongue. When they rolled up the blanket nearly an hour later, Andrew, frowning at her derriere, did indeed remark that she would suffer the effects of the sun in some unlikely places.

  Five

  Heathgate arranged a stack of papers on the desk blotter, likely reports from the estimable Mr. Brenner. “The Amery viscountcy isn’t rolled up, exactly, but suffering an unlucky stretch. Herbert made bad investments and incurred a number of gambling losses in addition to a young lord’s usual expenses. I don’t envy his brother.”

  Andrew shoved away from the mantel he’d been propped against. “Where does this leave Astrid? I personally care not one whit what befalls the Allen family, except insofar as their circumstances affect Astrid.”

  The marquess and David Worthington, Viscount Fairly, who was affecting a slouch against the French doors, exchanged a look. Rather than curse the pair of them, Andrew picked up three wax seals sitting on Heathgate’s desk and began juggling.

  “We’re working on that,” Fairly said. “But what aren’t you telling us, Andrew?”

  There was much he wasn’t telling them, much he never would. Two of the seals were silver, one gold, and the differences in weight made juggling more of a challenge.

  “I’ve listened in low places and asked a few questions, so I know the late viscount had plenty of money to drop at Tattersall’s,” Andrew said, “and plenty of money to spend maintaining a mistress—though thank God the woman had modest tastes—and plenty of money to indulge the dowager viscountess in fine style.”

  While Astrid sat home, making do with her pin money and pretending her husband was considerate of her. Andrew caught the seals, one, two, three, and set them back on the desk in a tidy row.

  “You are not entirely correct,” Fairly said. “Henry, the youngest brother, came down from university only a couple of years ago and is reading law in a barrister’s office. He is thus understandably dependent, but Douglas has his own investments, owns his own pleasantly situated home, and pays many of the Dowager Viscountess Amery’s bills. At present, Douglas also pays the staff at Astrid’s house. I gather, however, he is stretched thin, and making no headway on the family debts.”

  Andrew liked Fairly, mostly because the man seemed comfortable with his status as tolerated outsider to Polite Society. Despite acquiring his father’s title six years after that man’s death, Fairly disdained fashionable entertainments, took the management of his commercial interests most seriously, and apologized to no one for owning a brothel.

  To go along with patrician features, lean height, and acceptably Saxon gold hair, he also had one blue and one green eye, which tended to unnerve the unsuspecting.

  Then too, Fairly was fiercely protective of his sisters.

  Gareth came around his desk to lean a hip on it and folded his arms across his chest. “Part of me wants to confront Douglas and ask him where Astrid’s money is, and to please hand it over to any of the three of us. Another part of me knows if Fairly here attempted to act that way with me regarding Felicity’s settlement, I would be permanently offended.”

  “So what do we do?” Andrew asked, because what he wanted to do would likely see him brought up before the assizes. Instead, he wandered to the sideboard and considered pouring himself a drink. “If Astrid’s funds have been mishandled, Douglas ought not to have the chance to mishandle what little may remain.”

  “I agree with you,” Fairly said, “but we don’t know the funds are gone, and if they are, it was Herbert’s doing, not Douglas’s. We might consider giving the man a chance to redeem himself before pouncing on him.”

  “We might,” Gareth allowed.

  “We ought,” Andrew agreed, hating, loathing, and resenting the dictates of gentlemanly behavior. He appropriated three glass stoppers—a Cerberus, a chimera, and a griffin—and tossed them aloft. “The issue is not how Astrid will fare financially, because any one of us would see her well set up. The issue is whether she can trust her in-laws, who will have the raising of her child.”

  “We’re back to that,” Fairly muttered.

  “Invite Douglas out here,” Andrew suggested, juggling more quickly, because glass in motion caught the light wonderfully.r />
  “I like it,” Fairly said. “Machiavellian, and bold. Probably scare the poor bastard witless if we charge him en masse. I like it better the longer I consider it.”

  “How will Astrid feel about this?” Gareth asked.

  “She does not exactly despise Douglas,” Andrew said, nearly missing the Cerberus because three heads made an awkward shape. “She says he takes a while to warm up to. If she understood what we were trying to accomplish, she might support the idea. She does not talk with any enthusiasm about returning to Town, and this will give Douglas an opportunity to assure himself she is well cared for.”

  “I nominate you,” Fairly said, his eyes alight, “to convince her on this idea.”

  “Second,” Gareth added. “When shall Douglas honor us with his presence?”

  “Have him out for the weekend,” Andrew said, catching the damned dog, then the gryphon. “That will give Astrid time to adjust to the idea, and us time to strategize and gather more facts. As to that, I would invite the Allen family—you have the room here, and there’s no telling what the ladies might be able to winkle out of Lady Amery.”

  He missed the dragon, but fortunately, the thing landed safely on Heathgate’s ruby-red Axminster carpet.

  Fairly regarded the fallen dragon. “Haven’t you a cousin in the vicinity as well?”

  “Cousin Gwen,” Andrew said, replacing all three stoppers in their respective decanters, and heading for the door. “She is an utter antidote, despite the most glorious red hair. Not to invite her would be rude, though, and I am overdue to pay a call on her. Gentlemen, I bid you good day.”

  Andrew let himself out the French doors into a pretty autumn day, his departure a graceless and self-serving escape. Gareth, as head of the Alexander family, and Fairly, as head of the Worthington family, could credibly discuss Astrid’s best interests and take action on her behalf.

  Andrew was merely the cad who’d been busily seducing her for the past week, and who would be enjoying the fruits of that seduction for at least a week to come.

  ***

  “You wrote to me eight times in four years,” Gwen said, using her best Mama is Wroth tone. “At Yuletide and on the King’s birthday, and never let me know where to post a reply. How was I to tell you how matters went on with me?”

  A tall woman became used to men regarding her with some puzzlement. She did not, however, become used to men taller than she regarding her with loving exasperation.

  “Order up the tea tray, Gwennie,” Andrew said, “and we can squabble at each other like civilized cousins.”

  Gwennie. Nobody had ever called her Gwennie except Andrew, and now Andrew owned the property where she’d made a home for herself and Rose. Gwen yanked the bellpull twice, then added a third yank to ensure food would accompany the tea tray.

  Andrew had been slender as a boy; he was slender still. Too slender, if he intended to take over management of his estates.

  “I suppose you’re waiting for me to give you permission to sit?” she asked.

  “I’m waiting for you to recall that I’m your cousin, I love you, and your happiness is now my concern.” He leavened this scolding with a smile of significant charm.

  Gwen had no patience with charm. She did, however, have many fond memories of her cousins, and of this cousin in particular. Andrew was closer to her in age than Gareth, and more tenderhearted than his older brother—at least to appearances.

  “Please do sit,” she said. “One’s neck aches glaring up at you. How are Heathgate and his lady?”

  “Thriving.” Andrew folded himself onto a sofa their mutual grandfather had favored. The green brocade upholstering was wearing thin, though when Andrew crossed one booted ankle over his knee, he even looked a bit like Grandpapa. “If you expect me to endure small talk for half the day, Gwennie, it won’t wash. I intend to make the acquaintance of your daughter.”

  And this was why Gwen had no patience with charming men, because their pretty manners and mischievous smiles usually hid some form of male resolve that did not fit with Gwen’s plans at all.

  “Rose allowed me to brush her hair at length this morning in anticipation of that very objective.” Though the child had hardly been able to hold still, so great had her anticipation been at the prospect of meeting another “big cousin.”

  “If she’s anything like her mother, she managed to look a fright within fifteen minutes,” Andrew said. “Gareth says you run this place like a field marshal, riding your acres, meeting with your farmers, and generally saving one and all the cost of a land steward and a house steward.”

  More charm, to compliment her rather than lecture her. Gwen could not help a blush, but she could stall by admitting a footman with a large tray. “Enfield is a wonderful property.” She gestured for the footman to set the tray down. “Will you reside here soon?”

  Andrew rose and went on a tour of the parlor. “You’ve kept this room as Grandfather had it, except for a few touches. I like the touches.” He took down a sketch in a simple oak frame—Rose and a tabby cat. “Does she have your red hair?”

  She had her father’s sable hair, dramatic brows, and… charm. “More like yours and Gareth’s. Dark. Tea or coffee?”

  He did not hang the sketch back up, but rather brought it with him to the sofa. “You drink coffee?”

  “I drink both, depending on my whim.” Because she was the lady of the house, and her whims controlled the domicile, for now.

  “If it’s good and strong, I prefer tea,” Andrew said. “The child has your determined chin and your unapologetic nose.”

  Gwen fixed her cousin his tea, two sugars, a dash of cream, and let the comment pass. She’d been called much worse than determined and unapologetic, and Andrew was being observant rather than mean.

  “I hear Felicity’s sister is biding at Willowdale for a time.” And because Astrid Allen was arguably family, Gwen really ought to have made a condolence call, though that would mean deciding whether to bring Rose.

  “Astrid needs sunshine and fresh air like I need the occasional mad gallop and you need to balance your account books,” Andrew said, accepting his cup of tea. “I’m curious about what else you might need, Gwennie. I’ll not turn you out, you know, not banish you to some cottage on the moors, there to read your Bible and tat lace.”

  She knew how to tat lace, though her patience with Scripture was limited. Gwen also knew that some banishments did not require isolated cottages or visible signs of penance.

  “You know Lady Amery well?”

  “She’s easy to get to know,” Andrew said, finishing his tea at a swallow and passing his cup back to Gwen. “At first glance, you take her for a pretty little thing, and then you realize that pretty little thing is a small female tiger, with a fierce intellect, a quick wit, a keen eye, and a big heart.”

  Gwen poured him another cup of tea, not that he was tasting what he consumed. One of the advantages—one of the many advantages—of a marginalized existence was that others did not raise their defenses around Gwen the way they might with their peers and accepted social equals.

  “How is Lady Amery managing? Her husband hasn’t been gone that long, and his death had to have been unexpected.” And a woman could miss a man she’d known only a season, much less one she’d been married to for two years.

  “She has as much determination as you do, Guinevere Hollister. I’ve no doubt Astrid will come right soon. She needs only time and care, and in her sister’s household, she can have both.”

  From the look in Andrew’s eyes as he resumed studying Rose’s sketch, Gwen concluded the pretty little thing with the fierce intellect and the big heart could have more than that. Very likely, she could have anything it was in Andrew’s power to give her.

  “Fresh air, sunshine, and good company can set much to rights,” Gwen said. They certainly had set her to rights. “Why were you gone so l
ong, Andrew?”

  Before he’d left, he’d told her the nightmares had gotten worse, but she didn’t dare bring that up now.

  “The world is a big, wonderful place, Gwennie, and I wanted to see it. Perhaps you’d like to see some of it, too?”

  “You’d send me abroad? Have you ever traveled with a small child, Andrew? And you do recall there are hostilities on the Continent?” Because she couldn’t be sure he was jesting, Gwen kept her tone more cool than teasing.

  He propped Rose’s sketch against a pillow on the end of the sofa, as if Rose were present in the room by virtue of her sketch resting on the cushions. “I once had the pleasure of traveling with a pair of newborns. They seemed quite portable to me.”

  “Then you traveled upwind of them, and slept where you couldn’t hear them rousing the watch several times a night. If you’re not going to eat, let’s away to the nursery. Rose has had at least fifteen minutes to get her hair in complete disarray, smear jam on her pinny, and draw you pictures of every horse on the property.”

  For that’s what Gwen had done long ago when waiting for a visit from her cousins.

  Andrew escorted her through her own house, and though he did indeed charm Rose, he also glanced at the clock often enough that Gwen knew he wasn’t going to tarry long marveling at Rose’s drawings of unicorns and dragons.

  For the fierce, pretty Lady Amery waited at Willowdale, there to be comforted in her grief. Gwen did not envy the lady her swain’s devotion. That Andrew would ride off without a backward, assessing glance at the property that had claimed Gwen’s heart and soul was too great a relief.

  ***

  “Pardon my dust,” Andrew said, gesturing to the bench. “May I join you?”

  Astrid scooted over and whisked her skirts aside, the gesture coming off as either indignant or insecure, she wasn’t sure which.

  “I didn’t know you embroidered,” Andrew said, stretching out long legs and crossing his booted feet at the ankles. He smelled of horse, pleasantly so, which was fortunate when a lady’s digestion was given to queer starts.