Astrid looked down into her cup, as if she might see the truth of Andrew’s words in her tea.
“Eat,” he admonished her, though a lecture was damming up behind his teeth, about common sense and responsibility.
About babies being unspeakably precious.
Astrid slid the butter across to him. “Felicity calls me the butter thief. Gareth is every bit as bad.”
“Butter is good for expectant mothers,” Andrew responded. “When are you going to tell this Douglas fellow of your condition?” Because the good viscount deserved to know his title could be snatched from him by a squalling infant less than a year hence.
“I don’t want to tell that man anything, Andrew.”
Astrid was forthright and even brusque, but she was seldom truly difficult.
“Has Douglas Allen given offense, Astrid?”
“Good heavens, Andrew, you look quite severe. Why would you ask such a thing?”
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.
Three
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 f
inances 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.”
Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords) Page 3
