Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords)

by Grace Burrowes

  Douglas peered at her as if trying to assess her sincerity. For a handsome, well-mannered gentleman, he had a positive gift for giving offense.

  “He didn’t deserve you,” Douglas said after a lengthy silence. “And you’re going to need ice on that bump.” He touched a finger to her forehead, making Astrid aware that in due course, she’d be sporting a thumping bruise near her temple.

  They were preserved from further discourse on that riveting topic by Lady Amery’s voice on the stairs.

  “Is that you, Douglas?” she trilled as she descended. “Why, so it is! How fortunate you are here. I was just telling dear Henry that Lady Porter’s niece, the Honorable Miss Evelyn Buckley-Smythe, is coming to Town to share the holidays with her aunt. Why, Astrid, what is that horrid mark on your forehead?”

  Douglas sketched a bow. “Hello, Mother. Astrid has had a slight mishap. No harm done.”

  “I fell down the stairs.”

  Lady Amery’s face creased into a puzzled frown, but because she plucked her eyebrows into perfect, thin arches, she looked more horrified than concerned. “A blow to the head is always serious. You aren’t feeling dizzy, are you?”

  “Not now,” Astrid said, shooting a wry glance at Douglas.

  “You really ought to be more careful, Astrid dear.”

  “I really should, my lady.” Astrid took a seat, because nobody seemed inclined to send a servant for ice and a cloth, and her head was beginning to throb. “I have particular reason to take care these days, but I have hesitated to share my news, lest it be only a temporary cause for joy.”

  And if dear Henry—who always seemed to pop in around meal times—would stop chasing the upstairs maid and join the assemblage in the parlor, Astrid wouldn’t have to repeat her cause for joy all over again for his benefit.

  “My dear, you are speaking in riddles,” Lady Amery sniffed. “Douglas, can you understand her?”

  “Yes, Mother. I can understand her.” On Douglas, that pained expression might have passed for a smile—or an indication of wind.

  “Well, what is she saying? Perhaps this knock on the head has scrambled your wits, Astrid.”

  “I believe, Mother,” Douglas said in the same quiet, patient voice, “Astrid is trying to tell you she is anticipating the birth of the late viscount’s child.”

  “But Herbert is…” Lady Amery paused, confused, then her countenance filled with joy. “Oh, my dear, dear Astrid! Is it so? This is wonderful, wonderful news.”

  She hugged Astrid, laughed and teared up, and hugged her again. Douglas discreetly took his leave, the sheer feminine joy of the scene no doubt inspiring his hasty retreat. Next time Astrid wanted to be rid of the man, she’d manufacture some tears.

  Or maybe a lot of tears.

  ***

  Lady Amery’s speech became peppered with phrases such as, “when you’re a grandmother yourself, dear…” and “when my dear, dear grandson arrives…” Were it not for the imperative task of informing Lady Amery’s every friend and acquaintance of the happy development—for what mattered the strictures of mourning compared to such news?—Astrid would have had no peace whatsoever.

  As matters stood, Astrid was deliriously happy, three days after sharing her news with Lady Amery, to be sitting at the breakfast table by herself.

  Since returning from Willowdale, Astrid had kept busy by resuming her responsibilities as lady of the house, and because Lady Amery accepted every single condolence call, the job was not without demands.

  David called every Thursday and ensured Astrid had ample opportunity to stroll either the back gardens or the park, and Gareth sent his man of business, Mr. Brenner, to keep regular contact with her as well.

  And she had correspondence to attend to, which was the next thing on her morning’s agenda. Every week, she heard from her sister, who, it was confirmed, was carrying twins. Andrew occasionally added a sentence or two to the bottom of Felicity’s note, never anything more.

  Astrid missed him terribly. She missed him in her bed at night, and she missed him over the dinner table. She missed him when she fed the ducks in the park—or rather, scared the ducks in her widow’s weeds and veils—and when she sat out in the back garden with a novel. And while she missed him in an adult, sexual sense, she also simply longed for his company. He was a generously affectionate man with her, and when her back, her feet, or her tummy ached, what she missed most of all was his simple caring touch.

  These very thoughts were filling Astrid’s mind when Andrew strolled into her breakfast parlor unannounced and nonchalant.

  “Andrew!” Astrid shot out of her chair in a joyous leap. She was across the room and in his arms before the dizziness hit, her vision going dark as she sagged against him.

  “Astrid?” Andrew’s voice sounded far away as she clung to him in an effort to stay upright. “Astrid?” She was swung up against a hard male chest, and reveled in the knowledge she was once again in Andrew’s arms.

  He deposited her on the horsehair sofa in the chilly front parlor, though Astrid would have preferred he deliver her to her very bedroom.

  “You know how to give a fellow a fright,” Andrew commented, worry lacing his smile. He propped his hip at her waist and swept the hair from her forehead. “And what, may I ask, is this?” His fingers trailed gently over the bruise.

  Astrid caught his hand in her own, and used the leverage to sit up.

  “I am usually sound enough if I remember to move slowly. I am glad to see you.” Glad was too small a word for the joy in her heart.

  “And I you. Except for this”—he touched her forehead again—“you look well.”

  “I look increasingly like a walrus,” Astrid rejoined, standing slowly. Andrew was on his feet instantly, a hand on her elbow as she made her way back to the breakfast parlor.

  “You most assuredly do not look like a walrus,” Andrew said, his grin suggesting she might inspect herself for whiskers, fins, and tusks. “Or let me put it this way: if you are a walrus, then your sister had better be on the lookout for anything resembling a harpoon.”

  Despite his smile, he looked tired too, and he smelled a bit of road dust and horse.

  “That is an awful thing to say, Andrew Alexander. How is Lissy, anyway? Her letters are always so pleasant and lighthearted, I would hardly know she is expecting.”

  “I know she’s expecting,” Andrew retorted as he held her chair, “and Heathgate knows she’s expecting. Truthfully, I think Gareth’s hovering and fretting is more bothersome to her than is her condition, even with twins.” He straightened and looked around the table. “Breakfast. May I?”

  Anything to make him stay even a few more minutes. “Of course, but this is the last of our raspberry jam. Go near it, and I shall flatten you.”

  “Is that a promise?” Andrew inquired pleasantly as he dished himself up some toast, eggs, and ham.

  “A threat,” Astrid allowed as she slathered jam on her toast. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” And how could she induce him to visit more often?

  He considered his full plate. “I could tell you I had to see for myself you are faring well, but you would probably not believe me. Instead, I will tell you I had to get away from Mother and Gwen, who are pitching a battle of their own that makes my squabbles with Gwen look paltry.”

  And he had come to see Astrid when he’d needed to get away. She really should not be so very, very pleased.

  “That doesn’t sound good at all,” Astrid said, biting off a jam-laden corner of toast. “My experience suggests your mother is the singular source of that will of steel you share with your brother. Recall, if you please, she managed my come out, and my second Season as well.”

  And Lady Heathgate had planned Astrid’s wedding and had a great deal to say about the betrothal contracts. Though to be fair, she’d also been one of few people to understand that
a miscarriage was deserving of grief rather than predictable platitudes about God’s will and nature’s course.

  Andrew sliced off a bite of ham and skewered it with his fork. “I suppose that explains why Herbert could carry you off among the orange blossoms. You needed to get away from Mother’s meddling too.”

  Insightful man. “What do they fight about?”

  He set his utensils down, crossing the knife and fork across the top of his plate. “What don’t they fight about? They fight over Rose, and what the best herb is for dealing with megrims. They fight over whether I am too polite, or not sincerely polite enough—I haven’t heard such bickering since my father’s family gathered in Scotland before the accident.”

  And the shadows in his eyes said that memory haunted him still.

  “But you don’t want to send your mother home,” Astrid deduced, “because it would hurt her feelings, and because you would then have to share your brother’s hospitality rather than live with Gwen. Or you might live with Gwen as the lady of your house, which could be awkward.” She took another bite of toast and jam, though the sight of Andrew was a greater source of sustenance than her food.

  “Correct,” Andrew said, folding his serviette by his plate in a precise equilateral triangle, something Douglas might have done. “And I don’t want to send Gwen and Rose to Gareth and Felicity, because those two need their privacy for as long as possible. You, however, are expected to attend your sister’s confinement.”

  “I am looking forward to it,” Astrid said, smiling at the thought that in the next five months there would be three new babies in the family—God willing.

  Abruptly, her stomach gave an alarming little jump, and she felt a peculiar dry sensation in her mouth. She at least remembered to rise slowly. “Andrew, I am going to have to leave you for a moment.”

  He was on his feet, looking both perturbed and concerned as he blocked Astrid’s path to the door. “You are still getting sick?”

  “Apparently so. I will be only a moment.”

  She slid around him with all haste, because nothing, not nausea, not weak knees, not anything was going to keep Astrid from enjoying Andrew’s company on this pretty fall morning.

  Ten

  Andrew waited alone in the breakfast room for all of ten minutes before following Astrid upstairs, because it seemed there was not another soul in the house. Not a footman to find a maid, not a maid to look in on the lady of the house, not a housekeeper to explain why the staff was least in sight.

  He came upon Astrid in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs, curled up on the floor at the foot of her bed. She clutched her stomach, her complexion dead white, her teeth clenched, but what terrified Andrew nearly beyond speech was her stillness.

  When in good health, Astrid moved. She talked with her hands, she marched about the house, she moved through her life.

  Andrew knelt beside her and pushed her hair off her damp forehead, noting again the bruise there, and hoping she couldn’t tell his hand was shaking. “What’s amiss, love? Did you faint again? Is it the baby?”

  She shook her head and moaned as her whole body trembled and her hand flattened over the slight mound of her belly. Having learned a few things in his travels, Andrew cupped her jaw.

  “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Just for a moment.”

  She managed this, though apparently the light hurt her eyes, and with good reason, for her pupils had dilated to encompass much of her irises.

  Poison, which meant every moment counted.

  Andrew retrieved a big porcelain washbasin from her bureau, rolled Astrid to her side, unceremoniously pried her mouth open, and inserted a finger down her throat. She retched violently, sprawled across his legs, her face over the basin. When he saw she’d lost every iota of her breakfast, he let her sink back into a panting crouch.

  She looked dazed rather than angry, which alarmed Andrew even more.

  “I’m going to carry you to the bed, dear heart, then get rid of this basin and fetch you some water. Is there a maid who can help you into a nightgown?”

  “Day off. Only the housekeeper’s about, and she’s gone to market.”

  He scooped her up as gently as he could and laid her on the bed. The basin he left covered in the hallway, and from the bedroom next door he retrieved a drinking glass as well as a pitcher, basin, and towel.

  All the while, Andrew prayed, prayed like he hadn’t prayed since rising seas and a howling wind had threatened nearly everybody he held dear, and taken one he’d never had a chance to hold dear.

  He drew the draperies over both of Astrid’s bedroom windows and shut her door, then eased off her shoes and sat her up to loosen the buttons down the back of her gown. The dress came off, and then her jumps, leaving her in only her chemise.

  Pale, wan, and so frightfully quiet.

  One part of his mind noted the changes in her body. She was riper all around—breasts, belly, hips, everywhere, and the added flesh looked marvelous on her.

  Another part alternated between prayers and curses, while he busied himself finding a clean nightgown, which he substituted for the chemise. Next he rolled her stockings off, knowing each movement was causing Astrid distress.

  When he had her clothed in only a nightgown, he offered her a sip of water. She struggled to sit up, so he propped her against his chest and held the glass against her lips as she took a few swallows.

  “That’s enough for now, and the next order of business ought to be summoning your physician.”

  Astrid shivered and croaked a name at him and a direction. Andrew stuck his head out the window and bellowed for his tiger to fetch the damned doctor—the hand of Almighty God could not have forced Andrew to leave Astrid alone in that house—then pulled a rocking chair from a corner of the room and sat right next to the bed.

  “Feeling better?”

  “I feel awful,” she wailed quietly. “This is not my usual bout of the queasies.”

  “The doctor is on his way, and he’ll be able to tell us more,” Andrew replied with a calm he did not feel. He smoothed her hair back and once again noted the discoloration near her hairline. “You have yet to tell me how you got this great bruise.”

  “Fell,” she said, her eyes drifting shut. “Fainted at the top of the stairs. Douglas found me.”

  Andrew’s hand went still on her hair, then resumed the caress meant to soothe them both. He continued to stroke her face, to hold her hand, and to offer her occasional sips of water until he heard a banging on the front door three-quarters of an hour later.

  “The doctor,” he told her, kissing her cool cheek before he made his way downstairs to admit a blond man who struck Andrew as entirely too young, handsome, and cheerful to be a physician.

  “Dr. Phillip DuPont, here to see the Viscountess Amery. I’m told the situation is urgent,” the man said as Andrew opened the door.

  “Greymoor. I’m… family by marriage,” Andrew said, offering a quick handshake. “She’s upstairs. I suspect poison, though it wouldn’t have been in her system for long.”

  At those words, the physician’s smile fled, and he fairly sprinted up the stairs ahead of Andrew. When DuPont opened his bag and sat on the side of the bed, Andrew took up his post in the rocking chair, resisting the urge to hold Astrid’s hand.

  “Viscountess?” The doctor had a pleasant, calm voice, one of those voices that always sounded close to a smile. He picked up Astrid’s wrist in his left hand, holding up his timepiece with his right, while Andrew wanted to kill him for touching her.

  DuPont’s hands moved with the deft, impersonal competence of the medical professional as he listened to her heart, peered into her eyes, and laid the back of his hand against her forehead. All the while, he asked questions: When did symptoms arise; what had she to eat today; had anything tasted off; did she use any laudanum; how long before his lordship had found her;
did her joints ache; did her head hurt; and where did that nasty, nasty bruise come from?

  The doctor sat back, frowning. “If you would excuse us, my lord?”

  Astrid reached for Andrew’s hand as he started to rise, and he promptly sat back down.

  “The lady has asked that I stay.” Which was fortunate, because Andrew was not about to go any farther than across the room, even when Astrid was tended by a man whose vocation was healing.

  “But, my lord, I must examine the viscountess personally,” the doctor tried again. “For you to be present, family member or not, would be highly improper.”

  Astrid met his gaze, silently pleading with him.

  “You can leave, Doctor, or you can examine her while I sit in this chair,” Andrew said. “I’m sorry, but the lady’s wishes must come first. Those are your choices. And if it eases your conscience, I wasn’t even in the country when she conceived.”

  Blond eyebrows flew up, but the doctor seemed to gather his wits as he turned his attention to Astrid.

  “My lady, there are certain herbs, which when ingested, can end a pregnancy, though few of them would be effective this late in your term. Some of them, if taken in sufficient quantity, carry a risk of symptoms such as those you’ve experienced, though such herbs would not account for all of your symptoms.” He kept his gaze on her as he blathered on, which Andrew took as an expression of the instinct for self-preservation. “Did you attempt to end your pregnancy?”

  Her hand tightened around Andrew’s fingers, as if she’d keep him from reacting with violence. “God, no.”

  “I thought not,” DuPont murmured. “As I said, the symptoms are not entirely consistent with such a notion. Let’s see how the baby is faring, then, shall we?”

  Astrid closed her eyes, likely the better to pray for her child’s welfare.

  The doctor did nothing more than palpate her lower abdomen through her nightgown, gently at first, then a bit more firmly.

  “Everything seems to be quite in order,” he announced cheerily. “You are still carrying, Lady Amery, and there’s little reason to suspect harm to the child at this point. For the next few days, you should remain quiet, though, as a precaution. If you experience any bleeding or cramping—and I mean the merest twinge, the tiniest spot—you must call me. As your activity level drops over the next few days, you may not be as aware of the child moving, but if as you resume your normal routine, you don’t feel movement, you must also call me.”