***
Married life was a lonely business—yet again, a lonely business—even with Andrew for a spouse. He took Astrid to Enfield, and while she loved the property, she found little to do there.
Astrid reached an uneasy truce with Gwen when it became clear Astrid had no intention of usurping Gwen’s role, particularly as it related to managing the property. Not so, the formidable Lady Heathgate.
Lady Heathgate had managed Astrid’s two social seasons, her wedding, and Gwen’s come out. She managed her own house in town, a “cottage” on two thousand acres in the country, and numerous investments. Astrid had not yet found the nerve to ask Andrew if he’d gone on his travels in part to avoid his mother’s managing tendencies—particularly her matchmaking managing tendencies—but she had her suspicions.
That Lady Heathgate’s sons had inherited both her height and her blue eyes was never in doubt—also her determination and her commercial expertise.
What was in doubt, from day to day and hour to hour, was to whom the role of lady of the house would go. Gwen and her aunt bickered constantly. They sniped, they glowered, they made veiled threats and polite insults. Their verbal battle, waged in sniffy asides and muttered ironies, might have been amusing had Astrid not felt both women were being inconsiderate of her, and worse, of Andrew.
He, smart fellow, absented himself from the manor for most of each day when weather permitted. If it was truly too miserable to be out on the property, Andrew closeted himself in the study, poring over account books, reports, and treatises.
Astrid found him there one night after yet another tense family meal, several weeks after their remove to Enfield.
He stood and held out a hand in welcome. “Hello, Wife. Are you hiding as well?”
Astrid tucked herself against him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Why did a grown man hide from the mother whose life he’d saved? Why did he hide from the wife whose life he’d vowed to protect?
“May we send your mother back to Town now that you are married and your wife is in residence here?” She’d intended to tiptoe up to that question, but pregnancy rather ruined a woman’s ability to tiptoe.
Andrew sighed and rested his chin on the top of her head. Astrid was coming to understand his sighs, and that one was… dismal.
“God knows Mother is wearing out her welcome.”
“But?”
“But it would hurt her feelings. The Little Season is of little interest, to hear her tell it. Then too, she is another pair of eyes and ears here at the house should you need them. Finally, I have wondered if Mother’s abrasive carping might not effect a change in Gwen’s position.”
Strategy. Astrid’s husband had an interesting penchant for strategy—one she lacked. “You think your mother will wear Gwen down on the matter of holy matrimony?”
One did not refer to Lady Heathgate as Mama—at least, one hadn’t been invited to do so.
Andrew patted her bottom, another aspect of his husbandly vocabulary. His bottom pats were seldom flirtatious, and he was careful not to do it when company was present. “I don’t know if Gwen can be worn down, but I cannot deed her an entailed property, and marriage would give her options other than becoming my dependent spinster cousin. It might come down to building her a second dower house, or resigning ourselves to her company when we reside here.”
Gwen had a sense of humor, and her daughter, little Rose, was a positive delight.
“I could live with that,” Astrid said. “Provided we don’t spend a great deal of time here. I could be happy at Oak Hall, or at Linden, for that matter, if you could content yourself at either location.”
Andrew drew back, resting his hips on his desk and looping his arms around Astrid as she stood between his legs. “I am thinking of selling Linden.”
This was not strategy. This was… Andrew being hard to understand and not confiding in his wife.
“That was your home, Andrew. You chose that property for yourself, and you’ve held it, what, almost ten years? I thought you loved it there.”
Andrew regarded his wife, as if he were weighing how much of some inconvenient truth to share with her.
“I enjoyed that property, Astrid, at an age when I spent little time with my mother and brother, when I needed… independent quarters. I did not conduct myself at all times like a model squire. Some in the Linden vicinity would as soon see the land change hands again.”
How many angry papas and disappointed damsels did Sussex boast as a result of Andrew’s tenure there? “You were a rascal.”
Andrew’s laugh was dismal too. “Douglas called on Gareth a few weeks ago to inform him, should I attempt to gain guardianship of your child, he was prepared to ferret out every misdeed I ever was rumored to commit. I committed more than a few of them at Linden. Besides, I have both Oak Hall and Enfield to fret over, and those are entailed properties. I cannot get rid of either, and both are closer to Town, and to Willowdale.”
Cuddling up to Andrew was delightful, despite the topic. Being near him soothed her, and Astrid felt drowsiness stealing into her limbs as she stood in his embrace.
“You must do as you see fit, Andrew. I certainly will not complain if we reside only five miles from my sister and her children, though if I had my pick, I would choose Oak Hall rather than Enfield.”
“Why?”
Astrid nuzzled at his shoulder. How did he manage to always smell scrumptious? “Oak Hall is the property better suited to raising horses.”
“And this is relevant because?”
“Of all the projects Gwen has put before you, you are most enthusiastic about raising horses suited to becoming ladies’ mounts. You don’t sit up late at night, drawing plans for further irrigation; you don’t look out over the land, wondering where you might erect another hothouse; you don’t wander down to the home farm to check on the lambing. You do, however, consider at length re-fencing certain horse pastures; you ponder where you might lay out a practice oval for flat racing; and you fret nightly over your broodmares. The crops, produce, home farm, and cottage industry are all well and good, but for you, the passion is the horses.”
His hand went still, midpat on her derriere. “You are right.” A silence ensued, and he did not resume stroking her fundament. “I enjoy the country, but I love the horses.”
He said this as if something obvious to all who knew him was a revelation to himself. And then another pat, brisk and businesslike.
“I know one little broodmare who needs to find her bed,” he said, straightening and grabbing a branch of candles from his desk. “It’s late, and you should be asleep.”
“I should,” Astrid said, stifling a yawn. “I was coming to tell you I’m retiring. Will you join me?”
“I’ll light you up to your room,” he replied, offering his arm. “I have yet more reading to do.”
Astrid made no protest, but with increasing frequency, Andrew had reasons not to find their bed until she was fast asleep. He woke at first light, and only came in to join the ladies for dinner. Thereafter, he repaired to his study or returned to the barns and stables. Slowly, inexorably, he was creating distance between himself and his wife, and he was too astute a man for this to be simple happenstance.
Astrid waited until they gained the doorway to their bedroom, though she should have waited until Andrew had escorted her inside. “Could you not do your reading some other time?”
He kissed her forehead, something in the gesture besides marital affection, something troubled. “I’ll be up soon enough.” He entered the room only long enough to light candles for her, then left and closed the door behind him.
Astrid got her clothes off, and brushed out and rebraided her hair before climbing into the bed. She wished she had Felicity to talk to, but that would mean ten miles of travel, round trip, and burdening her sister with her petty troubles. Felicity wrote frequently,
and Gareth had been over twice since Astrid had come to Enfield, but he spent his time with Andrew, and that meant Astrid had seen little of him.
She had, however, had two visits from Henry Allen. Andrew had left her strict orders not to receive Douglas Allen unless Andrew was with her, but he was less concerned about Henry.
To her surprise, she had enjoyed the time spent in Henry’s company. He seemed to be a genuinely nice man, as Herbert had also seemed to her on first acquaintance. Henry, however, did not take himself nearly so seriously as either of his elder brothers, and he was more than ready to poke fun at them on occasion.
“Douglas has his underlinen starched and ironed,” he’d announced. “That explains a lot, you know.”
Henry could say such an outrageous thing in good fun, meaning harm toward none and bringing Astrid a smile. Henry also assured her Douglas did not have the blunt to pursue a costly lawsuit, and neither did he see his brother taking on the gossip and censure litigation would generate.
But as Astrid tossed about, alone in her bed, visits from family were no comfort. She drifted off, determined to confront Andrew regarding his schedule. They were newlyweds, for pity’s sake. She wished her husband would start acting like it.
***
Andrew put aside the treatise on contour plowing he’d been staring at for the past twenty minutes. More and more, he was making excuses to avoid his wife. Oh, he rode about the property with Gwen, commenting repeatedly on the fine job she did as de facto steward. He spent time training the few young horses on the premises, and he spent time with Magic.
But he actually did little. He was waiting for Douglas Allen to make another move, and patience was by no means his forte—particularly not when Andrew was trying to wean himself from his wife’s company, and from her intimate attentions. Having to remain close to her for the sake of her safety, while trying to maintain an emotional and physical distance, was beyond nerve-wracking.
So Andrew kept close to the manor, made sure he fell into bed each night exhausted, and met frequently in the stables with the informants he employed to watch Douglas, Douglas’s finances, his comings and goings, and his family members.
While Andrew slowly went insane.
Sometimes, in the drowsy place between sleeping and waking, he reached for his wife. She came into his arms with a sweet, openhearted eagerness, and loved him within an inch of his life. Each time he slipped like that, he told himself one more encounter surely wouldn’t make much difference. He told himself he would break her heart regardless of how often they coupled, and broken hearts didn’t come in degrees.
He told himself the memories of her passion would be enough, when the time came. They would have to be.
Feeling exhaustion and despair in every bone and muscle, Andrew took himself up to the bedroom, praying Astrid had fallen asleep.
He undressed as quietly as he could, made use of the wash water she had considerately left by the hearth, and climbed into bed, stretching out on his back. In the darkness, his wife rolled toward him, then climbed across his body to straddle his hips. His arms came around her before he could remind himself he was not—absolutely was not—going to encourage her affections any further.
“Husband,” Astrid greeted him, curling up against his chest.
“Wife.”
She was silent, but Andrew could feel her thoughts whirling, and hoped her concerns were simply those of the new housewife: the maids and footmen misbehaving, his mother bickering with Gwen, the laundress not getting along with the housekeeper.
“Andrew, what is troubling you?”
“I am simply tired,” he replied, running his hands over the fine bones of her back. Her stomach, now more than five months distended with child, was folded against his, warm and oddly comforting.
“You are tired because you charge around all day, inspecting what has already been inspected. Gwen tells me this, you know, and she is puzzled. I believe you are avoiding me.”
He wouldn’t lie to her, they both knew that, so he kept his silence, his hands resting on her hips.
“You are,” Astrid concluded. “Why?”
Astrid would not be put off. In hindsight, he was surprised she’d let matters go this far without making comment.
“The purpose of our marriage,” he said, hating himself and his words and his life, “is to keep you and your child safe. It is serving that purpose.”
“I see. You will explain yourself further.”
“I will not.” He swooped up to kiss her into silence instead.
He taught her then, about sex that attempts to substitute for communication. She wrestled him at first, bending herself away from his mouth, away from his hands, and most especially, away from his body. But she didn’t try nearly hard enough to thwart his advances, and Andrew knew it for the symbolic protest it was.
Had she spoken even the single syllable, “No,” he would have desisted and likely quit the room, not to return. But she kept her silence, kissing him back, and allowing him to enter her in a single, hard lunge. He held her to him, not letting her move as he set up a rhythm as relentless as it was vigorous.
“Come for me,” he rasped, locking his arm at the small of her back. But she resisted even in that, and he redoubled the intensity of his effort.
“Astrid, please…” He did not know what he was asking her for, but she relented, and was soon shuddering around him. He exploded inside her, his harsh groan mingling with the single sob that escaped her.
As the last tremors receded from her body, Astrid lifted away from him, fetched a damp cloth, and swabbed herself clean. Andrew heard her movements in the dark room, and wondered if she was going to take herself off to a guest room.
“Astrid, shall I sleep elsewhere?”
His answer was a wet rag, tossed unerringly and with some force onto his chest despite the dark.
“You awful, odious, foolish man,” she spat. “Do you think I would make it that easy for you?”
She bounced back onto the bed, pausing to give Andrew a moment to use the washcloth before she flipped the covers back up over them. To Andrew’s surprise, Astrid lifted his arm and tucked herself under it against his side.
“In your present state of stubbornness, you do not deserve me,” she informed him, “but you have me, and I will not give you the satisfaction of excusing you from this marriage. I did not agree to your silly terms, Andrew Alexander, and I did not agree to stop loving you, wroth with you though I may be for the rest of my natural days.”
After that speech, they lay together, thinking separate thoughts, being separately miserable in the same bed.
Their confrontation marked a turning point, one likely noticeable to the other members of the household. Andrew’s good cheer, a hallmark of his personality in the eyes of those who knew him, faded, and the three women came to appreciate it in its absence.
He left Gwen to manage the estate as she saw fit. He no longer used humor and gallantry to divert his mother from her carping. He stopped observing even the domestic civilities with his wife, addressing her only when necessary, and touching her as little as possible. He became a much closer approximation of his older brother in earlier years.
Silent, broody, and withdrawn.
Andrew continued to sleep with his wife, or to occupy the same bed at night. On the bad nights, they lay side by side, not touching, each willing sleep to come, each usually failing.
On the worse nights, Astrid would lace her fingers through Andrew’s, or curl up with her head on his chest. Sometimes she was bold enough to kiss his cheek or slide a hand down his torso, stopping short of his genitals. He would lie, silent and unmoving for long minutes, until the backs of his fingers stroked Astrid’s cheek, or his lips tasted her wrist.
On those nights, they would make love tenderly, yearning beyond words in their touches and sighs and silences.
&nb
sp; On the worst nights, Astrid would awaken in deep darkness to find her husband curled around her or carefully crouched over her, nudging at her body with his erection. He would hold on to her, loving her silently, his arms wrapped around her in an embrace so desperate and tender it brought tears to her eyes.
But regardless of the night—bad, worse or worst—they arose in the morning without indulging in meaningful conversation, each going alone into the day.
Thirteen
Nothing would do but Henry must join Astrid on the platform adjoining the haymow while she watched Andrew and Magic in the arena. Horse and rider had been in fine form, until Andrew had apparently realized she’d brought a guest. He’d left the arena, telling the grooms he’d cool the horse out with a hack.
“I have never seen the like of that gelding,” Henry said as Astrid poured out for him fifteen minutes later. “That last fence was five feet if it was an inch!”
His enthusiasm was jarring, reminding Astrid of the way Herbert had come home from two weeks of hunting, stories of mud and gore and freezing mornings somehow able to light up his eyes in ways his wife could not. She really had not understood her husband.
“More tea?” she offered automatically.
Henry smiled, an expression that made him look more like his late brother. “Well, perhaps just a spot. So, old girl, how are you getting on?”
“Well enough.” Nobody, but nobody, had ever called her “old girl,” and that jarred too. She was all of two and twenty, for pity’s sake.
“Come now, Astrid,” Henry chided, “you know Dougie is going to interrogate me proper when I get back to Town. I can’t tell him you’re doing ‘well enough.’ Does married life agree with you?”
She regarded him quizzically over her teacup, and he had the grace to look chagrined.
“I suppose you are no stranger to married life, are you? My apologies.”
Astrid let a silence take root, wanting to be rid of Henry and not caring particularly why.
Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords) Page 18
