Felicity started to rock back and forth on the seat of her chair, then, on the upswing, heaved herself to her feet.
“I have no dignity,” she said dryly. “For the hundredth time this hour, I must use the blasted chamber pot. I see it is also nap time, and so I take my leave of you.”
A knock on the door heralded Gareth’s arrival, and he entered the library scowling. “What are you doing on your feet?”
Felicity held up a staying hand and toddled past him. “I am marching myself right up to our bedroom, where I will obediently subject myself to more rest, though I hardly do enough to tire myself to the point of needing any rest. Then I will careen myself out of the bed, perhaps bellowing for my husband to apply shoes to the feet I haven’t seen for months, and lumber back down here, to sit on that dratted sofa and read some more dratted novels.”
She swayed from the room with ponderous dignity; her husband followed meekly after, while Astrid contemplated stubbornness and love.
Sixteen
As November trudged toward December, winter clamped down with unusually early ferocity, bringing bitter cold, stinging wind, and day after day of gray skies. Andrew forced himself to continue working with his horses, but most days, he took Magic for a gallop that inevitably ended up on the hills overlooking Willowdale.
“The weather will warm up and snow,” Andrew informed his horse as they came down to the walk. “And I suspect it will be more than a pretty dusting.”
His fingers, toes, and lips were numb from their gallop. If only his emotions could be numbed as well.
“I miss my wife.” He wiped his eyes on the back of his glove. “As much as you ache to gallop across these hills, as much as you hate being tethered in a stall, that’s how much I goddamn miss my wife.”
He missed her sunny, irreverent humor; he missed her casual affection; he missed her tart rejoinders; and he missed—like an ache in his chest—her intimate companionship. This missing wasn’t merely erotic, but bore a resemblance to homesickness and desire swirled together, a hollow, restless, unsettled, anxious, incomplete feeling.
Gareth’s words came back to Andrew as Magic plodded across the frozen ruts of the road, words Gareth had used to describe his love for his marchioness. “She is the home my heart has longed for.” Gareth’s heart deserved a home, while Andrew’s…
His litany of self-castigation was interrupted by the sight of another traveler trotting along the main road from Town, something familiar about the big bay gelding.
Douglas Allen pulled up and nodded curtly. “Greymoor.”
“Amery.” Andrew’s nod was even less civil, but rather than sit in the frigid air and provoke a staring battle, Andrew let Magic resume his progress toward Enfield. “Bit chilly to be so far from home, isn’t it?”
“Chilly seems to be the order of the day, considering you’ve not replied to my last two letters.”
Shite. Andrew had neglected his correspondence, true enough, but saw no need to admit that to Amery. “Perhaps, Amery, my silence was intended to be a reply.”
“Am I to assume, then,” Douglas said as his horse fell in beside Magic, “you have no interest in conveying the bank draft I bear to your lady wife?”
Only something as plebeian as money would have Douglas riding this distance in this weather.
“I’ll take her your draft, and you’ll have no need to travel on to Enfield, how’s that?” Andrew smiled at his opponent—for that’s what Amery was—while a wish sprang up that Douglas would haul him off his horse for his rudeness and indulge him in a bare knuckle discussion of men who sought to harm Astrid.
“Let us at least repair to the village tavern,” Douglas suggested. “I would not conduct my business on the open road, even though it appears deserted.”
Deserted. Subtle—Douglas was subtle, and Andrew was nigh freezing.
“As you wish.” Andrew nudged Magic into a trot, but reined in as he approached the local tavern. The establishment was cozy, served a decent pint, and was reasonably clean. At mid-to-late morning, the common would also be devoid of custom.
Douglas took his bay around to the stable in back, which was more consideration than Andrew would have thought the man capable of.
“Come along,” Andrew said to Magic. “You can cadge secrets from Douglas’s horse while I ply his owner with winter ale.”
Douglas paid a groom to unsaddle his horse, while Andrew merely loosened Magic’s girth and slipped the bridle from his head.
“He’s a lovely animal,” Douglas said. “One hopes you appreciate him.”
His lordship did not lack for balls. “Shall we trade our insults over a tankard of ale?”
“Tea will do.”
His primness brought Andrew a reluctant smile. If Herbert had been anything like his brother, Astrid would have seen to his demise inside of five years. When they gained the common, Andrew ordered tea and two tots of brandy, then made his way to the snug tucked into the back corner.
“You have business to transact with me?” Andrew asked, sliding onto the bench along one side of the table.
Douglas took his time, unfastening his greatcoat, removing his riding gloves, and removing his hat. Andrew, bare headed and long since divested of his gloves, watched these maneuvers with amusement.
“I have business to transact with my former sister-in-law,” Douglas said when he’d hung his greatcoat on a peg, tucked his gloves in his pocket, and set his hat on the table. “Because you are her husband, I suppose… you will do.”
Such exquisite condescension befitted a duke, at least.
“You have reconciled yourself to the legality of our union?” Andrew asked as the serving girl brought them their tea and brandy.
“I have. Shall I pour?”
The viscount’s manners were the outside of too much, and yet, somebody had to pour the damned tea. “Please.”
“I should say, rather”—Douglas daintily poured them each a mug of tea—“I am convinced of the legality of your union, until further evidence can be gathered.”
“Brandy?” Andrew asked, holding up a glass.
“No, thank you. Feel free to enjoy my portion.”
“As you enjoyed Astrid’s portion?” Andrew replied politely.
Douglas looked pained, and also, now that Andrew studied him, tired. “If you familiarized yourself with the timing of the embezzled withdrawals, Greymoor, you would see my brother was the one enjoying his wife’s money, and for that, Astrid has had my sincere apologies.”
Andrew dumped the brandy into his tea, though the resulting combination had never appealed to him. “My error. I’m afraid the details of the crime would be more familiar to you than to me.”
“I suppose if one considers stupidity a crime, then my brother must be convicted of same,” Douglas said, sipping his tea with just the smallest grimace.
Sitting across from the man, it was hard to like him. He was fussy, cold, and bearing a bank draft Andrew had never expected to see.
And yet, it was also hard to believe Douglas had murdered his older brother and attempted to murder Astrid. Hard, but not impossible. “The brandy might be an improvement.”
“The tea is hot,” Douglas replied, adding more sugar. “I would probably drink pig swill right now if it were served hot.”
He’d have the patience to lie in wait until timbers could be sawed through, one by one in the dead of night, but would he have been able to push Astrid down a flight of stairs then pretend to scold her for her clumsiness? Would he have arranged to poison her when she dwelled in the same home as his own mother?
“I would be happy to order some pig swill for you, Amery.”
“No doubt, your manners would extend that far,” Douglas remarked dryly. “Shall you accept this draft on your wife’s behalf?” He tossed a document across the table, as if the bank draft were distasteful to h
im.
Andrew unfolded the paper, raising an eyebrow at the amount. “You truly are out to impress the courts, aren’t you?” he said, any sympathy toward Douglas evaporating.
“I beg your pardon?” Douglas’s tone was as chilly as the Channel wind whipping snow flurries across the fields and hedges.
“You are paying Astrid back with more than token interest, Amery. I can only surmise this is your attempt to create evidence favorable to you when you seek guardianship of your brother’s heir. I should toss this money back in your face.”
“Then toss it,” Douglas said with exquisite indifference. “I shall invest it on Astrid’s behalf, if her husband is too busy strutting and pawing to look after it for her.”
Andrew’s temper snapped, the relief of it enormous.
“By God, Amery”—Andrew rose from the table—“you tempt me to call you out. This”—he waved the draft contemptuously—“does not disguise the fact that yet another attempt has been made on Astrid’s life, and the only person motivated to harm her sits before me now, oozing manners and restitution.”
“Sit down,” Douglas growled as the serving maid paused in her scrubbing at a nearby table. Something in Andrew’s eyes must have promised imminent doom, because Douglas added, “Please. Please sit down.”
Andrew had to again give credit: Douglas appeared convincingly disconcerted.
“What is this attempt at further harm to Astrid you refer to?”
“What’s wrong, Amery, won’t your spies talk to you anymore?” Andrew asked—and he did not sit down, but he did keep his voice down. “Know this: Astrid is safe enough, despite your schemes. And I plan for her to remain that way. And as for this”—he gestured with the draft—“it is not mine to refuse or accept. I will pass it into my wife’s keeping, and she will decide what to do with it.”
Andrew tossed a handful of coins on the table, snatched up his coat, and stalked from the room, leaving Douglas staring into his tea and the serving girl ducking back to the kitchen.
As Andrew trotted Magic homeward through a snowfall growing more purposeful by the minute, he mentally reviewed the meeting. Douglas could have been lying in wait for him, because Andrew had made a habit of riding over to Willowdale at this time of day.
Which would have to change, effective immediately. Andrew might miss his wife, but he would be damned if he’d leave such an obvious clue regarding Astrid’s whereabouts. No more excursions to sit on the hill and pine for her, not if he valued her safety.
***
Despite the storm outside, dinner concluded pleasantly, with Gareth consuming two large pieces of spice cake. Astrid had seen a few winces cross Felicity’s face, but attributed them to the simple challenge of remaining seated through the meal.
“I’ll go up to the nursery and check on the children,” Felicity said, setting her teacup down and struggling to her feet.
“I’ll join you,” Gareth added, his hand under her elbow.
“No, you will not,” Felicity replied. “You got them so wound up this morning, that one glimpse of you, and they’ll be galloping around the room on another fox hunt. Astrid, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“I will be in the library then,” Gareth informed the ladies. “Please tell my sons I love them, if you can manage it without waking them up.”
Astrid linked her arm through Felicity’s and escorted her from the room at a particularly deliberate pace. Astrid held her silence, knowing Gareth might well be lurking in the door to the dining room, monitoring their progress.
When they reached the darkened nursery, Felicity went to the small bed where her older son slept, his boneless sprawl a deceptive variation on his usual boundless energy. She lowered herself to his side—slowly, carefully, the way a stately vessel might glide the last few yards into its slip in a calm harbor—and smoothed a hand over his forehead.
“Your father loves you, and so do I. Never doubt that,” she said softly. She repeated her words to her smaller sleeping son while Astrid looked on in growing dismay.
Felicity was terrified, mortally terrified. This fact—for it was a fact—hit Astrid like one of those lengths of lumber that had left bruises all over her body. Felicity was saying a good-bye, in case these twins cost her her life.
The child in Astrid’s womb chose then to kick hard, provoking a longing for Andrew more intense than any to date. She didn’t care why he’d put distance between them, didn’t care she should be angry with him. She simply wanted to be with him, on any terms he’d consider.
“Lissy?” Astrid called softly.
“Help me up, please,” Felicity replied in the same subdued tones. Astrid complied and kept an arm around her sister’s back.
When they had gained the corridor, Felicity paused, her lips thinning. “I wish I could tell you to send Gareth off to Willowdale to fetch Andrew tonight, but he’d see through the stratagem. Get me undressed and into bed, then tell my husband to send for the doctor.”
Astrid had her sister into a nightgown and tucked under the covers in no time.
“David was able to keep Gareth from the room during my previous birthings,” Felicity said, “but I don’t think my husband will be as easily distracted this time, and neither David nor Andrew is here to make the attempt. It will be up to you, Astrid, and Dr. Mayhew to keep my husband under control.”
“You know that’s not fair. Gareth will listen to you, and you alone. If you want him from the room, you must be the one to tell him.” Did she expect Astrid to toss the marquess bodily from the room?
“I can’t.” Felicity went silent, and Astrid could feel the pain resonating through her sister’s body. “When Gareth looks at me, his anxiety so carefully hidden, I haven’t the heart to send him away. In truth, he steadies me.”
“That’s not all he does to you.”
“Well, please fetch him,” Felicity replied. “He will be furious I’ve done this, gone into labor right as the weather turns nasty. Dr. Mayhew will be none too appreciative either.”
“Then let them be the ones to birth the children while we stand around, swilling brandy, and cursing the weather,” Astrid replied staunchly. That inspired a smile, so Astrid left the room and went to fetch her brother-in-law.
“Gareth?”
Wire-rimmed glasses were perched on his nose, and he held a small silver rattle in his big hand while he read at the desk in the library.
“Hello, Astrid.” Gareth rose, taking his glasses off and folding them into a pocket; the rattle went into a different pocket. “Did you leave Felicity upstairs?”
“I left her in bed.” And abruptly, it was hard to say what needed to be conveyed. Fear was contagious, apparently. Astrid shoved it aside with a confidence she did not feel and a prayer she did not voice. “She asked that I fetch you, and that I further ask you to send for Dr. Mayhew.”
Gareth sat right back down, as if his knees had simply given out.
“I was afraid of this,” he muttered. “The damned weather… The goddamned bloody weather has brought this on.” He crossed his arms on the desk and momentarily rested his forehead on his forearms.
He was praying. Astrid was sure she was witnessing the Marquess of Heathgate in a sincerely prayerful moment, and that frightened her too.
“I rather think the weather is only one factor, Gareth, but we waste our time here, and it is going to be a long night. You go up to your wife and act pleased with this turn of events, or I will personally use a horsewhip on you. First you should send a rider for Dr. Mayhew and one for the local midwife as well.”
“Felicity doesn’t like the midwife,” Gareth said, getting back to his feet. “She interviewed her, but said only dire emergency would justify relying on her.”
“So we don’t like the midwife,” Astrid said, “but she is much closer to hand than Dr. Mayhew and will be a source of some experience until he arrives. Now
pull yourself together and go to your wife.”
He left, so Astrid penned the requisite notes, put Heathgate’s seal on them, sent for the grooms, and prayed the snow would ease off.
***
Five miles and one universe of misery away from his wife, Andrew stood at his library window, watching the snow come down by the light of a lantern hanging outside the stable doors. He knew Astrid loved snow, but this had all the look of a true winter storm, one that would leave roads impassable, travelers stranded, and Andrew unable to join his wife, even if he wanted to.
And he did want to. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let her go; on that much, at least, he was now clear. Astrid had been right to insist on a separation, because Andrew had been forced to confront his feelings in a way he wouldn’t have otherwise.
He loved his wife, and he wanted her to be happy; it was that simple, and that difficult. He would have to accommodate himself to whatever wishes she expressed that supported her happiness, even if it meant she sent him away. The difficulty lay in the nature of the truths Andrew was honor-bound to share with her before she made such a decision.
Were it not pouring snow, he would saddle Magic up and make his way to Willowdale. He hadn’t mentally arranged all the hard truths that he must convey to Astrid, but a lonely and very likely condemned husband could visit his wife while he was considering his next move, couldn’t he?
***
When Astrid returned to her sister’s side, Gareth lay curled on the bed with his wife, his hands pressed against the small of Felicity’s back.
“Heathgate, what are you doing on that bed with my sister?”
“I am comforting my wife,” he observed, rolling over and sitting up.
“Here.” Astrid tossed him a thick towel. “Get that under your wife, then, and don’t wrestle her around in the process.”
Gareth looked puzzled. “What’s this for?”
“When my water breaks,” Felicity explained gently, “it could be untidy.”
“I knew that,” Gareth reminded himself, folding the towel several times. “Up you go.” Felicity struggled to comply and asked Gareth to arrange her pillows and then to fetch her a book from the library.
Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords) Page 23
