Andrew: Lord of Despair (17 page)

“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.

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.

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.

Marriage to Andrew was eroding her manners. “How is your mother, Henry? I’ve written to her, but she makes no reply. I suppose she is disappointed in me for not serving out my year of mourning.”

Henry swilled his tea in one gulp and set the cup down a bit too hard on the saucer. “You say that like mourning Herbert is a prison sentence.”

“Mourning is not a happy time, Henry.” Astrid refilled his cup, thinking she should not have to tell him about the realities of mourning. He’d lost a brother, hadn’t he? “Should I stop writing to your mother?”

He stirred his tea the same way Herbert had, quick little circles in the center of the cup that resulted in the occasional messy saucer. “Heavens, no. I’ve every suspicion she’s written to you, but Douglas has probably refused to frank the letters. We three live in the town house together now, and Douglas’s own house is to let. The situation isn’t exactly comfortable, though I still have my rooms in the City for when it gets too awful at home.”

Andrew had spared her joining that household, and for all the tensions at Enfield, it wasn’t as bad as what the Allen family would have offered. “I am sorry. I know your mother can be a challenge.”

“Mother, I can handle,” he said, oddly bitter. “It’s Douglas, with his endless economies and his grim pronouncements I can hardly tolerate. But I mustn’t complain. I have a roof over my head and decent prospects, which is more than many others have.”

“It is. You are sweet to take the time to come visit me.”

He folded two tea cakes into a serviette, stuffed them into his pocket, and rose. “Visiting you is a pleasure, though the interrogation when I get home isn’t.”

“What will you tell Douglas?” she asked, taking his arm as they walked toward the front of the house. And thank the Deity that Henry was not inclined to overstay his welcome, though he’d taken the last chocolate peppermint cakes, and those were Astrid’s favorites.

“I will tell him you are in great good health and tolerably good spirits, but your new husband is not as courteous to you as he could be.”

Courtesy. Herbert had been courteous, and Andrew was the soul of courtesy, not that courtesy mattered much compared to respect, trust, or love.

“Greymoor is a good man. I am content with him. How is Douglas, by the way? We’ve heard nothing from him since his call on Heathgate some weeks ago.”

“Now that is odd.” Henry took his hat, cape, and gloves from a footman. “I thought he was going to pay a call on you following your nuptials. Appears he changed his mind. Consider yourself lucky.”

He grinned, bowed, patted his pocket, and took his leave.

As Astrid listened to the clatter of his horse’s hooves cantering down the driveway, a choking sadness welled up. She had lied to Henry, and Henry had probably sensed it: Andrew was a good man, of that she had no doubt, but she was most assuredly not content.

“What did the puppy want?” Andrew asked from a perch halfway down the stairs.

“I beg your pardon. I did not know you were in the house.” Did not know where he was in any sense.

“I came in to change.” Andrew prowled down the steps, and if a man could do such a thing peevishly, he did. “You’ll forgive me if I did not join you for a polite chat over tea. I assume he is reporting everything you say and do to Douglas?”

“He did say Douglas will question him upon his return.”

Andrew studied her as if she were a crooked painting of a peculiar subject, badly executed. “You are pale, Astrid. Did the puppy upset you?”

He was standing so close she could smell his cologne and the soap he’d just washed with, but she kept her expression bland and did not allow herself to lean closer.

“Astrid?” His voice was quiet, caring. Not the terse bark he’d adopted of late when necessity dictated they converse.

She did look at him then, knowing her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Whatever he said—” Andrew began fiercely, but Astrid shook her head.

“It isn’t Henry who upsets me.”

She did not—could not—say more but advanced past him, her spine straight, her gait dignified as she left him standing on the stair.

Andrew stood at the bottom of the steps, feeling as if Magic had just delivered a kick to his chest. He contemplated ferreting out Douglas Allen and slapping a glove across the man’s face. A duel would resolve the entire situation, and Astrid would be left in peace to raise her child in safety.

Possibly.

Andrew was lethal with a sword, and a good shot, but he wasn’t the kind of marksman the Allen men were. With his dying breath, Andrew would know he’d left Astrid unprotected and widowed again.

“What are you scowling about now?” Gwen asked, coming down the stairs with Rose at her side.

“I can scowl too,” Rose said, frowning with exaggerated ill humor. Andrew scooped the child off the stairs onto his hip.

“You will scare me, Rosebud, if you don’t stop looking so ferocious. I am scowling because it is nearly luncheon, and I am quite hungry.”

“I am hungry too,” Rose said. “Where is Cousin Astrid?”

“She was here a minute ago,” Andrew hedged, but he caught Gwen’s eye, and the rare compassion he saw suggested she’d overheard, or even seen, some of his exchange with Astrid.

“Cousin Astrid is sad,” Rose said. “I wish she would be happy.”

Gwen’s expression went carefully impassive, but she retrieved Rose from Andrew and set the child back on her own two feet.

“We will go find Cousin Astrid and cheer her up,” Gwen said. “There is nothing
worthwhile
for her to be sad about.”

They turned their backs on Andrew and went off to enjoy their meal, while he… sat down, pulled on his muddy boots, and returned to the stables, there to muck stalls until the ache in his chest subsided and his hunger was nearly forgotten.

***

Arabella Antoinette Hollister Alexander, Lady Heathgate to the tedious nincompoops of Polite Society, hated autumn, for it was the season of her failures. Thirteen years ago, she’d failed to talk her husband into ignoring a summons from his papa, the marquess, to attend a doomed family gathering in Scotland.

Who in their right mind traveled north as winter approached?

Six years ago, she had taken until autumn to realize her niece Guinevere’s abrupt withdrawal from her first social Season had been a harbinger of disaster, though Rose herself had been more of a salvation than a disaster.

Andrew had departed for the Continent in autumn, and now, autumn found not only Andrew, but his entire household lost at sea.

A lady could tolerate just so much of failure, however, and now that the anniversary of the accident had come and gone—remarked by nothing more than a short, determinedly cheerful call from her older son—it was time to set Andrew’s household to rights.

“My son is due for a review of his domestic accounts,” Arabella remarked after Rose had said the blessing over another meal from which Andrew had absented himself.

Astrid and Gwen looked askance at her, then at each other, suggesting Arabella’s efforts to foster an alliance between the young ladies had borne some fruit, at least.

“What are ’mestic accounts?” Rose asked from around a mouthful of bread, jam, and butter.

“A discussion of his expenditures and assets in the marital realm,” Arabella explained. “Astrid, you are letting Andrew get away with poor manners and all varieties of inconsideration. He walked right past me this morning, not so much as a ‘good day’ to his own mother. He has no conversation anymore, much less any wit, and his gallantries are all wasted on those horses of his. What will you do about this?”

For Arabella’s notions of how to go on with the boy—stern lectures and dire warnings delivered in the privacy of his study—had had no effect.

Gwen busied herself arranging a serviette as a bib for Rose, while Astrid considered a slice of pear.

“I quite frankly don’t know what to do,” Astrid said. She set the pear down without taking a bite, and fired off something like a glower at her mama-in-law. “The two of you leave me nothing meaningful to see to under my own roof, and if my husband has no use for me, I can hardly take exception to his behavior without taking the two of you to task as well. Rudeness and inconsideration are not such unusual behavior in this household.”

Clearly the girl had surprised herself with her honesty, and she had relieved Arabella, for those dreadful Allens had nearly crushed Astrid’s spirit. Now this spark of forthrightness must be fanned to a flame that might illuminate the shadows still clouding Andrew’s eyes.

“Sweet heavens!” Arabella exclaimed in her best Offended Dowager tones. “Andrew’s foul humor is contagious. This, my dear, will never do.”

A tense silence spread, with even Rose apparently comprehending something had gone amiss.

“Astrid is right,” Gwen said, pushing her spoon around in her soup. “And I am at least partly to blame.”

Guinevere was brave to a fault. Of course she would join this affray and try to protect Astrid from a scolding. As Gwen set her spoon aside, Arabella noticed a hint of her own late father about Gwen’s chin and jaw.

“I am so unable to consider any life for myself other than the one I’ve made here, that I see Andrew as the enemy,” Gwen said. “I see you all as my enemies, and I know I have been… difficult. I am sorry.”

Rose took another bite of bread and jam, her gaze bouncing among the adults seated at the table. Clearly the child sensed that the ladies were spading fresh turf, and clearly, she relished her bread and jam.

Andrew used to love bread and jam, too. Now, his own mother could not have said what or whom he loved, other than the small blond lady sitting across from her.

“I believe, my dears, I should return to Town,” Arabella said, though the words were difficult. “I was here to smooth the way between Andrew and Gwen, but you are in residence now, Astrid, a widow and a wife, and you are right: this household should be yours to run as you see fit. Besides, come the holidays, I will be staying with Heathgate and Felicity to assist with the care of my new grandchildren.”

Both young women looked at her as if she’d just announced an intention to emigrate to the Antipodes. Young people could be so predictable—and so dear.

But these young women were bright and brave, too, and Arabella was leaving her son in their care, so she did not abandon the table to deal with a sudden tightness in her throat. Years ago, Andrew had pulled her from the waves, but in many ways, Arabella had been the only one to make it to shore.

Astrid took a nibble of her pear, chewing thoughtfully. “For a time, Andrew’s conversation, wit, and manners allowed all of us to continue bumping along, though not happily. Perhaps his ill humor is a blessing in disguise, but ladies, I honestly do not know what to do about my husband. I will happily take over the household management, Gwen, and I will understand, my lady, if you want to return to Town, but neither of those changes will make Andrew any happier with me.”

Rose stuck a finger in the jam pot and smeared the results on a piece of bread. Andrew had perfected the same maneuver before he was three. Now he’d perfected the art of being a ghost in his own home, and Arabella had had enough of it.

“My dear girl, you are no more able to
make
Andrew happy than your sister could have
made
Heathgate admit he loved her. Men are stubborn about the simplest things.”

“She’s right,” Gwen added, wiping Rose’s finger off on her bib and giving the child’s hand a light smack. “Andrew cares for you. You have only to catch him watching you when he thinks he’s unobserved. Whatever troubles him is something he has to resolve, Astrid.”

“But why won’t he let me help him? Why won’t he let anybody help him? Talk to him? Carry his burdens with him?”

How often had Arabella asked herself the very same vexing questions. She suspected Heathgate plagued himself similarly where Andrew was concerned.

“Maybe he thinks you’ll be disappointed in him,” Rose piped up. “Cousin Andrew is a grown-up. He wants to do things himself.”

She went back to munching on her bread and jam, having stated the obvious, after all, while the adults exchanged bemused smiles over her head.

Astrid dipped her slice of pear into the jam pot, leaving a smear of red over creamy white fruit. “Please don’t feel you must go back to Town, my lady.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Arabella said, scrounging up a smile. “I have overstayed my welcome. Seeing a growing unease between you and Andrew, and foolishly thinking I might be of some help. All I’ve done is aggravate everyone around me.”

Which at least had given the young people a common complaint, and that was a start. That Arabella had for once been with Andrew as the anniversary of That Awful Day had come and gone was a private victory, but a significant one.