Andrew: Lord of Despair (26 page)

“Of course.” Douglas likely owed the woman his life. He’d not begrudge her a few painful answers.

“Did you know Henry killed your father?”

Astrid’s soft words landed with the force of a blow. Across the room, Fairly had turned, resting his shoulders against the doors likely the better to view the proceedings. Douglas’s gaze swept the room, and on each face he saw more patience than curiosity.

That puzzled him on the level still capable of thought after Astrid’s terrible revelation, but he marshaled his resources to address the question.

“No,” Douglas said. “I never even suspected, not before yesterday, for which I must bear the blame. Henry would have been an adolescent, but he was always keen for weaponry. I should have realized…”

Those words ought to be engraved on his tombstone. So much he
should
have
realized
. Douglas remained silent, the confirmation of every dark thought about his family he’d ever attempted to deny battering at him. Greymoor—a man whom Douglas would never understand—chose that moment to sit beside Douglas on the sofa.

Greymoor glanced at his wife before he spoke. “Did you know the missing funds were loans Herbert made to Henry? We think Herbert might have suspected Henry’s patricidal tendencies, and yet feared Henry could engineer things such that blame might fall on Herbert as the one in line for the title.”

Worse and worse. “I did not know anything regarding Astrid’s funds until Herbert’s death. I can understand, though, why you would make the mistake of misreading Henry. To my everlasting sorrow, I read him no more accurately.”

Everlasting being the operative word, for how was a man to transcend scandal and heartache of this magnitude?

Greymoor’s expression became terrifyingly compassionate. “Henry told Astrid he had killed both your father and your brother.”

Douglas had to stand, had to move, had to do something to avoid the truth of Greymoor’s words.

“I can’t—” He wanted to say he couldn’t believe it. But the brutal, unbearable truth was that he
could
believe it. He had overheard Henry in that stable and slapped a weapon into Greymoor’s hands, then allowed the earl to court death by entering the barn first.

Douglas had been stunned and sickened, listening to his younger brother chatter blithely with Astrid about murder and worse. Through the long, cold night since, Douglas had done nothing but think of all the signs he’d missed, all the clues he’d ignored.

“I don’t know what to say.” He came to rest like a rudderless ship against the end of a long set of shelves. The smell of books came to him over the pleasant scent of the wood fire. What would prison smell like? What was the scent of complete social ruin, and did Douglas care either way?

The assemblage seemed to expect more words of him, and his fool mouth obliged. “I simply do not know what to say. I had suspicions Henry was up to no good when he didn’t stay put with Mother, and he didn’t tell me he was leaving Town. Details, such as motive and opportunity, began to fall together, so when I got word he’d taken a notion to travel through deep snow in this direction, I trailed him here. Then I found his horse at the bottom of the lane, shivering, in a sweat such as a decent animal ought never to be left… But about all this… I am at a loss for coherent speech.”

Greymoor resumed his place beside his wife, a cozy couple in an informal posture before the hearth. Thank God they, at least, were alive.

Greymoor took his wife’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “If you want my suggestion, Douglas, you say as little as possible. We will inform the magistrate Henry’s gun, damp from the snow, misfired while he was cleaning it out in the stables. The magistrate can be given to understand Henry was not coping well with his beloved older brother’s death, and might conclude we are putting about a polite fiction—unless you would prefer to tell the magistrate something else?”

Douglas heard the words and comprehended them. Across the room, Fairly was once again studying the view toward the stables, as if covering up attempted murder and suicide were all in a morning’s work. Douglas reviewed the words Greymoor had spoken, and found they held the same meaning, still, and yet his mind must continue to examine them.

“Come on, man,” Heathgate growled from his desk. “We need to decide this before the bloody magistrate comes bumbling up the drive.”

Fairly didn’t turn, but rather, drawled over his shoulder, “The bloody magistrate can bloody wait in the bloody guest parlor, swilling your finest gunpowder and chatting up the rather buxom maid. Astrid, my apologies for the language.”

Douglas paid attention to not a word of that exchange—though Fairly was being protective of him, and that was remarkable—because he’d found a name for what was being offered here: sanctuary.

A safe place, a place where one need not be always on guard. He didn’t want to trust it, but his defenses were in shambles, and he frankly lacked the strength of will to resist the lure.

“That plan should suffice,” he told Greymoor, his voice shaking a bit. “What of my mother?”

“Mothers,” said Greymoor with a glance at his wife’s belly, “are always a complication. I see no need to provide the dowager Lady Amery any details at variance with what’s told to the magistrate.”

A look passed between members of the Alexander family, but Douglas was at a loss to interpret it. Pity, maybe? Dismay? His mental faculties had become like those of some mute beast, capable of observing human behaviors, but unable to make sense of them.

“All right,” Fairly said briskly, again facing the room. “If that’s settled, then what say I found the body? Went out to check on my mare, and alas, tragedy had struck.”

That turned the discussion to the story to be prepared for the magistrate. When that matter had been dispatched, the next order of business became Henry’s final arrangements.

“We have a family plot on the estate,” Douglas said, drifting back to the sofa. “I can deal with it there.”

Greymoor glanced at his wife again, an assessing glance the lady probably didn’t even notice. “I’d rather you held at least a memorial service in Town. Henry was well liked among the hunting set, and it would save both my wife and my brother the journey to your estate.”

The sense of sanctuary, of being protected, swelled again in Douglas’s chest. “You really need not make that effort.”

“Oh, yes, we really do,” Heathgate said. “The man we bury would have been uncle to Astrid’s child, and there will be no taint on the family honor if we can manage it.”

Douglas felt a faint inclination to smile at the fig leaf Heathgate had extended. This great effort, this show of solidarity and civility, wasn’t for him, it was for the child.

Of course it was.

“A memorial service, then,” Douglas said, “and a funeral at the estate. I will take my leave of you once the magistrate has finished, and you have”—he paused to look particularly at Astrid and Greymoor—“you all have my sincerest thanks.”

“One more thing,” Fairly said, pushing away from the French doors and taking a seat beside Douglas on the sofa. “Who shall have guardianship of Astrid’s child?”

Astrid’s husband squeezed her hand before turning his gaze on Douglas. In the two years Herbert had been married to Astrid, Douglas hadn’t seen his brother so much as touch the lady’s hand once.

“You, Douglas, are head of the Allen family,” Greymoor said. “What would your decision be regarding the child?” The use of the conditional was not lost on Douglas, who heard the question as: What would your decision be,
had
you
the
authority
to
make
it
?

For there was no Allen family worth the name. Perhaps there never had been.

Douglas opted for honesty—no point in abandoning that course at this late stage.

“I want no responsibility for any child, ever.” A man who could not sense a murderer in his own family dared not assume such responsibility. “If this child is a boy, and Greymoor had the raising of him, it would relieve me of having to deal with the succession, and that would be the answer to a prayer.”

Fairly’s expression went carefully neutral, but Greymoor and Heathgate exchanged a relieved glance. Astrid’s head was bowed, but Douglas could see she, too, had been prepared for him to fight on this.

Fight them, with what? Funds, truth, and honor resided on their side of the ledger.

“I guess that’s settled then,” Greymoor said.

“Douglas should at least be the child’s godfather,” Fairly interjected musingly. “Appearances, you know.”

Douglas stiffened, resisting the notion he should have anything to do with a child others were better suited to nurturing, but he found Fairly staring at him with particular intensity.

This idea of Lord Fairly’s was a challenge, and a chance to make some small reparation for the harm Douglas’s family—and Douglas—had done to the child’s mother. Moreover, the light in Fairly’s eyes guaranteed Douglas would be given no opportunity to harm the child.

“Very well,” Douglas conceded. “I shall be a devoted, though lamentably distant, godfather.”

“My wife will stand as godmother,” Heathgate added thoughtfully. “That should serve well enough. And if it comes down to it, Amery, even if the child is a girl, you might petition Privileges to have her offspring inherit the title. Your family has had a run of… bad luck, with respect to its male line. In our case, a similar lack of surviving adult males resulted in tremendous leniency when it came to imposing the barony and earldom on Andrew.”

“That,” said Douglas slowly, “is an encouraging thought.” Though leniency tended to show up where coin had been bestowed, and Douglas had nowhere near Heathgate’s resources.

“Are we finished then?” Greymoor asked. “Anything further from anyone?”

“Yes,” Astrid said firmly. “Something needs to be said, and I will be the one to say it.”

Douglas braced himself for the tirade she was due to unleash, the invective he and his brothers had earned, the scathing denouncement she would ring over his head. To feel the lash of her scorn and rage would be a relief, provided any feeling at all penetrated the numbness enshrouding him.

“Douglas,” Astrid said, tears filling her eyes, “we are all so sorry for your loss. For your losses…” She went to him and put her arms around him in a swift, fierce hug.

He was so stunned, so unable to comprehend the gesture, he simply sat for a moment, blinking rapidly. He might have eventually mumbled his thanks, but he was saved from worse mortification by a servant announcing the arrival of the magistrate. The gathering broke up, but Douglas only knew Fairly shoved a drink in his hand and got him back to his room before he embarrassed himself.

Andrew stared at his wife, incredulous. “You are
leaving
me?”

She shot him a pitying look and continued tossing clothes into the valise sitting open on the chest at the foot of her bed.

“For God’s sake, why?” Andrew yelled. “You said—”

“Yes?” Astrid gave him that same look, laced with mild curiosity. With
only
mild curiosity.

“I said,” Andrew began again, lowering his voice, “I said I loved you. You seemed to take that sentiment to heart.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she merely tossed another pair of shoes into a trunk made of dark wood, like an old coffin.

“And you said I was a decent enough sort of fellow…”

Apparently, those were not the right words, if right words even existed. She slammed the lid on the valise and folded her arms, her mulish expression speaking volumes.

“You said…” Andrew turned his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes, the pain of this parting lancing through him and lodging in his chest. “You said I was… honorable, and good, and… loving.”

“I did say that, but I don’t think you heard me, Andrew Penwarren Alexander.”

Oh, she was mad, all right. Use of his middle name meant matters were serious with Astrid.

“I heard you.” He shifted to stand before her, but using the advantage of his height was not appropriate somehow, so he sat on the bed and put himself below her eye level.

“I heard you,” he repeated more softly.

Astrid latched the trunk, the little snick of the locks sounding like manacles closing around Andrew’s heart. “Well, Andrew, what are you going to do about these words you heard from me?”

“What am I going to do?” Begging came to mind, but some stray male intuition suggested this was not what she sought from him.

She pushed past him to go to the wardrobe, and began pulling dresses off their hooks. “You are hopeless, Andrew, and I wash my hands of you.”

“You can’t,” he said, panic clawing at him. “I won’t allow it.” Inspiration struck. “You
love
me.” He seized her gently but firmly around the middle—she’d long since lost her waist—when she attempted to reopen the valise, and caused her to drop her load of dresses.

“Damn you. Take your hands off me,” she spat, plucking at his fingers.

“
You
love
me
,” Andrew growled now, his hold more firm. “You can’t just say those things, Astrid, not to me. A woman who loves her husband doesn’t leave him.”

“And a husband who loves his wife,” Astrid said in low, vicious tones, “doesn’t leave her.”

“I’m here, for God’s sake,” Andrew said, holding her more firmly still. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“You
went
to
bed
without me.”

He went still, insight rendering him mute and paralyzed. He’d made the Dreaded Worst Mistake; he’d committed that single unforgivable blunder every male with sense worries about. Not in his words, apparently, but in his deeds, or in what he’d failed to do.

“I see,” he said, turning Astrid loose and locking the door. As he crossed the room back to Astrid, he picked up the pile of gowns on the floor and tossed them over a chair. Then he stood before his wife, directly before her.

“I was trying,” he said in clipped, frustrated tones, “to be considerate of my exhausted, sleeping wife. The same wife upon whom murder had been attempted, if I recall. The wife who had borne the burden of a series of uncomfortable revelations from me just before weeping her heart out on my shoulder.”

Astrid’s gaze remained fixed on that shoulder.

“I awoke alone,” she said in a small, broken voice. “Again, Andrew. I fell asleep in your arms, and I awoke alone,
alone
. I can’t be married to you like this, I cannot.”

“And I,” Andrew said softly, “don’t want to be married to you
like
this
either.”

She raised tortured eyes to his, and he feared—feared—what might come out of her mouth.

“For God’s sake.” Andrew’s right hand moved as if he would touch her, but then dropped back to his side. “Astrid, don’t go, please. I love you, and I want to make love with you. Always. I don’t want you to wake up without me—I don’t want to wake up without you. I don’t ever want to wake up without you again.”

He let her see into his soul. He let her see the vulnerability, the hope, and most of all, the love she’d found in him. He loved her, and a man who loved and who was loved was not at liberty to wander his existence away on foreign shores.

It was the hardest truth he’d faced, but he bore her scrutiny without flinching.

“Say it again, Andrew,” she said softly. “If you mean these words, prepare to say them often for the rest of your life.”

For the rest of his life…

Relief coursed through him, and joy—and lust—and love.

Most especially, love.

“You, Astrid Alexander, are the home my heart has longed for, and I would be the home your heart has craved as well. I will be the father of your children and your partner in all that life holds in the years to come.”

More poetry welled up, but he fell silent as Astrid studied him at interminable length.

“You want more children, then? Children of your own?”

“Every child you bear will be a child of mine,” Andrew said, because it was a simple truth, easily given. “If God wills, we’ll have a large, happy family.” Though based on the way Astrid’s lips turned up at the corners, her will would have something to do with the size of their family too.

Her smile died aborning, and Andrew felt as if his heartbeat suspended with it.

“You must not make love to me as another farewell, Andrew. Not ever. I cannot bear it.”

He sat on the bed and steered her by the hips to stand between his legs. She’d put her finger on a truth. All of his lovemaking with her had borne an element of parting, of loss, and acceptance that she would soon be telling him good-bye, because good-byes were all he’d thought he deserved.

“I could learn from you how to make love as something other than a farewell, Wife, but you must be patient with me, for I can be slow to learn the most important things.”

She wrapped her arms around him, bringing him the flowery fragrance of her person and the sweeter scent of welcome. “We will learn together, Husband, and be patient with each other too. We will be patient with each other quite often.”

***

Three months later

“Andrew?”

Three pairs of male eyes riveted on Felicity’s smiling face.

“You can go up now, and congratulations on the birth of a fine, healthy daughter.”

Andrew was out the door like a shot, leaving Heathgate and Fairly to call for the champagne, while he bounded up the steps two at a time.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Andrew asked, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him.

“I have spent the past six hours getting in and out of the bed, Andrew,” Astrid replied. “Unless you are prepared to share the bed with me, I have no intention of wasting any more time there.”

“That’s all right then,” Andrew said, slipping the sleeve button from his right cuff.

“Andrew, what are you doing?”

“If I have to spend the next week in bed with you so you’ll take care of yourself properly, then into bed I go,” he said, freeing the second sleeve button.

“Stop that, Husband. I was being ridiculous.”

Astrid was whole, she was scolding him, and he could breathe for the first time in weeks. She could be as ridiculous as she pleased. Andrew crossed to the window seat where Astrid was perched and sat down beside her.

“Are you all right?” She looked tired, but exultant too, with a luminous quality that was more than the late-afternoon spring sun on her hair.

“Andrew, I am…” She leaned on him, and Andrew felt his heart turn over with joy. “I am in awe…”

“May I see her?”

“No,” Astrid teased. “You have to wait until she’s eighteen, at least. Of course you may see her.” She carefully unwrapped the tiny bundle she held cradled in her arms, and a small, sleepy face emerged. The baby sported a golden-blond peach fuzz of hair and a tiny rosebud mouth.

“She’s
perfect
,” Andrew said, stroking a finger down the baby-fine cheek.

“Here.” Astrid tucked the blanket back around her daughter—
their
daughter—and handed the child to Andrew.

Andrew accepted the baby, accepted the implicit trust with which Astrid had handed her over—to him. “I am overwhelmed by her… by you.”

Overwhelmed was accurate, Astrid thought, smiling at her husband and daughter. In the past few months, Andrew had struggled to become a more communicative, trusting husband. For him, it was hard work. He tried Astrid’s patience, and she tried his, bludgeoning him with sentiment and argument and a relentless pursuit of his honest involvement in their marriage. Sometimes they got it wrong, and each had to retreat and reconsider, until the other could be approached again more thoughtfully, or more overtly.

But more and more, they got it right. And as the weeks had gone on and the winter had turned to spring, their love had blossomed like the verdant, well-tended land they lived on.

Andrew wrapped one arm around his wife and kept the baby cradled in the other. “I feel an instant willingness to slay dragons and smite griffons and otherwise take on any challenge for our daughter. This is amazing…”

“Were you concerned?” This was, after all, not his biological child—whom he could not take his eyes off of.

“A bit.”

Which meant he’d been terrified.

“Me too,” Astrid said, resting against him again. “I love my nephews and my nieces, but I wasn’t at all sure I would immediately take to someone who did her level best to split me in two on her way into the world.”

Andrew kissed the baby’s cheek, the tenderness of the gesture threatening to tear Astrid’s heart asunder. “You were concerned I might not be smitten with her at sight?”

“Of course not. She’s a pretty girl, Andrew. You didn’t stand a chance.”

“I suppose not,” he agreed, a smile spreading to his every feature. “What shall we call her?”

“Well, we are not calling her Herbertia, or anything ridiculous like that. No
H
names at all, if you please. I’m surprised we didn’t consider this before—babies do need names.”

“What about Lucy?” Andrew suggested, snuggling his wife and daughter to him more closely.

“For the light she brings? I like it—today is the equinox, isn’t it?”

“It is. Maybe Lucy Elizabeth?”

“I can live with that. I am not sure, however, I can live with waiting three months before starting on the conception of her first sibling.”

“But wait we shall,” Andrew said, smiling ruefully. “And what did you mean her
first
sibling?”

Astrid kissed him on the cheek. “I meant exactly what I said. Exactly.”

They lasted nine weeks.