Greymoor
Now this was interesting—Andrew hadn’t, apparently, decamped for Sweden without notice.
Astrid and her husband had developed a cordial, superficial means of communicating over the past few days. They had worked as a team when Felicity had needed them, and Andrew exhibited better spirits than when Astrid had left him at Enfield.
But he was too thin, and he avoided her by day and slept elsewhere at night, suggesting they were in the midst of a cease-fire, not a rapprochement. Astrid wasn’t about to question him directly regarding his preferences for their next move.
But neither would she run from a confrontation, so she made her way downstairs to the kitchen entrance fifteen minutes later and retrieved her old, heavy cloak from a peg by the door. When she was bundled up against the cold, she grabbed a few lumps of sugar and eschewed gloves, mittens, scarf, or hat.
The stables were deserted when she gained the door to the barn. The grooms had done their morning chores, fed the midday meal, and repaired to their quarters over the carriage house to clean harness, play cards, or nap. Fairly’s mare stood in a loose box, demolishing a pile of fragrant hay, Andrew’s gelding doing likewise in the stall beside her.
Andrew’s timing, at least, would guarantee them privacy.
And what, in fact, did Astrid want to tell her husband?
That she loved him, of course, but love to Andrew was apparently no inducement whatsoever.
“Greetings, dear Astrid,” a cheerful male voice called from behind her.
Astrid whirled in surprise then had to grab an empty saddle rack to catch her balance. “Henry?”
He grinned and bowed. “Your most devoted and doting caller, in the flesh. I understand felicitations are in order, if what Lady Quinn told my mother is correct.”
“Felicitations are in order,” Astrid said, smiling. “The marchioness presented her husband with a healthy boy and girl just three days past. It is good of you to call.” Though unusual, given the weather, the state of things between their families, and the normal restrictions on a new mother’s social calendar.
Henry pulled off riding gloves, finger by finger, and stuffed them in his pocket. “Lady Heathgate was waving the note from Heathgate around at some tea or other yesterday, letting all and sundry know exactly where you bided. If her coach weren’t too heavy for this snow, she’d be here, I’m sure.”
Unease prickled up Astrid’s neck. “I don’t see your horse.”
“Tied him at the bottom of the drive,” Henry said, fingering a bridle that hung by an empty stall. He took it off its hook and fiddled with it, which was presumptuous, riding equipment being among a gentleman’s more personal property.
“I’ll summon a groom to fetch him,” Astrid said. “I’m sure, after toiling all the way out here from Town, you don’t want to leave a valuable animal standing in the cold.”
Henry shook his head as he unfastened a buckle. “Can’t let you do that, Astrid dearest.” He hung the bridle back on its hook, though he’d unfastened the thin snaffle reins and was drawing them across his palm in an odd, repetitive motion.
And Astrid dearest? Unease lurched closer to dread.
“Whyever not? A decent horse is worth quite a sum, and even the worst shouldn’t be left to stand in the weather.”
She started to walk past him, intent on summoning a groom, but Henry’s arm snaked out to catch her in a punishing grip above the elbow.
“Henry, turn loose of me this instant.”
He grinned at her again, and the light in his eyes made Astrid’s flesh crawl. “Struggle,” he challenged her softly as he tightened his grip. “Please.”
“What are you about?”
“You won’t struggle,” Henry said, pulling the sort of face a doting swain made when a lady’s dance card was full. “Alas for me, but I suppose time being of the essence, it’s for the best. Still, I’ve never beaten a pregnant woman before—might have been fun, you know? One usually has to pay for that variety of sport.”
He shot a speculative look at the bulge of her stomach, and when his gaze dropped, Astrid wrenched away. She got all of two steps before Henry’s fist grabbing her voluminous cloak stopped her progress. He wrestled her around to face him and delivered a stinging backhand across her cheek.
“Naughty, naughty,” he crooned, raising his hand for another blow.
***
Andrew made his excuses as Fairly dragooned Heathgate off to the library for a celebratory tot—and wasn’t it a relief that somebody else was on hand to keep Gareth from hovering over his wife even as she slept?
Life was, in fact, full of relief. Relief that Felicity was slowly, slowly rallying. Relief that Andrew again dwelled under the same roof as his wife, and relief that Astrid’s tracks through the snow were singular, suggesting she’d hared off to the stables without maid, footman, or groom in tow.