Four
Andrew kicked the door shut behind them and set the tray on top of the bureau. His hands didn’t shake, and he hadn’t raised his voice even a little, though panic was rioting through his body. Astrid had gone so pale, and the defeat in her eyes…
“Do you want to eat in bed?”
“I would get crumbs all over and have even more trouble resting.”
Her room was a pretty, airy space dominated by a big, fluffy bed under a white quilted counterpane. “Why not put the tray by the chaise?”
“That will do.”
Her tone suggested anything would do, provided it resulted in Andrew leaving her in peace.
Andrew drew a hassock up to serve as a table beside the chaise near the window. “Your feast, my lady.” He swept her a bow. He would dance a damned jig in the altogether if it would put a smile on Astrid’s face.
“Thank you, Andrew. Now go away.” Astrid glared at him, a true expression of displeasure. “I want to be alone, and I will never recover from the ignominy of being indisposed while you looked on. It wasn’t well done of you.”
And he would never recover from the sight of her distress, but Felicity and Gareth had just sat there, arguing over the butter as if Astrid pelted away from the table regularly.
“Astrid, it’s only me, and you’d best let somebody show you some concern when you haven’t a spouse or a mama to take you in hand.”
“Hah,” she retorted, hoisting herself onto the bed. “Do you think for one minute dear Herbert would have stood about while I behaved indelicately, much less ‘taken me in hand’ as you’ve done? You have an exalted opinion of the typical young English lord. Now go.”
She was about to cry. He should have realized it sooner, because that’s what all her writs of ejectment were about. He crossed the room, sat next her on the bed, and hauled her up against his side.
“Not again,” she muttered as the first tears trickled down her cheeks. Andrew drew her head to his shoulder and handed her a handkerchief, turning his body so she could rest more easily against him.
“Just cry, sweetheart. You have reason enough.” And please, for the love of God, eat something before you disappear altogether.
He rubbed her back, he kissed her hair, he prayed, and he silently cursed the departed Herbert for abandoning his wife when she needed him, and why had his lordship left her side? To tramp through some chilly grouse moor, half-drunk at the break of day?
“I suppose,” Astrid said without lifting her head from his shoulder, “you will make me eat something now?”
“I will ask you to eat something. I can’t make you do anything, Astrid.” Nobody had ever been able to make her do anything, but somehow, Herbert Allen had coaxed her into marrying him.
Andrew had purely hated the man for that halfway to Constantinople and back, even as he’d also been relieved Astrid was safely spoken for.
Astrid got off the bed and took herself to sit on the chaise. The bread was fresh, and the preserves were raspberry, her favorite, if memory served. Andrew stayed seated on the bed, unwilling to give up his vigil until she had slowly munched her way through a slice of jam and bread. When she would have fixed a second, he spoke up.
“Why don’t you pause there and see if it’s likely to stay with you?” he asked, setting the tray on the night table.
“Good thought.” And she looked marginally restored, which was an even better thought. “Time for a nap, I think.” Her words were underscored by a yawn, and Andrew took her mug of meadow tea from her hand.
“Then a nap you shall have,” he said, lifting the quilt off the bed and bringing it to the chaise. He draped the comforter over her, but folded the bottom of it back to expose the hem of her skirts.
He was now going to presume significantly, but if his various amours had been honest, Astrid would thank him for it. Before she could protest, he removed her slippers and dragged the hassock to the foot of the chaise.
“You nap,” he said as he straddled the hassock, “while I attend your feet.” He cradled her right foot in his hands—why were her feet cold on a mild summer day?—his thumbs working in circles over the sole. The first time he’d done this, the lady had asked him for it.
Her gratitude for his attentiveness had been such that, thereafter, he’d known to offer.
Astrid closed her eyes. “Nothing that feels this good can possibly be proper.”
“Enjoy it anyway.” For in some way, he was enjoying it. He enjoyed getting his hands on her in any fashion—he always would—but he also enjoyed that he could comfort her without taking anything for himself.