Andrew Lord of Despair(19)

She drifted into sleep, and yet he lingered, knowing it was improper in the extreme and not giving a bloody damn. When Felicity and Gareth had to have long since remarked his absence, he kissed Astrid’s forehead in parting, then—to comfort himself—brushed his mouth over her lips and took his leave.

***

For the next week, Astrid tolerated ceaseless cosseting from her host’s brother.

Andrew urged her to eat small, bland meals when she was neither hungry nor queasy. He read to her under the willow trees by the stream; he kept her company when she visited the stables. He complimented her attire when she ventured into lavender or gray; he challenged her to billiards, darts, and cribbage when she felt more energetic.

And gradually, she lost some of the haunted, bewildered feeling she’d borne since Herbert’s death.

A day came along that was the best weather early autumn could offer: dry, sunny, warm, and with a slight breeze. Andrew appeared in the library, looking windblown and happy from a morning hacking out with his brother, a hamper in one hand, and a blanket over his shoulder.

“Time for your constitutional, my lady,” he announced. “Who knows when we’ll have another such opportunity? Gareth’s rheumatism predicts an early, harsh winter.”

“Gareth doesn’t have rheumatism.” Astrid set aside her Radcliffe novel, a labyrinthine Italianate tale of a heroine not worth the name who was carted from stuffy little cottages to prison cells to convents.

“Winter might still be early and harsh,” Andrew said.

Yes, it might, and partly in response, Astrid allowed Andrew to stroll her down to the stream bank at the lazy pace suited to the glorious afternoon.

“Here?” He’d picked a spot in dappled sunlight, warm but private, sheltered from the errant breeze and any prying eyes.

“This will suit nicely.” Astrid grabbed two corners of the blanket to spread it on the springy grass. She plopped down and began to remove her shoes—Andrew hadn’t touched her feet for the past week, and she hadn’t stopped thinking of the feel of his hands when he had. “A bit of wading is in order while I can still see my feet.”

He followed suit, pulling off his boots and stockings, though the smile he gave her was either patient or long-suffering.

Astrid was soon in the water, her skirts bunched up in one hand as she teetered about on the smooth limestone streambed. “This water feels so lovely. I wish I could dive out into the middle of the stream and turn into a mermaid.”

“And wouldn’t that make a nice mess of your pretty frock,” Andrew reminded her as he skipped a stone on the tranquil surface. Skipping stones was an attractive, elementally male activity, and yet Astrid couldn’t imagine her great sportsman of a late husband managing it.

“I would take my frock off, silly. How does one do that?” she asked as the ripples on the water spread from where the stone eventually disappeared. Andrew waded over to her and scrounged on the streambed for a small, round, flat rock.

“You want to find a rock like this.” He held it out to her. “Disk-shaped and smooth. You have to sort of flick it, but get your arm into it too, like so.”

This attempt bounced six times, which had Astrid peering about for a likely candidate. She, however, did not acquire the knack of “sort of flicking” even after a number of attempts, and was soon glaring at the stream.

Andrew, laughing at her frustration, found another perfect skipper and grabbed her hand.

“Here.” He put the rock in her hand and fitted her fingers around it. Then he stood behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist. With his other hand, he cradled the back of her hand and slowly drew her arm back. “You let go when your wrist snaps.”

When he whipped her arm forward in a smooth arc, she released the stone, so it nicked the water three times before sinking in the middle of the stream.

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, leaning back against Andrew’s chest. She’d been hoping for seven, but three was a nice start. “Find me another!”

But when she would have turned, Andrew did not release the arm he’d tucked against her midriff. He kept her anchored against his body, and Astrid became aware, one sensation at a time, of their position.

The cool water glided gently around her calves with the softest of laps and ripples. The ripe afternoon sunshine fell across the trees, stirred by the merest suggestion of a breeze against her cheek. The scent of a clean, well-washed male teased at her nose.

And the ridge of Andrew’s erection nudged against her back.

“This is perfect,” she murmured.

Andrew didn’t want her in any special way. He wanted any willing female, of course, and he liked her well enough, but her senses confirmed what she’d known four years ago: he could desire her.