Andrew Lord of Despair(41)
“How would those two know the first thing about a man’s abilities with the ladies?” she said, not quite distracted from the topic by the hard shaft nudging at her sex. “I don’t believe such a man exists, anyway, and I would hardly take their word for his abilities.”
“Would you take mine?” Andrew asked, teasing her with the blunt tip of his cock.
“I don’t know.” She would soon not know how to form words. “Who is this paragon?”
He slid into her on a lovely, deep, easy glide that gratified as it aroused.
“Me,” he said as he thrust home. “They want you to marry me.”
Eight
Douglas Allen, now Viscount Amery, had been taught since birth that two pillars sustained an honorable life: family loyalty and adherence to the standards of decent Society. As a grown man, Douglas had long since concluded neither family loyalty nor genteel social standards created a meaningful life—or a particularly enjoyable one. Meaning and joy, however, were luxuries the second son of an impoverished viscount could not afford.
In that spirit, the trip to Willowdale would be made to create a show of familial good feeling, to collect the young widow from the bosom of her family—and to appease the dowager Viscountess Amery’s ceaseless whining.
Douglas sipped at a scant finger of brandy, feeling a passing pity for Astrid Worthington Allen, whom he liked as much as he liked anyone. She was pretty, charming, intelligent without being obnoxious, and genuinely kind. In time, she might have been the making of his spendthrift, self-indulgent older brother.
The first two years of that marriage, however, had left Douglas with the impression his older brother, as usual, was putting a brave face on a bungled job. Herbert neglected his young wife, ignored her advice, and sought the company of muddy dogs and drunken squires—and his mistress—instead.
Douglas downed his last swallow of brandy—and it would be his last of the evening, economies being what they were—and prepared to take himself up to bed when the front door opened.
“Greetings, your lordship,” Henry Allen called as he bounced into the library and headed straight for his older brother’s brandy decanter. He poured himself a bumper, grinned, and waggled the bottle at Douglas. “May I offer you refressment… refreshment?”
“Thank you, no, though might I say how pleased I am to see you on familial territory before dawn’s early light? The guest room is kept in readiness for your impromptu visits.” Douglas closed the door Henry had left open, lest what meager heat the hearth produced be lost to the night air.
“Now, Douglas, don’t go getting all starchy on me. I’m just nipping in between rounds, so to speak.” Henry took an exuberant, audible gulp of his drink.
When had his little brother, once so merry and charming, turned into such a vapid waste of indifferent tailoring? A second son had a difficult existence, raised to understand the privileges of the title, but not to exercise them. As the third son, free of such constraints, Henry could make his way in the world however whim and fancy struck him. He chose to do so as an inebriated, skirt-chasing, utterly unimpressive excuse for a young man.
As Henry guzzled the scant supply of decent brandy, Douglas silently vowed to order the staff to leave only the cheaper offerings in plain sight.
“So, Henry, will you be in any condition to join Mother and me for our weekend call on Heathgate?”
For a moment, Henry looked confused, then his mouth creased into a smile that brought out his resemblance to Herbert. They shared the same build too—substantial and sturdy, while Douglas was taller and… skinny.
“Time to bring the little viscountess back into the fold, eh? Have to commend Herbert on choosing a right pretty thing for a wife. Do you suppose she’s getting lonely yet?” Henry underscored his lascivious meaning with a wink.
“You are half seas over, Brother,” Douglas observed as he put the decanter into the sideboard’s cupboard. “I will thank you not to discuss our sister-in-law in such disrespectful terms. If she wishes to return to Town, we will be happy to escort her, particularly because it is Mother’s fondest wish she do so.”
Mother’s only wish, to hear her tell it and tell it and tell it.
“And maybe your fondest wish too, your lordship?” Henry assayed such a winsome, irreverent grin, Douglas was reminded of the mischievous boy Henry had been.
“Henry, you really should be adopting a more decorous demeanor,” Douglas chided tiredly. “Our brother is only three months in his grave, and you are, as long as I remain unwed, the heir presumptive to a title. You would be better advised to spend your time acquainting yourself with the family’s situation than larking about with every soiled dove who waves her larcenous fingers at you.”