“I have to say that you’re a perfect ass, Douglas Allen.” He paused to pivot at the edge of the rug, as if Astrid’s words had spun him by the shoulder. “Do you think I am so stupid as to carelessly put my own welfare at risk? Do you forbid me the use of the stairs until I deliver this child? Are you determined to make me as helpless and vapid as you’ve made your mother?”
He came to a halt at the opposite edge of the carpet, his features dumbstruck. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“You and Henry treat the poor woman as if she is simple, Douglas. You never ask her opinion. You never defer to her judgment. Henry makes a joke of her at every turn, and believe me, she comprehends the disrespect. But at least your mother would understand that women in an interesting condition are prone to fainting.”
“You are telling me you fainted?” His consternation was genuine, but then, what occasion would Douglas Allen have to learn of an expecting woman’s tribulations?
Though Andrew had known them, had known them intimately. “I fainted. I am also frequently queasy and fatigued for no reason. I suggest you talk to your mother, who is entertaining Henry above stairs as we speak. Consult a knowledgeable midwife if you don’t believe me: pregnant women faint. I didn’t fall down the stairs on purpose or out of clumsy disregard for my hems, and I resent you would imply I did.”
“You fainted.” His brows twitched down as he applied a new theory to facts he’d already sorted and labeled. “Because of your… condition?”
The stair was hard beneath Astrid’s backside, and having Douglas loom over her was intolerable. She used the banister railing to haul herself to her feet, which—thank the gods—did not try her balance further. “Douglas, what possible reason could I have for harming this baby?”
And because the front hallway was no place to have any sort of discussion, Astrid crossed to the parlor, Douglas trailing her like a worried hound.
“We are overwrought,” he said. He was overwrought, in any case. Astrid was weary, lonely, and hungry. “I apologize for misconstruing the situation, but you have every reason to hate my late brother, and to resent bearing his child enough to wish it harm. I daresay you have every reason to hate me, Henry, and Mother as well.”
Douglas and his damned barbed apologies. Astrid wanted to scream, except the parlor door was open—Douglas would be proper while he accused her of resorting to violence against Herbert’s child.
“Why would I hate Herbert, much less his child, and his entire surviving family?” Resent, yes, but hate?
Douglas moved around the room, shifting the lace runner on the table so it hung exactly even on both ends, nudging a framed miniature of a hound puppy a quarter inch at one corner, and using the toe of his boot to flip a carpet tassel so it aligned with its mates.
He would have made a splendid chambermaid.
“Herbert stole from you, he paid more attention to his mistress, his horses, and his hounds than he did to you, and we both know he spent your dower funds on just those pursuits. He deserved your disrespect. He certainly earned mine.”
Douglas had forgotten to mention Herbert’s cronies and even Henry, who instead of reading law had been forever gambling and expecting Herbert to cover his vowels.
The present Lord Amery had many of the Allen features. Blue eyes, golden hair, a certain cast to his features, but to Astrid, he also looked like a man haunted. “Did you hate your older brother, Douglas?”
“At times, yes. Yes, I did hate him, and I’m sure he returned the favor. It is my job, in our little family, to be the lone adult, and this has earned me considerable enmity.” He addressed the empty hearth, it being impractical to keep an unoccupied room warm in the Allen womenfolk’s household.
Astrid refused to feel pity for a man who scolded her from coming a cropper. “Interesting.”
He moved a brass candlestick one inch closer to the end of the mantel. “What do you find interesting?”
“Either you don’t consider me a family member, or you don’t consider me an adult.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said so stiffly Astrid relented.
“Douglas, may we attribute this morning’s situation to a simple mishap followed by a misunderstanding? And I don’t hate your late brother. He had faults, as we all do, but I console myself with the hope that in time, he and I could have grown to a better accommodation of our marriage.”
Douglas peered at her as if trying to assess her sincerity. For a handsome, well-mannered gentleman, he had a positive gift for giving offense.
“He didn’t deserve you,” Douglas said after a lengthy silence. “And you’re going to need ice on that bump.” He touched a finger to her forehead, making Astrid aware that in due course, she’d be sporting a thumping bruise near her temple.