Andrew Lord of Despair(5)
Hands settled gently on her shoulders.
“Astrid.” The voice was masculine and dear to her, but what Astrid responded to was the wealth of caring she heard, even in just her name. “Astrid, hush.” A pair of strong arms turned her and scooped her up, then settled her against a broad masculine chest.
Andrew. Andrew was home, he was here, and why that should be she could not fathom, though she knew without reservation, she was glad of it.
“I want my mother,” she confessed miserably, clinging to the comforting embrace. She heard no reply, though her admission had intensified her sense of loss and expanded it to include the child she’d conceived and then lost the previous year. If she’d had to choose, she would have said she was crying more for her mother and baby than for her departed husband.
Comforting hands caressed her back; gentle fingers stroked her hair; soft lips pressed to her temple. The great knot of pain inside her gradually eased under the onslaught of tenderness, and she was able to take the first deep breath she’d inhaled in weeks. Without looking up, she traced her fingers along the strong jaw of the man who held her.
He’d have the same dark hair, the same blue, blue eyes, the same charming, even tender smile.
“Andrew… Oh, Andrew. My dear, dear friend,” she murmured against his chest. “I have been so worried for you.”
Two
Andrew held the slight woman in his arms securely, but even as his heart ached for her, he felt a growing sense of consternation. Astrid wasn’t going to berate him for departing from England without taking a proper leave of her. She wasn’t going to castigate him for never acknowledging her letters. She wasn’t going to scramble off his lap and huff out of the room in a cloud of sorely tried dignity.
She was going to let him hold her and torture himself with the feel and scent and reality of her.
And he was, just this one more time, going to take advantage of her generosity. Had Andrew known borrowing the unoccupied Worthington domicile would result in this encounter with Astrid, he would have slept in the street instead. His own town house was still in use by tenants, though, and Felicity and Gareth had insisted.
He let out a breath, then inhaled Astrid’s scent on the next in-breath. She felt smaller than ever in his embrace, though she still had the same thick masses of blond hair, the same luscious, rosy scent.
“Having a good cry, are we?”
“You seem fated to come upon me in moments of weakness,” Astrid replied. She referred to the first time they’d met, when Andrew had accompanied his brother to the Worthington household in the aftermath of a potentially deadly fire. “And yes, I would say that undignified display qualifies as a good cry.” She paused on a shuddery breath. “I haven’t yet, you know… Cried, that is, until now.”
Astrid had ever been one to posit confidences and trust where they had not been earned.
Andrew shifted her against the arms of the rocking chair and loosened his neckcloth. He handed it to her in lieu of a handkerchief, then resettled her in his lap.
“You fear if you start crying, you won’t ever stop.”
Astrid looked up at him, the expression in her great blue eyes arrested. “I might have feared that, Andrew, but I couldn’t make the tears come. I was feeling things, but not experiencing my own feelings, if that’s possible. Though just now, I found this blanket my mother made for me before I was born. I killed her, truth be known. She died right after giving birth to me. I’ve never missed her more than I do right now.”
Andrew set the chair to gently rocking again and cradled her silently in his embrace for long moments. She remained peacefully in his arms, a boon he didn’t deserve and shouldn’t want.
“Tell me about your husband.” He chose this question deliberately, hoping a grief-stricken recounting of Astrid’s love for the man might be adequate penance for the liberties Andrew took.
“Amery was a decent fellow,” she began, her tone as prosaic as if she’d been discussing a stable mouser sent to his reward by a passing beer wagon. “He was pleasant and easy to be with. Undemanding, tolerant, affectionate to hounds and horses, and patient with the elderly. I loved him.” She fell silent, though Andrew heard the self-doubt in her voice. “Most of the time, I liked him as well. I hoped we would grow close as our marriage matured.”
This was not going to help Andrew one bit, for clearly, Astrid had not been in love with her husband. The thought disappointed and pleased at the same time.
“You respected him.”
“Mostly, though he also had a… he could be unimpressive,” Astrid said, fingering the border of the receiving blanket. “Herbert wanted everybody to get along, and sometimes that isn’t possible. Confrontation can be a good thing, but not among the Allens. That was hard for me, not speaking my mind ever, not being able to discuss difficult matters even with my own spouse.”