Andrew Lord of Despair(50)

They were preserved from further discourse on that riveting topic by Lady Amery’s voice on the stairs.

“Is that you, Douglas?” she trilled as she descended. “Why, so it is! How fortunate you are here. I was just telling dear Henry that Lady Porter’s niece, the Honorable Miss Evelyn Buckley-Smythe, is coming to Town to share the holidays with her aunt. Why, Astrid, what is that horrid mark on your forehead?”

Douglas sketched a bow. “Hello, Mother. Astrid has had a slight mishap. No harm done.”

“I fell down the stairs.”

Lady Amery’s face creased into a puzzled frown, but because she plucked her eyebrows into perfect, thin arches, she looked more horrified than concerned. “A blow to the head is always serious. You aren’t feeling dizzy, are you?”

“Not now,” Astrid said, shooting a wry glance at Douglas.

“You really ought to be more careful, Astrid dear.”

“I really should, my lady.” Astrid took a seat, because nobody seemed inclined to send a servant for ice and a cloth, and her head was beginning to throb. “I have particular reason to take care these days, but I have hesitated to share my news, lest it be only a temporary cause for joy.”

And if dear Henry—who always seemed to pop in around meal times—would stop chasing the upstairs maid and join the assemblage in the parlor, Astrid wouldn’t have to repeat her cause for joy all over again for his benefit.

“My dear, you are speaking in riddles,” Lady Amery sniffed. “Douglas, can you understand her?”

“Yes, Mother. I can understand her.” On Douglas, that pained expression might have passed for a smile—or an indication of wind.

“Well, what is she saying? Perhaps this knock on the head has scrambled your wits, Astrid.”

“I believe, Mother,” Douglas said in the same quiet, patient voice, “Astrid is trying to tell you she is anticipating the birth of the late viscount’s child.”

“But Herbert is…” Lady Amery paused, confused, then her countenance filled with joy. “Oh, my dear, dear Astrid! Is it so? This is wonderful, wonderful news.”

She hugged Astrid, laughed and teared up, and hugged her again. Douglas discreetly took his leave, the sheer feminine joy of the scene no doubt inspiring his hasty retreat. Next time Astrid wanted to be rid of the man, she’d manufacture some tears.

Or maybe a lot of tears.

***

Lady Amery’s speech became peppered with phrases such as, “when you’re a grandmother yourself, dear…” and “when my dear, dear grandson arrives…” Were it not for the imperative task of informing Lady Amery’s every friend and acquaintance of the happy development—for what mattered the strictures of mourning compared to such news?—Astrid would have had no peace whatsoever.

As matters stood, Astrid was deliriously happy, three days after sharing her news with Lady Amery, to be sitting at the breakfast table by herself.

Since returning from Willowdale, Astrid had kept busy by resuming her responsibilities as lady of the house, and because Lady Amery accepted every single condolence call, the job was not without demands.

David called every Thursday and ensured Astrid had ample opportunity to stroll either the back gardens or the park, and Gareth sent his man of business, Mr. Brenner, to keep regular contact with her as well.

And she had correspondence to attend to, which was the next thing on her morning’s agenda. Every week, she heard from her sister, who, it was confirmed, was carrying twins. Andrew occasionally added a sentence or two to the bottom of Felicity’s note, never anything more.

Astrid missed him terribly. She missed him in her bed at night, and she missed him over the dinner table. She missed him when she fed the ducks in the park—or rather, scared the ducks in her widow’s weeds and veils—and when she sat out in the back garden with a novel. And while she missed him in an adult, sexual sense, she also simply longed for his company. He was a generously affectionate man with her, and when her back, her feet, or her tummy ached, what she missed most of all was his simple caring touch.

These very thoughts were filling Astrid’s mind when Andrew strolled into her breakfast parlor unannounced and nonchalant.

“Andrew!” Astrid shot out of her chair in a joyous leap. She was across the room and in his arms before the dizziness hit, her vision going dark as she sagged against him.

“Astrid?” Andrew’s voice sounded far away as she clung to him in an effort to stay upright. “Astrid?” She was swung up against a hard male chest, and reveled in the knowledge she was once again in Andrew’s arms.