Andrew Lord of Despair(51)

He deposited her on the horsehair sofa in the chilly front parlor, though Astrid would have preferred he deliver her to her very bedroom.

“You know how to give a fellow a fright,” Andrew commented, worry lacing his smile. He propped his hip at her waist and swept the hair from her forehead. “And what, may I ask, is this?” His fingers trailed gently over the bruise.

Astrid caught his hand in her own, and used the leverage to sit up.

“I am usually sound enough if I remember to move slowly. I am glad to see you.” Glad was too small a word for the joy in her heart.

“And I you. Except for this”—he touched her forehead again—“you look well.”

“I look increasingly like a walrus,” Astrid rejoined, standing slowly. Andrew was on his feet instantly, a hand on her elbow as she made her way back to the breakfast parlor.

“You most assuredly do not look like a walrus,” Andrew said, his grin suggesting she might inspect herself for whiskers, fins, and tusks. “Or let me put it this way: if you are a walrus, then your sister had better be on the lookout for anything resembling a harpoon.”

Despite his smile, he looked tired too, and he smelled a bit of road dust and horse.

“That is an awful thing to say, Andrew Alexander. How is Lissy, anyway? Her letters are always so pleasant and lighthearted, I would hardly know she is expecting.”

“I know she’s expecting,” Andrew retorted as he held her chair, “and Heathgate knows she’s expecting. Truthfully, I think Gareth’s hovering and fretting is more bothersome to her than is her condition, even with twins.” He straightened and looked around the table. “Breakfast. May I?”

Anything to make him stay even a few more minutes. “Of course, but this is the last of our raspberry jam. Go near it, and I shall flatten you.”

“Is that a promise?” Andrew inquired pleasantly as he dished himself up some toast, eggs, and ham.

“A threat,” Astrid allowed as she slathered jam on her toast. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” And how could she induce him to visit more often?

He considered his full plate. “I could tell you I had to see for myself you are faring well, but you would probably not believe me. Instead, I will tell you I had to get away from Mother and Gwen, who are pitching a battle of their own that makes my squabbles with Gwen look paltry.”

And he had come to see Astrid when he’d needed to get away. She really should not be so very, very pleased.

“That doesn’t sound good at all,” Astrid said, biting off a jam-laden corner of toast. “My experience suggests your mother is the singular source of that will of steel you share with your brother. Recall, if you please, she managed my come out, and my second Season as well.”

And Lady Heathgate had planned Astrid’s wedding and had a great deal to say about the betrothal contracts. Though to be fair, she’d also been one of few people to understand that a miscarriage was deserving of grief rather than predictable platitudes about God’s will and nature’s course.

Andrew sliced off a bite of ham and skewered it with his fork. “I suppose that explains why Herbert could carry you off among the orange blossoms. You needed to get away from Mother’s meddling too.”

Insightful man. “What do they fight about?”

He set his utensils down, crossing the knife and fork across the top of his plate. “What don’t they fight about? They fight over Rose, and what the best herb is for dealing with megrims. They fight over whether I am too polite, or not sincerely polite enough—I haven’t heard such bickering since my father’s family gathered in Scotland before the accident.”

And the shadows in his eyes said that memory haunted him still.

“But you don’t want to send your mother home,” Astrid deduced, “because it would hurt her feelings, and because you would then have to share your brother’s hospitality rather than live with Gwen. Or you might live with Gwen as the lady of your house, which could be awkward.” She took another bite of toast and jam, though the sight of Andrew was a greater source of sustenance than her food.

“Correct,” Andrew said, folding his serviette by his plate in a precise equilateral triangle, something Douglas might have done. “And I don’t want to send Gwen and Rose to Gareth and Felicity, because those two need their privacy for as long as possible. You, however, are expected to attend your sister’s confinement.”

“I am looking forward to it,” Astrid said, smiling at the thought that in the next five months there would be three new babies in the family—God willing.