Andrew Lord of Despair(55)

With those measures taken, a bit of the anxiety riding Andrew eased.

He ushered Astrid into the house, gave orders for tea and scones to be served in the family parlor, then escorted her there, hoping to give her a chance to catch her breath.

And then he would tell her what she absolutely did not want to hear.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, taking a chair at a right angle to the couch. If he sat beside her, he would touch her, and if he touched her, he would not be able to say what must be said.

“I have a sense of unreality, of being anxious, and knowing my situation is perilous, but also feeling too tired and disoriented to do anything about it. Even thinking seems an effort, and that scares me most of all.”

Astrid frightened and unsafe in her own home was insupportable, and motivation enough for what Andrew must do.

“You were given an opiate.” And a toxin—a bloody, goddamned poison. “That might account for the disorientation. But you are also, no doubt, in shock.” When she would have interrupted him, he held up a hand. “Please, hear me out.” Before he lost his nerve.

Now she stared at his mother’s antique Axminster carpets.

“You might have fallen down the stairs, quite by accident, my dear, but if you think back carefully, can you assure me you weren’t shoved?”

“The housemaids were about,” Astrid said slowly, as if the words were eluding capture by her mind. “They would have had to bring the tea tray up to Lady Amery if Henry were paying his regular call on her. I have a vague recollection of starting to faint, but not quite being teetery yet when I pitched down the stairs.”

That was not a denial. He’d been hoping to God she’d be able to give him a confident denial.

“And today,” Andrew went on, “something you consumed at breakfast damn near killed you, under circumstances when it was likely you would have been in the house alone.” Rather than watch her face, he focused on her hands, pale and still in her lap. “We have reached a point where any reasonable person would conclude you are in need of protection.”

She did not launch into a lecture about him overreacting or overstepping. She didn’t dismiss his fears with assurances that she’d be more careful. As Astrid sat motionless and pale in the smallest parlor of his mother’s house, Andrew battled the need to do violence to whoever had rendered her so lifeless.

“What do you propose, Andrew?”

“Marriage.”

***

Andrew greeted Lord Fairly and Michael Brenner when they arrived fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, both in proper morning finery. Brenner brought the special license, and Fairly a bouquet of white roses.

“The bishop will be here on the hour,” Andrew told them. Should the right reverend lord bishop fail to show, Andrew would hunt the man down on foot. “May I offer you each a drink?”

“The Bishop of London?” Fairly rejoined. “Any particular reason?”

“The haste is because Astrid was slipped a potentially fatal dose of poison today, in her own home.” Andrew’s hand shook as he poured drinks for his guests. “If I hadn’t stopped by, completely unplanned I might add, she would have died a very uncomfortable death, alone, on her bedroom floor. The doctor confirmed that much.”

He poured himself a drink and addressed the rest of his remarks to a small porcelain statute of the winged goddess Nike on the mantel.

“The bishop is because I want this wedding to be so damned official, despite its haste, Douglas will not be able to attack it from any angle.”

Fairly turned his back, as if studying a portrait of three small boys and a mastiff that hung over the sideboard, though his grip on his glass looked ferocious.

“Prudent,” Fairly said, sipping his brandy. “When you talk to Douglas, I would like to be present.”

“As would I,” said a voice from the hallway.

Gareth sauntered in, looking windblown and smelling of exertion and horse, despite the nippy day. Andrew put down his drink and reached for the decanter as Gareth knocked his hand aside and enveloped him in a hug. “To hell with the drink.”

“You came.”

“I am not a foolish man,” Gareth said, drawing back. “Besotted, yes. Foolish, not often. Felicity saw I wanted to be here, ordered my hardiest mount saddled, then summoned me for argument. I fear I am not appropriately attired.”

When a man had only one adult male relative left on earth, that fellow’s presence was a bracing tonic. “You could have arrived in your dressing gown for all I care,” Andrew replied. “You are here, and for that, you and Felicity have my thanks.”