Andrew Lord of Despair(67)

She had, however, had two visits from Henry Allen. Andrew had left her strict orders not to receive Douglas Allen unless Andrew was with her, but he was less concerned about Henry.

To her surprise, she had enjoyed the time spent in Henry’s company. He seemed to be a genuinely nice man, as Herbert had also seemed to her on first acquaintance. Henry, however, did not take himself nearly so seriously as either of his elder brothers, and he was more than ready to poke fun at them on occasion.

“Douglas has his underlinen starched and ironed,” he’d announced. “That explains a lot, you know.”

Henry could say such an outrageous thing in good fun, meaning harm toward none and bringing Astrid a smile. Henry also assured her Douglas did not have the blunt to pursue a costly lawsuit, and neither did he see his brother taking on the gossip and censure litigation would generate.

But as Astrid tossed about, alone in her bed, visits from family were no comfort. She drifted off, determined to confront Andrew regarding his schedule. They were newlyweds, for pity’s sake. She wished her husband would start acting like it.

***

Andrew put aside the treatise on contour plowing he’d been staring at for the past twenty minutes. More and more, he was making excuses to avoid his wife. Oh, he rode about the property with Gwen, commenting repeatedly on the fine job she did as de facto steward. He spent time training the few young horses on the premises, and he spent time with Magic.

But he actually did little. He was waiting for Douglas Allen to make another move, and patience was by no means his forte—particularly not when Andrew was trying to wean himself from his wife’s company, and from her intimate attentions. Having to remain close to her for the sake of her safety, while trying to maintain an emotional and physical distance, was beyond nerve-wracking.

So Andrew kept close to the manor, made sure he fell into bed each night exhausted, and met frequently in the stables with the informants he employed to watch Douglas, Douglas’s finances, his comings and goings, and his family members.

While Andrew slowly went insane.

Sometimes, in the drowsy place between sleeping and waking, he reached for his wife. She came into his arms with a sweet, openhearted eagerness, and loved him within an inch of his life. Each time he slipped like that, he told himself one more encounter surely wouldn’t make much difference. He told himself he would break her heart regardless of how often they coupled, and broken hearts didn’t come in degrees.

He told himself the memories of her passion would be enough, when the time came. They would have to be.

Feeling exhaustion and despair in every bone and muscle, Andrew took himself up to the bedroom, praying Astrid had fallen asleep.

He undressed as quietly as he could, made use of the wash water she had considerately left by the hearth, and climbed into bed, stretching out on his back. In the darkness, his wife rolled toward him, then climbed across his body to straddle his hips. His arms came around her before he could remind himself he was not—absolutely was not—going to encourage her affections any further.

“Husband,” Astrid greeted him, curling up against his chest.

“Wife.”

She was silent, but Andrew could feel her thoughts whirling, and hoped her concerns were simply those of the new housewife: the maids and footmen misbehaving, his mother bickering with Gwen, the laundress not getting along with the housekeeper.

“Andrew, what is troubling you?”

“I am simply tired,” he replied, running his hands over the fine bones of her back. Her stomach, now more than five months distended with child, was folded against his, warm and oddly comforting.

“You are tired because you charge around all day, inspecting what has already been inspected. Gwen tells me this, you know, and she is puzzled. I believe you are avoiding me.”

He wouldn’t lie to her, they both knew that, so he kept his silence, his hands resting on her hips.

“You are,” Astrid concluded. “Why?”

Astrid would not be put off. In hindsight, he was surprised she’d let matters go this far without making comment.

“The purpose of our marriage,” he said, hating himself and his words and his life, “is to keep you and your child safe. It is serving that purpose.”

“I see. You will explain yourself further.”

“I will not.” He swooped up to kiss her into silence instead.

He taught her then, about sex that attempts to substitute for communication. She wrestled him at first, bending herself away from his mouth, away from his hands, and most especially, away from his body. But she didn’t try nearly hard enough to thwart his advances, and Andrew knew it for the symbolic protest it was.