Andrew Lord of Despair(68)

Had she spoken even the single syllable, “No,” he would have desisted and likely quit the room, not to return. But she kept her silence, kissing him back, and allowing him to enter her in a single, hard lunge. He held her to him, not letting her move as he set up a rhythm as relentless as it was vigorous.

“Come for me,” he rasped, locking his arm at the small of her back. But she resisted even in that, and he redoubled the intensity of his effort.

“Astrid, please…” He did not know what he was asking her for, but she relented, and was soon shuddering around him. He exploded inside her, his harsh groan mingling with the single sob that escaped her.

As the last tremors receded from her body, Astrid lifted away from him, fetched a damp cloth, and swabbed herself clean. Andrew heard her movements in the dark room, and wondered if she was going to take herself off to a guest room.

“Astrid, shall I sleep elsewhere?”

His answer was a wet rag, tossed unerringly and with some force onto his chest despite the dark.

“You awful, odious, foolish man,” she spat. “Do you think I would make it that easy for you?”

She bounced back onto the bed, pausing to give Andrew a moment to use the washcloth before she flipped the covers back up over them. To Andrew’s surprise, Astrid lifted his arm and tucked herself under it against his side.

“In your present state of stubbornness, you do not deserve me,” she informed him, “but you have me, and I will not give you the satisfaction of excusing you from this marriage. I did not agree to your silly terms, Andrew Alexander, and I did not agree to stop loving you, wroth with you though I may be for the rest of my natural days.”

After that speech, they lay together, thinking separate thoughts, being separately miserable in the same bed.

Their confrontation marked a turning point, one likely noticeable to the other members of the household. Andrew’s good cheer, a hallmark of his personality in the eyes of those who knew him, faded, and the three women came to appreciate it in its absence.

He left Gwen to manage the estate as she saw fit. He no longer used humor and gallantry to divert his mother from her carping. He stopped observing even the domestic civilities with his wife, addressing her only when necessary, and touching her as little as possible. He became a much closer approximation of his older brother in earlier years.

Silent, broody, and withdrawn.

Andrew continued to sleep with his wife, or to occupy the same bed at night. On the bad nights, they lay side by side, not touching, each willing sleep to come, each usually failing.

On the worse nights, Astrid would lace her fingers through Andrew’s, or curl up with her head on his chest. Sometimes she was bold enough to kiss his cheek or slide a hand down his torso, stopping short of his genitals. He would lie, silent and unmoving for long minutes, until the backs of his fingers stroked Astrid’s cheek, or his lips tasted her wrist.

On those nights, they would make love tenderly, yearning beyond words in their touches and sighs and silences.

On the worst nights, Astrid would awaken in deep darkness to find her husband curled around her or carefully crouched over her, nudging at her body with his erection. He would hold on to her, loving her silently, his arms wrapped around her in an embrace so desperate and tender it brought tears to her eyes.

But regardless of the night—bad, worse or worst—they arose in the morning without indulging in meaningful conversation, each going alone into the day.





Thirteen





Nothing would do but Henry must join Astrid on the platform adjoining the haymow while she watched Andrew and Magic in the arena. Horse and rider had been in fine form, until Andrew had apparently realized she’d brought a guest. He’d left the arena, telling the grooms he’d cool the horse out with a hack.

“I have never seen the like of that gelding,” Henry said as Astrid poured out for him fifteen minutes later. “That last fence was five feet if it was an inch!”

His enthusiasm was jarring, reminding Astrid of the way Herbert had come home from two weeks of hunting, stories of mud and gore and freezing mornings somehow able to light up his eyes in ways his wife could not. She really had not understood her husband.

“More tea?” she offered automatically.

Henry smiled, an expression that made him look more like his late brother. “Well, perhaps just a spot. So, old girl, how are you getting on?”

“Well enough.” Nobody, but nobody, had ever called her “old girl,” and that jarred too. She was all of two and twenty, for pity’s sake.

“Come now, Astrid,” Henry chided, “you know Dougie is going to interrogate me proper when I get back to Town. I can’t tell him you’re doing ‘well enough.’ Does married life agree with you?”