Andrew Lord of Despair(69)

She regarded him quizzically over her teacup, and he had the grace to look chagrined.

“I suppose you are no stranger to married life, are you? My apologies.”

Astrid let a silence take root, wanting to be rid of Henry and not caring particularly why.

Marriage to Andrew was eroding her manners. “How is your mother, Henry? I’ve written to her, but she makes no reply. I suppose she is disappointed in me for not serving out my year of mourning.”

Henry swilled his tea in one gulp and set the cup down a bit too hard on the saucer. “You say that like mourning Herbert is a prison sentence.”

“Mourning is not a happy time, Henry.” Astrid refilled his cup, thinking she should not have to tell him about the realities of mourning. He’d lost a brother, hadn’t he? “Should I stop writing to your mother?”

He stirred his tea the same way Herbert had, quick little circles in the center of the cup that resulted in the occasional messy saucer. “Heavens, no. I’ve every suspicion she’s written to you, but Douglas has probably refused to frank the letters. We three live in the town house together now, and Douglas’s own house is to let. The situation isn’t exactly comfortable, though I still have my rooms in the City for when it gets too awful at home.”

Andrew had spared her joining that household, and for all the tensions at Enfield, it wasn’t as bad as what the Allen family would have offered. “I am sorry. I know your mother can be a challenge.”

“Mother, I can handle,” he said, oddly bitter. “It’s Douglas, with his endless economies and his grim pronouncements I can hardly tolerate. But I mustn’t complain. I have a roof over my head and decent prospects, which is more than many others have.”

“It is. You are sweet to take the time to come visit me.”

He folded two tea cakes into a serviette, stuffed them into his pocket, and rose. “Visiting you is a pleasure, though the interrogation when I get home isn’t.”

“What will you tell Douglas?” she asked, taking his arm as they walked toward the front of the house. And thank the Deity that Henry was not inclined to overstay his welcome, though he’d taken the last chocolate peppermint cakes, and those were Astrid’s favorites.

“I will tell him you are in great good health and tolerably good spirits, but your new husband is not as courteous to you as he could be.”

Courtesy. Herbert had been courteous, and Andrew was the soul of courtesy, not that courtesy mattered much compared to respect, trust, or love.

“Greymoor is a good man. I am content with him. How is Douglas, by the way? We’ve heard nothing from him since his call on Heathgate some weeks ago.”

“Now that is odd.” Henry took his hat, cape, and gloves from a footman. “I thought he was going to pay a call on you following your nuptials. Appears he changed his mind. Consider yourself lucky.”

He grinned, bowed, patted his pocket, and took his leave.

As Astrid listened to the clatter of his horse’s hooves cantering down the driveway, a choking sadness welled up. She had lied to Henry, and Henry had probably sensed it: Andrew was a good man, of that she had no doubt, but she was most assuredly not content.

“What did the puppy want?” Andrew asked from a perch halfway down the stairs.

“I beg your pardon. I did not know you were in the house.” Did not know where he was in any sense.

“I came in to change.” Andrew prowled down the steps, and if a man could do such a thing peevishly, he did. “You’ll forgive me if I did not join you for a polite chat over tea. I assume he is reporting everything you say and do to Douglas?”

“He did say Douglas will question him upon his return.”

Andrew studied her as if she were a crooked painting of a peculiar subject, badly executed. “You are pale, Astrid. Did the puppy upset you?”

He was standing so close she could smell his cologne and the soap he’d just washed with, but she kept her expression bland and did not allow herself to lean closer.

“Astrid?” His voice was quiet, caring. Not the terse bark he’d adopted of late when necessity dictated they converse.

She did look at him then, knowing her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Whatever he said—” Andrew began fiercely, but Astrid shook her head.

“It isn’t Henry who upsets me.”

She did not—could not—say more but advanced past him, her spine straight, her gait dignified as she left him standing on the stair.

Andrew stood at the bottom of the steps, feeling as if Magic had just delivered a kick to his chest. He contemplated ferreting out Douglas Allen and slapping a glove across the man’s face. A duel would resolve the entire situation, and Astrid would be left in peace to raise her child in safety.