Andrew Lord of Despair(8)
Astrid looked down into her cup, as if she might see the truth of Andrew’s words in her tea.
“Eat,” he admonished her, though a lecture was damming up behind his teeth, about common sense and responsibility.
About babies being unspeakably precious.
Astrid slid the butter across to him. “Felicity calls me the butter thief. Gareth is every bit as bad.”
“Butter is good for expectant mothers,” Andrew responded. “When are you going to tell this Douglas fellow of your condition?” Because the good viscount deserved to know his title could be snatched from him by a squalling infant less than a year hence.
“I don’t want to tell that man anything, Andrew.”
Astrid was forthright and even brusque, but she was seldom truly difficult.
“Has Douglas Allen given offense, Astrid?”
“Good heavens, Andrew, you look quite severe. Why would you ask such a thing?”
Andrew did not resume buttering his bread. “Answer the question.”
“No, Douglas hasn’t given offense, unless you call an awkward kiss on the forehead offense. He did, however, offer to manage my widow’s portion for me, and yesterday reminded me I have use of the dower house at Amery Hall, as well as the use of the town house for as long as I prefer.”
“And you found this offensive?” In truth, it was decent of the man.
“I did, Andrew. Firstly, I am a widow now, and one of the very few benefits of that unhappy state is the freedom to manage my own funds, to transact business, and to make contracts for necessaries. Secondly, I felt somehow that, by insisting I have the town house as long as I pleased, Douglas was hurrying me from it. Thirdly, he is a notably cold man, and any affectionate overture from him, however well intended or proper, makes me uneasy.”
“I recall when affectionate overtures did not make you uneasy at all, Astrid.”
Mistake. Serious, horrendous mistake, and Andrew knew it even as the words were leaving his stupid, gauche, ill-mannered mouth. He had been doing so well, taking on the role of brother-in-law and friend, and then he had to bring up their past.
“Ungentlemanly, Andrew,” Astrid said mildly. “I was an inexperienced girl, and you were merely allowing me a taste of where flirtation might lead. Have you any sweets in your kitchen?”
Andrew studied the composed features on the sweet in his kitchen for a moment too long.
He had given her her first kiss; she had appropriated the second. He had, while Gareth and Felicity looked on in tolerant amusement, goaded her into taking her first awkward sips of brandy, he had put his life at risk for her safety, and on one occasion, he had abused her innocence terribly.
And then fled to the Continent rather than risk worse misbehavior, despite having vowed at the age of fifteen never to set foot on a sailing vessel again.
If it was friendship she sought, then despite the cost to him, his friendship she would have. As she swiped her finger over a dab of jam on the edge of her plate, he recalled her question.
“You crave sweets. Felicity sent over some muffins yesterday,” he told her. “She thinks I am too thin and knows this is the staff’s day off, so she sends provisions.”
“You are too thin,” Astrid said, digging through the bread box and locating the tray of muffins. “And you look tired, Andrew. Are you getting adequate rest and food?”
“I’ve gained some weight since returning. My clothes are not so loose, anyway. You are the one who is too slender, Astrid. Trust me on this.”
And he ought to know, having left England haunted by the memory of intimate familiarity with her curves and hollows.
“Seeing as we’re both in want of nutrition, let us have at the muffins, shall we?” she suggested, bringing the whole tray to the table.
“More tea to wash them down with, or can I convince you to drink milk instead?” She’d always favored milk, but she was no longer a young miss fresh from the schoolroom—and, damn the luck, all the prettier for her added maturity.
“A cold cup of milk has some appeal right now, though part of the reason I have lost weight is I am a bit queasy from time to time.”
“You can thank your offspring for that,” Andrew said, pouring the milk from a jug in the pantry and bringing it to her. “And you have to visit the necessary incessantly, have odd cravings for food, and nap at unusual hours.” Her breasts might also be sensitive, though Andrew kept that possibility to himself and repaired to the far side of the table.
Astrid looked momentarily nonplussed. “How in the world do you know all that?”
They were family; she was a widow. The occasional blunt exchange between them wasn’t that far outside the bounds of propriety—he wished.