“Confinement is hard on a fellow.”
“Just wait until it’s your turn,” Gareth retorted. “You wonder how in the hell you’ll mount your wife again, knowing the misery your rutting could bring her.”
The truth will out. “You are worried for her.” Approaching panic, if Andrew’s guess was correct.
“Worried sick,” Gareth said, marching across the room to the errant chimera again holding vigil on his end table. Rather than return that sentinel to the company of his brothers, Gareth opened the stopper and sniffed the contents. “Felicity is so uncomfortable, Andrew, and there is no relief for her. She doesn’t complain, but whether she’s sitting or standing or lying in bed, she can find no ease.”
When had his brother, the marquess, the man about town, the imposing, intimidating, surviving scion of the Alexander family, turned so… shamelessly besotted.
“Felicity looks different to me,” Andrew noted after a pause to sip his drink. “Her shape is different.”
“The babies have shifted, meaning her time draws near. The doctor claims it is part of the normal progression, and Felicity reminds me this happened with the boys—who, by the way, will not rest until they see Uncle Andrew. I believe they mentioned something about a tiger under the bed.”
“So that’s where the blighter got to?” Andrew pretended to admire the view out the mullioned windows as a pang assailed him. He had nephews and thanked God for them. He would never have sons. Worse yet, he and Astrid would never have sons.
“If we had more time, and if I thought it would help,” Gareth said, “I would suggest we get thoroughly inebriated. You, little Brother, look as tired, irritable, and out of sorts as I—and my wife—feel.”
Andrew sat on the hard stones of the hearth, knowing this interrogation—this confession—was unavoidable. “Married life does not agree with me.”
Gareth left off sniffing at spirits and leaned a hip on his desk. “Astrid seems to be in reasonable charity with you.”
“She, silly little twit, thinks she loves me,” Andrew said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “And I have been unsuccessful at disabusing her of that notion, despite a good faith effort on my part.”
“Take a lover,” Gareth suggested laconically. “She’ll hate you something fierce then. A mistress in Town, a night or two with a toothsome opera dancer, a receipt for a bracelet or a necklace given to another. It isn’t hard to break the heart of a good woman, Andrew. I should know.”
Gareth was taunting him as only an older brother with a thorough grasp of strategy might. Andrew shot him a disgusted look.
“Dear me,” Gareth replied innocently, “not the advice you sought? Hmm. Let’s see… you could try loving your wife, Andrew. The concept is novel, and not favored by titled Society, but it has, I can tell you, much to recommend it.”
Return fire was expected, but the entire discussion curdled the drink in Andrew’s gut. “Like you’re so happy pacing about and drinking at midday over this wife you love?”
“Unworthy of you, Andrew,” Gareth said mildly. “I am happy with Felicity, and well you know it. She is… the home my heart has longed for. At present, however, I am also quite concerned for her. The two conditions—love and concern—are occasionally found in proximity to one another. I believe”—his eyes narrowed—“you know this already.”
“To my everlasting sorrow.”
Rather than needle him further, which Andrew would have welcomed, Gareth sat beside him on the hard stones. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Keep her safe. For the love of God, keep Astrid safe. She won’t take stupid risks, but she won’t cower, either. My wife has an appalling abundance of courage.”
“She’d have to, to take you on. But something about this whole situation… rankles badly.”
“I know.” And thank heavens that Gareth’s instincts matched Andrew’s. “Something doesn’t add up. Something feels like it’s missing my notice. Douglas has done nothing since Astrid married me but meet with solicitors and barristers and even bankers. I cannot believe he will be content merely to bring a lawsuit when the baby arrives. He doesn’t strike me as a man who would trust his ends to the ponderous whims of the court. Moreover, you and I and Fairly are in a much better position to buy the outcome of any litigation, and Douglas is not stupid.”
“He most assuredly is not, and that is part of what bothers me.”
A rap on the door had both brothers looking up as David Worthington, Viscount Fairly, let himself into the library.