“I suppose you won it last, oh, about eight months ago?” Astrid replied, though she wasn’t nearly finished ranting about Andrew’s stubborn, misguided, infernal, pestilential pigheadedness.
“About eight and a half months ago, we did indeed have a memorable skirmish.” Felicity’s smile was naughty. “I would I did not win it quite so effectively.”
Twins. Twins was a very effective victory, provided there were no casualties. “Are you afraid?” For Astrid was afraid. Afraid of childbirth, afraid of losing her husband, afraid of accidents that might be planned for her by Douglas Allen or his minions.
“Terrified,” Felicity said, blinking at her embroidery. “Twins are always complicated, and the babies are usually small, and… I am not worried for myself, but I am worried for my children. For these two, but also for my dear little boys, who can barely understand what’s going on with their mama. And Gareth… I worry most for him.”
“Heathgate? Why would you worry for him, Lissy? He’s as stubborn a man as I’ve ever met.” Though not as stubborn as Andrew.
“He is such a good man, Astrid, an honorable man,” Felicity said, smoothing a finger over glossy hyacinths. “And he has lost so much. How will he bear it if he loses these children, or me, as well?”
Felicity started to rock back and forth on the seat of her chair, then, on the upswing, heaved herself to her feet.
“I have no dignity,” she said dryly. “For the hundredth time this hour, I must use the blasted chamber pot. I see it is also nap time, and so I take my leave of you.”
A knock on the door heralded Gareth’s arrival, and he entered the library scowling. “What are you doing on your feet?”
Felicity held up a staying hand and toddled past him. “I am marching myself right up to our bedroom, where I will obediently subject myself to more rest, though I hardly do enough to tire myself to the point of needing any rest. Then I will careen myself out of the bed, perhaps bellowing for my husband to apply shoes to the feet I haven’t seen for months, and lumber back down here, to sit on that dratted sofa and read some more dratted novels.”
She swayed from the room with ponderous dignity; her husband followed meekly after, while Astrid contemplated stubbornness and love.
Sixteen
As November trudged toward December, winter clamped down with unusually early ferocity, bringing bitter cold, stinging wind, and day after day of gray skies. Andrew forced himself to continue working with his horses, but most days, he took Magic for a gallop that inevitably ended up on the hills overlooking Willowdale.
“The weather will warm up and snow,” Andrew informed his horse as they came down to the walk. “And I suspect it will be more than a pretty dusting.”
His fingers, toes, and lips were numb from their gallop. If only his emotions could be numbed as well.
“I miss my wife.” He wiped his eyes on the back of his glove. “As much as you ache to gallop across these hills, as much as you hate being tethered in a stall, that’s how much I goddamn miss my wife.”
He missed her sunny, irreverent humor; he missed her casual affection; he missed her tart rejoinders; and he missed—like an ache in his chest—her intimate companionship. This missing wasn’t merely erotic, but bore a resemblance to homesickness and desire swirled together, a hollow, restless, unsettled, anxious, incomplete feeling.
Gareth’s words came back to Andrew as Magic plodded across the frozen ruts of the road, words Gareth had used to describe his love for his marchioness. “She is the home my heart has longed for.” Gareth’s heart deserved a home, while Andrew’s…
His litany of self-castigation was interrupted by the sight of another traveler trotting along the main road from Town, something familiar about the big bay gelding.
Douglas Allen pulled up and nodded curtly. “Greymoor.”
“Amery.” Andrew’s nod was even less civil, but rather than sit in the frigid air and provoke a staring battle, Andrew let Magic resume his progress toward Enfield. “Bit chilly to be so far from home, isn’t it?”
“Chilly seems to be the order of the day, considering you’ve not replied to my last two letters.”
Shite. Andrew had neglected his correspondence, true enough, but saw no need to admit that to Amery. “Perhaps, Amery, my silence was intended to be a reply.”
“Am I to assume, then,” Douglas said as his horse fell in beside Magic, “you have no interest in conveying the bank draft I bear to your lady wife?”
Only something as plebeian as money would have Douglas riding this distance in this weather.