Andrew; Lord Of Despair Read online

  Urania Dupres Allen, of the Dorchester Dupres, stifled a sigh as her younger surviving son appropriated her favorite chair.

  “I did not give you leave to sit, Henry, and I do believe your breath smells of spirits.” His breath reeked exactly as his father’s breath had usually reeked, truth be told.

  “Come, Mama, you cannot begrudge me a tot now and then. The Scots prefer to start their day with a wee dram, and they’re a hardier race for it.”

  The Scots were also impoverished, uncouth, and impossible to understand. Urania rang for the tea tray, exacting a small vengeance for the disappointment that was her surviving sons, for Henry—again like his father—despised tea. She took a seat away from the sunlight streaming through the window, a lady’s complexion being one of her most important assets.

  Particularly a lady of a certain age, particularly a lady with a redhead’s fair skin, who used the occasional very light henna treatment on that hair.

  “You asked me about Astrid, but why should I have any notion of her whereabouts? I wasn’t aware she’d started leaving her house yet.” The house that was a deal more comfortable than the pokey establishment Douglas provided for his mother.

  Herbert had promised her better quarters as soon as the lease was up. If only dear Herbert had lived…

  Henry helped himself to the lemon drops in the candy dish on the side table. “I couldn’t imagine Astrid had anywhere to go except to visit you—or perhaps that sister of hers.”

  Astrid had said something about visiting her sister, but hadn’t extended the invitation to include her dear mama-in-law.

  Henry’s tone suggested visiting either one’s sister, the marchioness, or one’s mama-in-law, the dowager viscountess, was a dire fate, though why Astrid’s whereabouts were Henry’s business, Urania did not know.

  “Must you take three lemon drops at once, Henry?”

  He grinned. “First you complain about my breath, then you complain about my efforts to freshen it. How would I go on without your weekly scoldings, dear ma’am?”

  The rascal was going to ask her for money, or an introduction, or some favor or other. He set aside his Tuesday mornings to spend time with her, but of his other comings and goings, Urania maintained a determined ignorance. Though he hardly seemed to use them, he rented rooms closer to the City, and Urania remained in purposeful ignorance of what went on there, too.

  “Without my guidance, you would go straight to perdition,” she said. The housekeeper brought in the tea tray, meaning scoldings—and requests for funds—had to wait a few moments. Henry did not rise to take the heavy tray from the older woman, something Douglas, for all his other shortcomings, would have done.

  “What do you hear from your brother?” Urania asked as she poured out. She did not give Henry a chance to decline his tea, and skimped on his sugar. Douglas was always prosing on about economies, now, wasn’t he?

  “I hear a lament, Mama.” Henry produced a flask from his vest pocket, doctored his tea without so much as a murmured apology, and put the flask away. “I hear from Douglas that the late viscount’s men of business have much to answer for, and that we must be prepared for economies.”

  Urania had raised her sons to have the manners of gentlemen, though Herbert and Douglas had caught on sooner than Henry seemed to. Henry was her baby, though, and a man was entitled to grieve the loss of his favorite brother in his own way.

  “Douglas has a great fondness for sermons regarding economies,” Urania allowed. To her own tea, she added as much sugar as she pleased, but no milk, because a lady must be mindful of her figure.

  Henry crunched up his lemon drops and drained his teacup at a gulp. “I don’t think Astrid has much regard for Douglas’s sermons, either. Douglas is nearly certain she dodged him when he came to call on her recently.”

  Dodged Douglas? Urania admitted a hint of admiration for the girl’s ingenuity. “I don’t think Douglas approves of dear Astrid. She is something of an original.” This was not a compliment. What had Herbert been thinking to marry such a lively young woman? Other viscounts’ daughters came with settlements every bit as generous as Astrid’s had been.

  “Astrid is something of an extravagance,” Henry said, popping another lemon drop into his mouth. “Douglas cannot abide extravagances. I don’t think he honestly misses Herbert as much as he resents having to deal with all that Herbert’s death has thrust upon him—Herbert’s widow most of all.”

  Urania couldn’t help herself. Henry was her baby; in his way he doted on his mama, and he never preached about economies. “You would have made a better viscount than poor Douglas. He’s simply not… he hasn’t the breadth of view you and Herbert shared.” A breadth of view that could overlook dressmakers’ bills, and knew that a gentleman’s turnout had much to do with his reputation in Society.

  “Mama, I do love you, though I’m afraid you’re not going to be very proud of me.”

  She’d been proud of Herbert. Sometimes. “More tea?”

  “Please.” He held out his cup, and Urania filled it to the brim, not bothering with any sugar at all.

  “You are short of funds, Henry?”

  “Just a trifle. One can’t exactly ask Douglas for an advance on one’s allowance, can one?”

  Yes, one could, if one had backbone. Urania unpinned the brooch she’d chosen that morning from among those given to her by her late husband. She passed it silently to her son, who took it and slipped it into the same pocket where he stowed his flask.

  Amethysts had never become her, and they were such small stones, too.

  “Mama, what would I do without you?”

  “You would have this house to yourself,” she said. “Drink your tea.”

  Henry complied, this time without adding any wicked potation to his tea—likely because his flask was empty. Urania turned the discussion to the informal invitations Henry might accept—marrying for money was an honorable solution to many a respected family’s dilemma, and it was a far less irksome path than Douglas’s blasted economies.

  Henry tolerated about ten minutes of Urania’s gentle prodding—a man mourning his brother couldn’t accept formal invitations, after all—and rose to take his leave. His parting kiss was a truly foul combination of spirits, lemon, and milky tea.

  “I won’t be in for supper,” he said needlessly, because he was seldom in for supper until the weather was horrible. “Thanks much for your company.”

  He patted his pocket, and the brooch clicked against the flask.

  “Henry, some day I will no longer have ugly brooches to pass into your keeping.”

  This seemed to amuse him. “Is Astrid importuning you for your ugly brooches too?”

  Astrid, being in mourning, was barely permitted to wear even ugly brooches. Then the sense of Henry’s question sank in.

  “She does not deserve your insults, Henry. Astrid’s portions were generous, and she’ll manage quite well on them, I’m sure.”

  Urania suffered another noxious parting kiss from her son, and waited until the front door had banged closed after him before she rang for tea cakes to go with her second cup.

  Astrid might manage on her portion; she might not. That was for Astrid to take up with Douglas, and if Douglas grew nigh apoplectic when dealing with a lady’s inability to keep within a budget, well, that was nothing for Urania to concern herself over. Nothing at all.

  ***

  The day Astrid had chosen to travel out to Surrey was overcast, but the rains held off, and thus her coach tooled up the Willowdale drive less than two hours after leaving Town.

  “Astrid!” Felicity came trotting from the front terrace. “I am so very glad to see you!”

  “Felicity, you must not exert yourself in your condition,” Astrid chided as the footman handed her out of the coach.

  “Save your scolds for somebody who will listen,” Felicity countered, hugging Astrid as closely as an increasing belly would allow. “I seem to have too much energy in the mornings these day
s, and none at all after that. Come. Gareth and Andrew are off working the hounds, so we have time to visit before they join us for luncheon.”

  “Andrew is here?” Warmth bloomed inside her at the thought. Friends could be glad to spend a little time together, particularly friends who were also family of a sort.

  “He arrived last night, and he is staying with us until Lady Heathgate makes her progress up from Sussex. This avoids the awkwardness of having Andrew reside at Enfield with Cousin Gwen, who considers herself responsible for running Enfield.”

  “And how fares cousin Gwen?” Astrid asked as they gained the house and headed for the library. A statuesque redhead answering to the name Guinevere had attended Felicity’s wedding, but Astrid couldn’t recall much about the woman except height, a retiring quality, and vivid green eyes that had looked out on the world with both intelligence and caution.

  Felicity paused outside the library. “The more time we spend here ruralizing, the better I get to know Guinevere Hollister, and the more I like her. Still, her situation will present Andrew with a delicate challenge. She doesn’t want to live anywhere except Enfield, and he won’t leave her there to get by on her own much longer.”

  “Perhaps Andrew should marry her?” Astrid asked as casually as she could. The idea had no appeal. No appeal whatsoever, though a few years ago, Guinevere had been a handsome woman indeed—a tall, handsome woman.

  Felicity led Astrid into the library, a room Astrid hadn’t visited since before her wedding. Andrew had goaded her into taking her first few sips of brandy here, and the decanters still stood in a row on the sideboard.

  “Most people frown on first cousins marrying,” Felicity said, “though it’s certainly done. And I would hope for Andrew and Gwen, if they marry, they marry someone they esteem greatly, not somebody who merely holds a property interest in common. Wouldn’t you want Andrew to have the kind of marriage you had with Herbert?”

  The words came out, though Astrid regretted them even as they rushed past her lips: “Merciful saints, no.”

  Consternation, then pity filled Felicity’s eyes. “I am so sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. I should not have spoken so honestly.” Though here in her sister’s house, Astrid could not make herself recite the platitudes one more time:

  Herbert was a dear fellow.

  Herbert was taken too soon.

  Herbert will be greatly missed.

  And Astrid would keep the more vexing truths to herself, as well: Herbert had had a mistress he’d spent more time with than he did his wife, and upon whom he’d lavished funds he could ill afford. His mistress was probably tall, red-haired, and pretty too.

  “I suspected you were putting a good face on things,” Felicity said, pushing the draperies back to let the sun shine through a pair of French doors. “I feared you tolerated Herbert, and I can’t figure out why you chose him. You had other offers.”

  “I did love him, Lissy,” Astrid said, sinking down onto a couch. And why did this assertion sound so forlorn? He’d seemed steady at first, not dull. Dependable, rather than boring. Fair, whereas Andrew was dark.

  Whatever that had to do with anything.

  “Of course you loved him.” Felicity joined her with the sort of undignified descent common to ladies on the nest. “You weren’t in love with him.”

  Rather than meet her sister’s gaze, Astrid instead studied Felicity’s hands, and noticed the lack of a wedding ring.

  “I was not in love with my husband,” Astrid said, her own ring feeling abruptly tight on her finger. “I can’t go around admitting that, or I will be consumed with guilt.” Or possibly with anger. “I miss the man, I am sorry he died so young, and I am, in some ghastly moments, relieved, all at once—you will forget I said that. But then there is this pregnancy too, and it all gets tangled and uncomfortable. I cannot say I like being a widow any better than I liked most aspects of being a wife.”

  Felicity had taken the place beside her, which meant Astrid could read her sister’s expression only in profile. “Will it be very difficult, putting up with me and Gareth?”

  Ah, the blessed comfort of sibling honesty. “Pretending my marriage was more than it was is wearying. In truth, even David sensed my husband was, to use David’s words, a crashing bore.” In the drawing room and in the… elsewhere. Hadn’t Herbert’s mistress taught him anything?

  Felicity hugged her, a tendency toward affection being another of her sister’s symptoms of impending parturition. “I am sorry, for you and Herbert both. You are young, though. We can find you a more dashing fellow next time, right?”

  Astrid slipped off her ring and tucked it into a pocket. Yet more honesty was in order. “None of that talk, if you please. I have something few women my age can dream of, Felicity. I have the independence of widowhood, with my whole life ahead of me. I do not seek to ally myself with another man in the foreseeable future, if at all.”

  Felicity began fussing the tea service, a pretty blue jasperware ensemble that included—thank God and the kitchen staff—a sizable array of cakes.

  “Then you will allow your life to be guided by Douglas Allen’s whims until such time as your child is grown to independence?”

  Sometimes, one honest, insightful sister and one honest, insightful brother were more support than a grieving, pregnant widow ought to have to bear.

  “My life has become complicated,” Astrid said. “This child becomes more precious to me with each passing day, but the future you describe, one as Douglas’s poor relation, holds no appeal whatsoever.”

  “Then marry a fellow who will stand up to Douglas and protect you and your child,” Felicity said. “You will esteem greatly any man who protects you and this baby from Douglas’s interference.”

  That was the uncomplicated, optimistic reasoning of a woman happily married.

  “Marriage for the rest of my life is a high price to pay for the simple privilege of raising my own child.” And if the child were a boy, he could go off to public school as young as age six. The idea made Astrid positively ill, as ill as the thought of eel pie made her—also livid.

  Felicity passed her a plate of cakes even before pouring the tea. “All you need contend with now is enjoying your stay here and letting us love you. You should feel free to discard your blacks, tame the squirrels, spend the day grooming horses or lying about reading Sir Walter Scott. I am thrilled you have come to Willowdale, and I know Gareth is pleased as well.”

  “He won’t be when I’ve beaten the pants off him at billiards a few times.”

  “Oh, please,” came a masculine voice from the doorway, “if anyone is to lose his pants to you, Astrid, why not me?”

  “Andrew!” Astrid rose from the couch and wrapped her arms around him, unable to quell a bolt of delight at the very sight of him. “You rapscallion, lurking in doorways and sneaking up on us. I had no idea you would be staying here when I decided to visit.” And this was the best of all, because had she known, she’d likely have declined Felicity’s invitation. “I shall be ever so willing to beat you at billiards as well, or darts, or cribbage, though you may keep your pants.”

  “Yes, yes, or backgammon, or piquet, or what have you. I come to renew my acquaintance with my brother’s family, and instead I’ll get a trouncing on every hand. Perhaps I’ll cut my visit short.” His tone was teasing, while his eyes were serious.

  “You must not.”

  “Shall I ring for sandwiches?” Felicity interjected. “And, Andrew, what have you done with my spouse?”

  “I am here, my lady,” Gareth said from behind Andrew’s back. He cuffed Andrew aside and came into the room, raising a dark eyebrow at Astrid. “No greeting for me?”

  “Gareth.” Astrid approached her brother-in-law with the intention of kissing his cheek. She found herself enveloped in a hug instead.

  “I am done neglecting you,” he growled softly. “I will force you to stay with us until your spirits are restored, or Felicity will take stern m
easures with me.” When Gareth let Astrid go, he bussed Felicity’s cheek. “When is luncheon, Wife? Chasing my brother all over the shire has worked up my appetite.”

  “And when aren’t you hungry?” Felicity asked, smiling as Andrew snitched two tea cakes off the tray and passed one to his brother. “We can eat a proper meal within the hour, but first we will let Astrid get settled and unpacked. And both of you fellows could use a bit of freshening as well.”

  “I can take a hint,” Andrew said, snitching another cake. “I will join you all at table and endeavor to sit upwind of my fragrant elder brother.”

  Astrid tried not to watch Andrew’s retreating backside, though Herbert had never cut such a dash in his breeches, for all he considered himself quite the sportsman.

  “I had best go start on my unpacking,” Astrid said, knowing the maids would have already hung up her dresses. Gareth’s voice stopped her before she made it to the door.

  “I meant what I said, about restoring your spirits, Astrid. While you are with us, you must do what pleases you. If we could do your grieving for you, we would. In the alternative, we offer you whatever use of our home and our company you need.”

  He made this well-intended speech with his arm around what remained of Felicity’s waist, forming a two-person marital bulwark of goodwill and good cheer.

  “Thank you,” Astrid said before fleeing the library. She was in tears within moments of shutting her bedroom door, though she couldn’t have said why exactly she was crying. Rather than dwell on that question, she took off her slippers—were they also becoming a trifle snug?—eased down onto the bed, and curled up under a quilt.

  Something tickling her nose awakened her. She batted the annoyance away, only to have it return moments later. When she opened her eyes, she found Andrew smiling down at her, a long stem of wild aster in his hands. He brushed her nose with it once more, bringing Astrid fully awake.

  “Dratted man…” Dear, dratted man. Astrid struggled to sit up, her efforts impeded by Andrew sitting on her blanket. He lifted his hips enough for her get into a sitting position, then continued to study her.