Page 48 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

CHAPTER 16

With a small box in hand, Andrew sat in the window seat in his bedroom. He turned the box around and around, studying the dark-stained wood and delicate etching at its corners. Then he undid the latch, raising the lid on its delicate hinges, to reveal the pen inside. Pen and several steel nibs, each a different size, made to fit the pen and write better than a quill. Smoother.

Imagine. No more cutting quills to the right size. No more repairing the pens with a blade. No more tucking one feather’s end into another to create a well of ink within the instrument itself.

Josephine would love it. She had stood there, with him, looking at this very pen through the window that day at the Burlington Arcade. He’d bought it for her the moment she left for home, her guard with her. He hadn’t even hesitated to think why he wanted to give her the gift.

Then they’d left London. And the idea of presenting her with the pen was more than silly. It was discomfiting. How would he explain the gift? He hadn’t made it a habit to buy her or anyone in the family presents before.

An impulsive buy had left him perplexed with his own actions. Confused, even. And the more time he spent with Josephine, the worse it became.

He closed the lid with a snap and shoved a hand through his hair, tugging at it with frustration. What was wrong with him?

Rain pattered on the window. A common enough occurrence in spring. But it made him wish he was in the tower, reading a book, with Josephine working silently nearby.

When Josephine asked if he thought of her as a sister, he’d laughed at just how wrong that idea had struck him. Sister? No. Never. Not even when she was younger, and he tormented her with his jests and teased her to distraction. It had been childish of him, of course. But of late…he teased to make her laugh. To see her smile. To watch as she would shake her head at him, purse her lips, all while her eyes twinkled with amusement.

He’d been her jester. Her fool. Delighting in every smile, every laugh, and every time she joined him in his tomfoolery. And neither of them had known it.

He’d enjoyed their ceasefire, too. If that was all it was to her, it didn’t matter. For him, passing time in her company in peace had meant something else. Something more.

But with one ill-timed laugh, one startled reaction, he had offended her. Perhaps setting them back to where their relationship had been in London. Before the play. Before the Arcade. Back to the years and years of banter and badgering.

Which wouldn’t do. Not if he wanted to explore these new thoughts and feelings. But how could he explain himself? Or repair the damage?

Especially with Hartwell dancing attendance on Josephine.

Putting aside the box, Andrew rose to his feet and pulled on his coat. He’d left the one he’d worn all day in the tower, having forgotten it in his haste to withdraw from Josephine and get his mind straight.

It was nearly dinner time, and he was no closer to tidying the mess of his thoughts than he had been hours before. Perhaps he would find Simon. Or even Hartwell. Someone to talk to of hunting or fishing, or tenants and taxes. Anything would be better than being alone with his thoughts of Josephine.

As he turned at the corridor’s end to come to the staircase, he paused. The dowager duchess stood at the top of the steps speaking with Sterling. The guard, dressed as a servant, appeared as stoic as ever.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sterling was saying as Andrew approached. “But if you wish for a more detailed report, you must speak with the lieutenant.”

“Your assurance is good enough.” She waved away his suggestion, then saw Andrew. “Ah. And here is our baronet. What do you think, Sir Andrew? Sterling here assures me that we are all perfectly safe. Not so much as a scent of discontent on the castle grounds.”

“The duke has always cared for his people. They know that, and whatever the problems in London, they will not follow his family here.” Andrew nodded to Sterling, who bowed in return. “Have you reason for your concern, Your Grace?”

“A letter from my son. Someone threw a stone at the duchess’s carriage.” She shivered. “Cecilia is unharmed, of course. Though I imagine she wasn’t pleased. But what if the fool who threw it had hit a horse, sending them dashing into danger? Or broken a window?”

Andrew silently offered the woman his arm, which she took with a perfunctory nod of her head. He did not think he imagined the way she briefly leaned against him before pulling herself aright. Worry deepened the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. The dowager duchess, a dragon in many respects, had a soft heart when it came to her family.

He didn’t like seeing her worry.

“The duchess is unharmed, Your Grace. I am certain the duke will take all the necessary precautions to keep her and himself that way. Just as Simon does here at the castle to keep you and the other ladies protected.” He led her down the steps at a pace which would allow her to maintain the elegant lift to her chin.

“Young man, you needn’t indulge my worrying, nor condescend to offer me platitudes and reassurances. I am nearly eighty years old.” She sniffed. “The risks my son takes with his safety are quite apparent to me. But let us talk no more of such things so near dinner. I have no wish to ruin either of our appetites.”

“I am yours to command.” Andrew changed his tone to something lighter and merrier. “What would you like to speak about instead? I am well-versed on the weather, and matters pertaining to horses and stables. I can also speak at length on topics such as literature and art.”

“I have heard your silver tongue speak on all of those things before, you incorrigible boy,” she told him, though he caught the upward tilt to her mouth that reminded him of Josephine when she fought back a smile. “Let us try a new topic. What think you of Lord Hartwell?”

Unprepared for that question, Andrew blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I always liked him at school. And since then, I suppose.” Though the baron’s sudden appearance to court Josephine hadn’t set well with him, and now he knew why. He stifled the urge to admit he’d like the baron to pack up and leave. Hartwell had no business swooping in to court Josephine. Not when Andrew was still putting the pieces of his own feelings together. “He is a fine chap.”

“Fine enough for our Josie?” The dowager duchess tilted her head and her gray eyebrows rose high on her lined forehead. “None of us are ignorant of his purpose here, Andrew.”

It wasn’t a slight when she left off the “sir” before his name. It was her own way to make him feel a part of the family, even if she referred to her own male relatives by title rather than their Christian name. This time, when she spoke his name, there was an emphasis to it he didn’t understand. It was almost a command. But what did she wish him to do?