Page 14 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

“Precisely.” Simon paced to the window, looking out to the darkness beyond. “Returning to Clairvoir is the best thing we can do for Father.”

Josephine nodded, the movement slow and thoughtful. Then she turned to look at Andrew again. “And why, precisely, are you joining us in our exile? Are you bored with the Season already?”

“Absolutely.” He grinned at her. “It’s always the same, isn’t it? The same balls, the same sitting rooms, the same gossip? I feel certain I will miss nothing, though many will likely miss my company.” He dangled that statement for her, as a challenge, waiting for her to pounce upon his words and declare him arrogant or refute his claim altogether.

Instead, Josephine gave another weak nod. Then she studied her hands again without saying a word to him. “I do hope Mama is all right. Her days will be long and lonely if she stays at the house, waiting for Papa to come home every evening.” Her words drifted into quiet.

The next moment brought her sisters into the room, dressed for dinner and chatting amiably with each other about their rooms. Josephine’s expression changed to something that held more warmth, but her eyes kept that tired and pinched look about them. He looked to Simon to see if the future duke noticed Josephine’s distress, but Simon’s eyes had already dimmed, likely with his own concerns.

The dowager duchess joined them a few minutes later, and Andrew tried not to worry over Josephine. Instead, he turned his efforts to making her younger sisters giggle and her grandmother pretend to be unamused by his antics. But when he escorted Josephine to dinner, the wan smile she gave him brought his concerns to the forefront of his mind.

Was she only concerned about her father and mother? Perhaps Emma’s absence made everything more potent for Josephine. She had never been without a friend with Emma as her companion. Andrew did not nettle her as he usually did. Instead, he watched and studied, and wondered if there was more he ought to do.

CHAPTER 6

Three days of travel, crowded together in a carriage, and in unvarying company, couldn’t be pleasant. When Andrew stood at the open carriage door, hand extended for Josephine, he saw the weariness in her eyes as she placed her gloved hand in his. Simon walked ahead with his grandmother, and the dowager duchess was already snapping out instructions to the staff who had gathered to welcome them in the vestibule.

Josephine gave him a somewhat pained smile. “I think I would have preferred riding,” she whispered.

Andrew reflexively squeezed the slim fingers in his grasp before tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. The moment she had settled her hand in the familiar spot, the tension in his shoulders relaxed. He walked down the long corridor lined with ancient swords and weaponry. Clairvoir Castle welcomed everyone the same—with an assurance of protection and reminders of prestige.

They came into the first hall, the black and white marble floor glistening and the two hearths on either side of the room blazing with warmth and light. Simon stood at the bottom of the first set of stairs that led upward to a split, where it diverged in opposite directions. Her Grace, the dowager duchess, had gone ahead with the housekeeper at her heels.

Simon had just handed his hat and gloves to a manservant. “I see you are relatively unscathed from our travels, Sister.”

Josephine released her hold on Andrew to strip her gloves from her hands and give them to a maid. “Except for the dust, which I will see to directly,” she murmured.

Isabelle and Rosalind came in, arm in arm. “I am so glad we are home,” Isabelle declared, wearing a wide grin. “Another day in the carriage with Grandmama would have been awful.”

“Lady Isabelle,” her governess rebuked softly from behind her. Mrs. Robinson, a practical woman, shared a wan smile with Josephine. “Come, ladies. We must get you to your rooms so you can prepare for dinner.”

Rosalind groaned aloud. “I would rather skip dinner and go straight to bed for a fortnight.” She looked the least like her parents of all her siblings. Her hair had lightened as she aged, and her eyes were brown rather than the vivid blue Josephine shared with her other siblings and her mother.

“You weren’t the one Grandmama asked to read Italian poetry,” Isabelle muttered as they followed Mrs. Robinson up the stairs. “I will never forgive Emma for giving Grandmama that book. She knew we would be the ones reading it aloud.”

Josephine covered her mouth and looked to Simon, who returned her look of mirth with a weary smile of his own.

Andrew pushed his hand through his hair, finally devoid of his hat. “Italian poetry. That must have kept the lot of you entertained.”

“Careful, Sir Andrew,” Josephine warned. “You know Grandmama likes it when you read to her, too.”

“I cannot help that I have the perfect reading voice and cadence.” He puffed his chest out and pretended to flick dust from a shirtsleeve. “I am in great demand as a reader.”

“You, sir, are highly pompous about your talents.” Josephine smirked and walked to the steps, saying over her shoulder, “However few you may possess.”

Andrew hid his smile as she ascended the stairs and turned out of view, going to the family wing where she would rest and prepare for the evening meal. He turned to Simon. “Someday, your sister will admit she likes me.” Though he said it in jest, he wondered.

His oldest friend raised both eyebrows but said nothing, only gestured for the two of them to follow after everyone else. They had climbed both sets of stairs before Simon spoke, his tone serious. “Thank you for coming with me, Andrew.”

“You need to stop expressing your gratitude, or I’ll start to think I deserve it.” Andrew laughed. “You’re too eager to thank me for something I eagerly volunteered for. What would I do in London without you? You are the reason I get invited to the best parties and balls, for one thing. For another, I would rather spend a fortnight at Clairvoir than any amount of time anywhere else. Including my own estate.”

Simon chuckled, the first sign of lightness he’d shown since they’d mounted their horses that morning. His shoulders sagged as much as Andrew had ever seen them. “It is good to be home.”

The castle was that for all of them. Home. Even Andrew could not think of a place where he felt as at ease and content—which might be the reason he preferred to stay at the castle rather than journey back and forth from his estate in Bytham.

As he went through the motions of preparing for dinner, he reflected on why that was. The easy answer was also the truest one—Bytham Castle was lonely. His family had possessed the old house for two centuries, but parts of the building had stood for four. Perhaps it had once been beautiful, but now it felt cold and ancient.

He had often thought about selling it and establishing a new house for future generations. When he’d mentioned the idea in front of the duchess, Her Grace had been quite vocal about reconstruction rather than abandonment. Something that she knew how to do well, considering she had turned the old castle into what it was now.