Page 38 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

“Of course not.” Andrew hadn’t meant the words to come out as clipped and irritable as they had. He gritted his teeth, then forced a pleasant countenance back in place. “Hartwell is an honorable man. If the duke thinks him an appropriate suitor, why would I worry?”

He mounted Honey again.

Why worry indeed. Everything Hartwell and Lyness said ought to have reassured Andrew. He was content to act as a brother to Josephine, wasn’t he? He’d decided that’s all he could be when he returned from Ireland to find a woman grown in place of the quick-witted child he had teased.

That moment in the rain came back to him, flooding his mind with the scent of the air, the glow of her eyes. They had stood so close. Closer than he’d ever seen Simon stand with his sister. He’d faced her. Bent enough to peer beneath her bonnet as the rain fell around them. Barely more than a hands’ breadth between them as they spoke. The world had gone still and soft, the only sound the rush of his pulse in his ears, her soft breath, and the patter of rain upon the leaves.

Apollo barked, and Honey twitched away from the overly large dog, plunging Andrew back into the present moment.

“I think it’s time to return to the castle,” Simon said. “I have matters to attend to. Perhaps my sisters will keep you company while I am busy.” He grinned at Hartwell, then Andrew, who returned the smile briefly.

Why had Andrew’s stomach turned sour? Why, as they pointed their horses toward the castle again, did he catch himself glaring at the back of Hartwell’s head as they rode?

The sky above may well have been clear, but a cloud of vexation encompassed his thoughts. A storm brewed within, and Andrew hadn’t any idea when, or if, it would thunder to life.

CHAPTER 13

Two days of puzzling over the matter of Lord Hartwell and Josephine as a possible match had brought Andrew no closer to understanding why such an idea bothered him. The amount of thought he put into the subject had left him tired—as had the late evenings at billiards and discussing politics with the other men in the castle. Which meant he had slept in on the third day of the Eastwoods’ visit and subsequently missed breakfast.

He went to the library, thinking nothing of the meal, and took one of the couches as his own. Book in hand, he stretched out along the cushions without the least bit of care for the impolite posture.

The only person at home in the castle who might scold him for such a thing was the dowager duchess. And she never came into the library. She always sent her companion or a grandchild to fetch her books for her.

Andrew made an effort to read. Truly. But the words on the page blurred when his thoughts went elsewhere. Or he found himself reading the same paragraph again and again without comprehending what it meant.

He finally groaned and dropped the book on himself, his nose pinched by the stitched binding and the covers forming a tent over his face.

The library door opened with a click. He didn’t move. Let whoever it was get their book and then leave him in alone.

“Josephine? Are you in here? Josephine—Sir Andrew!” His name came out with the same force one might use to scold a dog found chewing on the furniture.

He sat up, the book falling to the cushion beside him, then jumped all the way to his feet when he saw Her Grace, the dowager duchess, glaring at him. “Your Grace, I beg your pardon.”

“You ought to beg the couch’s pardon. What sort of gentleman puts his shoes on the furniture?” She tsked at him. “The moment I think you boys have matured, I find Simon sliding down a banister or you leaping upon the furniture.”

Simon hadn’t slid down a banister since they were thirteen, Andrew well knew, and he certainly hadn’t been leaping on furniture. Ever. But he kept those protests to himself and apologized instead. “Forgive me, Your Grace.” He added a bow for good measure. “That was a terrible lapse in manners.” Then, as she had suggested, he turned and bowed to the couch. He spoke with the same sincere tone he had used to address her. “Forgive me, furniture, for mistreating you.”

The duchess clucked, and when he faced her, he saw the amusement in her eyes. Dragon she may be, but Andrew hadn’t ever doubted her affection for her grandchildren. Or for him. “You are a silly young man.”

“And you are a saint for putting up with me, Your Grace.”

She dismissed his comment with an elegant flick of her wrist. “Nevermind that. Have you seen Josephine? I have sent servants searching through the house for her, but she has yet to appear. I thought if I wished to find her, I would have to do it myself.”

Andrew knew immediately where the lady had gone. Her tower. Where else would she disappear to without being found? Unless she’d left the castle again. But no, she had promised, and Josephine didn’t break promises.

The dowager duchess folded her hands before her. “There—you know where she is. I can tell by the look on your face.”

He hesitated, then rocked back on his heels. “I might know.”

“You do. Sir Andrew, tell me at once. Where is my granddaughter?” The woman had an air of command that most generals would envy, if not the king himself. Her graying hair didn’t make her mind, tongue, or eyes any less sharp.

He drew himself up. “I cannot tell you, Your Grace.”

“Cannot?” she repeated, raising her eyebrows high. “Or will not?”

“Both, Your Grace.” This would make her an enemy for certain, at least for a fortnight. “Though I can assure you Lady Josephine is safe, within the castle walls. I have promised to keep the knowledge of her whereabouts to myself. So, you see, it is a matter of honor.”

Her wide eyes narrowed, and the wrinkles around her mouth deepened as she pursed her lips. “You promised Josephine you would not tell me, her grandmother, where she is hiding?”