Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords)
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New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Grace Burrowes writes The Lonely Lords with passion and heart
"Grace Burrowes' vivid, well-developed, flawed characters, plus her way of weaving their lives together and her exquisite writing style seem to get better with each of her "Lonely Lords" novels. Andrew: Lord of Despair engages the reader's emotions and senses from start to finish-a joy to read." -Long and Short Reviews
Andrew Alexander will do anything to protect those he loves...
After a tragic yachting accident leaves him wracked with guilt, Andrew Alexander, Earl of Greymoor, is certain he doesn't deserve to be around his family, let alone the beautiful, forthright Astrid Worthington. He wanders for years, not allowing himself respite from his self-imposed exile until Astrid is safely married. He returns home to find that the only woman he's ever loved has been recently-and mysteriously-widowed.
...especially from himself
Astrid refuses to pine after Andrew leaves for the Continent. She finds an amiable husband and contents herself with a cordial if unexciting marriage. When Astrid is abruptly widowed, she finds Andrew will do anything to protect her not only from her enemies, but also from the truth of his dark past. Can she find safety in the arms of a man who seems determined to break her heart all over again?
room in complete darkness and raise the hem of my nightgown only so far. At least I assume it was he—I never saw his face when he attended to his conjugal duties. He would arrive fully aroused, and insert only the tip of his member into my body, expel his seed with something like a grunt, kiss my forehead, and take himself very considerately off to his room. He never attempted to arouse me, and when, early in the marriage, I tried to encourage a more participative approach to our relations, he
a servant entered with the tea tray. And again, not a flinch, not a flaring of the nostrils or a narrowing of the eyes. Over cards—or dueling pistols—Amery would be impossible to read. “Because we have no hostess, I propose we serve ourselves,” he said. “After you, Fairly, unless, of course, you are concerned I might be of a mind to poison you too?” Opening salvo, David thought, mentally saluting. “I am not a diminutive, pregnant, grieving widow,” David said, hefting the teapot, “home alone
sorrow and regret, and a man did not regret parting from a wife for whom he felt only a duty to protect. *** Andrew followed his brother into the Willowdale library, feeling an incongruous sense of homecoming. He’d fallen a little in love with his wife in this room more than four years ago, when she’d tried her first sips of brandy, while Andrew, Gareth, and Felicity looked on. “You are offering libation this early in the day?” Andrew asked as Gareth went to the selfsame decanter and poured
unhappy, please believe that.” “And I,” she said, stepping back, “did not set out to love you, Andrew, but there it is. I will miss you.” She delivered that observation like the slap that conveys a challenge, then ruined the effect by wrapping herself against him again, clinging fiercely. Andrew, despite his best intentions, was gratified by the desperation in her embrace. It nearly matched his own, and so he held on to her just as tightly, until long moments later, when she again found the
that had periodically been opened to clear the air in the stifling room, the one that admitted such feeble light, and stared out into the pale gloom. “Still snowing, and there’s at least a foot on the ground already. We haven’t had snow like this in several years, and now it won’t stop.” “It will be beautiful,” Astrid asserted. “And the sun will come out, and these babies will be safely born. But right at this moment, I need to excuse myself, so both of you behave in my absence.” She let