Page 11 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Phoebe gently squeezed Ellen’s hand. “I am delighted to have an intimate celebration. But remember that you are more than welcome to join the larger gathering, too.”

“Thank you. If I feel well enough, I will.”

But Phoebe knew that would not happen, and not just because of Ellen’s illness, but because the rest of the Bellamy family still believed that Ellen was Paul’s former mistress.

Paul, Phoebe, and Ellen had agreed to maintain the fiction until Lucy turned eighteen, when Paul would tell her the truth about her parentage. Only then would Phoebe tell her sisters the truth.

It was for the best, although it did make matters awkward in the meanwhile.

Unfortunately, Phoebe thought with a painful stab as her friend chattered happily about the small gifts littering the table, Ellen herself would not be around for long to suffer that awkwardness.

Suddenly, the mound of paper and ribbons moved, and a furry head emerged.

“There you are, Silas!” Ellen said, the words scolding but her tone affectionate as the little rodent yawned, strutted across the desk, and then strolled up Ellen’s arm, giving Phoebe a daring look as he snuggled against the sick woman’s neck.

Her brother Dauntry’s squirrel was a furry bundle of mischief that had plagued Phoebe for years. Lucy had begged to care for the pet while Doddy was away at school and Phoebe had, reluctantly, agreed. Although the little beast often caused havoc when he escaped Ellen’s apartment and ran amok in the huge house, Phoebe could not regret his presence for how much joy he gave not only Lucy, but—unexpectedly—Ellen, too. Whenever Silas was near it seemed to Phoebe that the ill woman looked less fragile.

If the squirrel helped keep Ellen alive longer, then Phoebe could almost like the animal.

But as she watched Ellen’s pale, shaky hand stroke Silas’s thick winter fur, she feared even the squirrel might not be enough to keep her with them until Christmas.

Several days later…

Phoebe stared across the massive desk at her husband Paul and bit her lip to keep from speaking because she was too angry to trust herself. Not angry at Paul, but what her parents were constantly forcing him to do.

“Don’t be angry, darling.” He smiled at her, his rugged features irresistible and charming. It still astounded her that they had been married less than a year. In fact, she had not even known him last Christmastime and yet now she could not imagine life without him.

“I’m not angry at you, Paul. I just wonder when it will all stop.” She did not mention how ashamed she was of her parents—she had admitted that to him times beyond counting—because she knew it distressed him. Any person who looked at Paul Needham’s massive body and harsh-featured face would not believe he could be so sensitive. But he lived and breathed for her and Phoebe would never stop thanking God that she had been fortunate enough to meet him in a dusty lane last spring.

The source of her chagrin was a letter Paul had received from Phoebe’s father, the Earl of Addiscombe, just that morning. Not only had the earl cancelled his plans to spend Christmas with them—the letter arriving the very day hewas supposed to arrive—but included with the brief missive was a sheaf of bills.

Paul removed his spectacles and tossed them onto the desk before pushing his chair out from his desk and striding toward the door.

Phoebe twisted in her chair and watched as he locked the door.

Her lips parted and her heart began to beat faster as he strode back to his chair and sat. “Come here,” he said.

“Paul, we can’t. It is too—”

“Come here, Phoebe.” He patted his massive buckskin clad thigh with an equally massive hand.

Phoebe bit her lip, barely hesitating before heaving herself to her feet. Even before she’d become pregnant, she had not been a petite woman. Now that she was eating for two, she felt like a lumbering cow.

Or at least she would have felt that way if not for the adoring, lustful gaze in her husband’s eyes as she lowered herself onto his lap.

“Mmm.” He wrapped one muscular arm around her hips to draw her closer to the hard wall of his chest while his other hand came to rest on her swollen belly.

Phoebe loved the look of masculine pride that stole over his face.

“Mine,” he murmured, stroking from her bulging midriff up to her ridiculously swollen breasts. His lids lowered over his penetrating gray eyes as he palmed her, his huge hand actually making her look small. “How long did the midwife say we could keep—”

“As long as it does not hurt,” Phoebe hastily interrupted, before he could say something vulgar and wildly arousing. After all, they were expecting the first of their Christmas guests within the next few hours. It would not do to give in to her body’s relentless demands for him in the middle of the day, no matter how much she might like to do so.

She glanced at the long-case clock, calculating the hours before she could feel his bare skin and huge body pressed against her own.

Paul grinned at her, fully aware of the thoughts running through her mind. “Well?” he taunted.

“We don’t have time,” she said, unable to keep the whiny disappointment from her tone. “By the time we make our way up—”