Page 20 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

“No reason,” he lied, shifting in his saddle with a grimace. His arse had become accustomed to easy living after months of luxury at Chatham’s. This was the first ride of any duration he’d had since the summer.

Andrew had been a soldier for more than eight years, which had meant living in the saddle. Even after he’d sold his commission and returned to England he’d rarely stayed put for more than a few weeks. In fact, Andrew couldn’t recall the last time he’d remained in the same place so long.

It was back during those heavenly, and eventually hellish, few weeks with Mariah.

He hastily shoved away the unwanted memory and turned to Chatham. “How much farth—”

The sound of the carriage window sliding open interrupted his question and he and Sylvester turned as Kathryn thrust her gloved hand out the opening and pointed. “There is Queen’s Bower.”

Both she and the duchess were staring at a small manor house in the distance. Kathryn was always beautiful, but right then—with a wistful, fond smile on her face—she was breathtaking.

Andrew thought it might have been the first time he’d seen her look genuinely happy. As frequently as she laughed or smiled there was always a brittleness to both. He had always thought her high spirits were youthful enthusiasm, but now he wondered if there wasn’t something a bit… desperate about her behavior.

Before he could ponder the matter any further, the carriage rounded a gentle curve.

“And there is Wych House,” the duchess said.

Like her younger sister, Her Grace sounded different. Excited, Andrew decided, although it was so subtle that it would probably evade the notice of a person who hadn’t lived the last few months in the same house with her.

Sylvester’s new wife was not a conventionally attractive woman, but there was a strength of character in her face that made a person look twice. Her pale green eyes were brilliant even in the weak winter sun, the shade of green as close to peridot as he had ever seen.

She cut him a glance, as if feeling his gaze, and Andrew quickly turned to look at the building they were approaching.

He was no stranger to magnificent houses. Not only had he grown up at Chatham Park, but his own property—Rosewood—was an ancient, if ramshackle estate that was grand enough, at least from a distance, to rob a person of breath.

But Wych House, a rare example of Gothic architecture that wasn’t a church or monastery, was quite something else. Like York Minster, Wych House had been built in a style commonly referred to as Perpendicular Gothic. The long, gently curving drive made the most of the structure’s four-centered arches, buttresses, and towers. There was even a grand rose window set in a pointed arch with tracery.

“The South Tower has a new roof and is no longer boarded up,” the duchess said in a wondering tone. “They must be brand new as the old lozenge windows had all but rotted away.”

“And it will all be for Doddy,” Kathryn added, awed.

Andrew had heard that Viscount Paul Needham, who’d married Phoebe Bellamy, was one of the wealthiest men in Britain. The man must have deep pockets indeed if he was able to pour thousands of pounds into a house he was only leasing. Kathryn was correct: Lord Dauntry Bellamy—Doddy as his sisters called him—was the heir to the Addiscombe earldom and would one day benefit from all the money his wealthy brother-in-law was spending on Wych House.

“I would like to see the house Needham is building,” Sylvester said, turning to his wife. “Is it far from here?”

“Less than five miles. We must ride over and see it,” Her Grace answered, her voice eager.

Andrew knew the duchess hated going anywhere in a carriage when she could be on horseback. She was only sacrificing her pleasure on this journey because Sylvester had put his foot down. The tall, gangly woman was several months pregnant—although it was difficult to tell just looking at her—and his cousin was already hovering and fussing around her like a mother hen with one chick.

It was nauseating.

You’re just jealous.

Andrew didn’t bother to deny it. Who would not be jealous of such deep affection—nay, such love?

Servants were already milling around two carriages and footmen were bearing valises and trunks into the house when Sylvester’s retinue rolled up.

A very pregnant woman waddled down the terraced flagstone steps, smiling broadly, one hand waving wildly while the other supported a belly that looked large enough for twins.

“Katie! Hy!”

“Pheeb!” Kathryn shrieked, the door to the carriage flying open before it had even come to a halt.

“Damnation, Hyacinth!” the duke barked when it looked as if his wife might vault out after her younger sister. “You will wait for the steps to be let down,” he commanded, using his ducal voice.

To Andrew’s astonished amusement the duchess meekly obeyed her husband, waiting until he could help her from the coach before hurrying to join her siblings.

Kathryn flung herself into the arms of the very pregnant Lady Needham hard enough to make Andrew wince.