Page 42 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Just what had Miss Martin been up to wandering around the house?

Was it possible that she’d been in the conservatory—although it was certainly not on the way to anywhere else—and heard him?

His stomach clenched at the appalling thought.

Unfortunately, it seemed like the best explanation for her dislike.

“You will forgive me if I point out that your animus sounds almost personal in nature, Miss Martin.”

“Your past behavior should be a personal affront to every decent woman, whether she knows you or not,” Miss Martin retorted heatedly. “But it just so happens that I am friends with Sarah Creighton.”

Any sympathy or guilt he’d been feeling toward her drained away. “Indeed,” he said dryly. “Friends with Miss Creighton, are you? Surely, as you are such dear friends, you know that is no longer her name?”

She twisted around until her nose was touching his chin, her dark brown eyes burning into his. “You are smiling!”

“Am I?” he asked.

“You are not even ashamed or regretful of what you did, are you?”

“Ashamed? No. Do I regret it? More often than you would believe,” he muttered, and then laughed at her look of horror.

“You are—you are—”

“What am I?” he asked, although he could guess.

Her jaw worked, but she clamped her lips tightly together, drawing his attention to her mouth again, which was quite lovely. Indeed, this close to her he had to admit her features were not without charm. She had no stature to speak of and would never be called beautiful, but she was not unattractive. Her eyes, which were large and well-formed, were a warm shade of dark brown. Or at least he thought they might warm up when she was not regarding a person with outraged loathing.

Interestingly, Andrew decided that her most appealing trait—aside from her lush bottom, sweet lower lip, and big brown eyes—was her keen, albeit hostile, intelligence. It had been Sylvester’s new wife who’d shown Andrew that a woman’s appeal could sometimes be enhanced by a magnitude if she was clever.

Who would have guessed?

Hyacinth Bellamy was such a scrawny, unprepossessing female that she’d had no problem convincing half the ton—the male half—that she was a man. For months she had rubbed elbows with dozens of men in London’s gambling dens and yet nobody had guessed her gender.

After living in proximity with the duchess for several months, Andrew could not deny the woman emanated a magnetism—not to mention significant sexual appeal—that was far more compelling than a pretty face.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Miss Martin demanded.

Andrew realized he’d been staring rather than watching where they were going. Not that Drake needed any help on this well-trodden path.

“Like what?” he asked. Andrew silently willed her to say the word; he wanted to see what her lips looked like when they formed the word lustful.

She frowned, visibly irked. “I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

Andrew grinned. “Why are you so angry at me?”

“I’m not—”

“Were you in the conservatory that first night?”

The scarlet wave that flooded her face was answer enough.

God damn his wretched mouth! What an arse he was. “I deeply regret what I said, Miss Martin. It had nothing to do with you. It was just a thoughtless—”

“You must think I am stupid as well as a drab little dab of a woman if you think I will believe that!” she all but snarled.

“My words weren’t just unkind, they were untrue, as well. No—” he said when she opened her mouth, probably to argue—“just listen a moment and allow me to finish. I was being flippant and disagreeable to Lady Kathryn. We have a—a, well, let’s just call it an adversarial relationship and I was looking for something to say that would put her back up, hoping it would drive her away.” He stared into her disbelieving eyes. “It is the truth, Miss Martin. Your clothing is, I think you would have to admit, not exactly colorful, but your person is not drab. Surely you must know that?”

Her blazing gaze, pink cheeks, and flaring nostrils told him that his words had failed to appease her.