Page 5 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Here was a chance to escape a life of servitude!

Townshend was a kindly man and wealthy, besides. He possessed more than enough money to pursue his only passion—illuminated manuscripts—and also support a wife in luxury.

He believed, erroneously, that Stacia shared his passion.

If she accepted him, she would need to continue lying for the rest of her life.

If she accepted him, she might have children to satisfy her need for love. After all, what was romantic love when compared with that of a child?

If she accepted him, she could continue to move in society—to socialize with the only people she knew.

If she accepted him, she could continue to see Lord Shelton, who had already returned to London after destroying Sarah Creighton’s life, unabashed and unashamed of his infamy.

It was that last thought that tipped the scales and cut short her one avenue of escape. How could she marry a man when her mind—and perhaps even her heart—was always on another? It would not be fair to the earl, and it would not be fair to herself.

And so Stacia politely declined Lord Townshend’s offer.

A week later, she accepted a position far away from London—somewhere a man like Shelton would never be caught dead: Bath.

Two Years Ago

Stacia smiled and nodded to numerous people as she navigated the crowded Pump Room, a glass of the famous healing water in her hands.

In the months that she’d worked as a companion for the very elderly Lady Hamilton, Stacia had come to the Pump Room five days a week, rain or shine—excepting the few days earlier in the year when her employer had been bed-bound with a head cold.

Her employer was a kind lady who was easy to work for—certainly when compared to some of the other employers she’d seen.

And if Stacia’s days were boring and all blurred together with daily visits to the Pump Room, cards at Lady Lydia’s on Monday and Mrs. Markham’s on Thursday, and a half dozen other routinized activities? Well, boredom was better than the alternative, which was serving as a governess to an unruly brood of brats.

That’s what she was telling herself that morning as she performed the same ritual for what she calculated to be either the 199th or 200th time.

And then, in the midst of the predictable tedium, a face she had only seen in her dreams for almost two years appeared before her.

Time seemed to slow, and the glass began to slide between her limp fingers as she stared, gaping, at what surely had to be an apparition.

A hand closed around hers and a familiar, jocular voice boomed in her ear, “Careful, Miss Martin! You almost lost your precious burden.”

She wrenched her gaze away from the Marquess of Shelton and turned to Colonel Kelley, who grinned down at her.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she murmured, taking the glass back.

He clucked his tongue. “What is this sir business?”

“I am sorry…Richard.”

Colonel Kelly smiled, the genuine expression making his handsome, weathered face even more attractive. “That’s better, my girl.”

But no matter how attractive the colonel was, her eyes slid toward where Lord Shelton stood talking to Lady Hamilton and her friend, Lady Lydia Gregg, who seemed to be leaning on Shelton’s arm, almost as if she had some claim to him. Were they related? Stacia’s employer visited Lady Lydia every week—sometimes twice—so why hadn’t Stacia heard of this connection? What was Shelton doing in Bath at this time of year? What—

Colonel Kelley leaned close and tried to whisper—something that wasn’t possible for a man who’d spent thirty years barking orders at subordinates. “Shelton will have all the doves in a flutter, the rascal.” He gave an indulgent chuckle.

“You sound as if you admire the man.”

The colonel had the grace to appear sheepish. “Oh, I know he has done some things of late that do not reflect well on him, but—”

“That is certainly one way of putting it. A mild way, I must say.”

The colonel looked pained. “What you need to understand, my dear, is that Shelton is one of Britain’s most highly decorated soldiers.”