Page 73 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Chapter 14

The snow held off until almost six, which was when the booths closed for the day and the village Christmas ball commenced.

Andrew had never heard of a dance beginning so early.

Their small party reassembled in the brand-new church hall and occupied a large table on the periphery of the dance floor.

Andrew found himself seated between Kathryn and one of Bellamy’s school mates.

“Needham had this hall built last summer,” Kathryn told Andrew, not that he had asked. He had begun to assume that anything that was new in the area was thanks to the generous viscount.

“The old church hall burned down more than fifteen years ago. For most of my life the village dances have been held on the second floor of the pub,” Kathryn went on, her tone leaving no doubt of her opinion on the subject.

Andrew’s gaze slid toward the dance floor, where Miss Martin was currently partnered with Dixon for a country dance. The man seemed to linger around her.

Whatever Dixon was saying to her was enough to have her smiling and laughing.

Andrew felt an unaccustomed—and unwanted—stab of envy. Or perhaps jealousy. He could never recall which was which. But he did know that both emotions were inappropriate in this situation. He had no right to want Miss Martin’s smiles for himself. Thanks to more than a decade of pursuing nothing except revenge, he was the owner of a dilapidated estate and a nascent stud operation. He had nothing to offer Miss Martin. Well, nothing other than an awful reputation.

He would come into his inheritance next year. He did not know the exact amount—he had never bothered to talk to Sylvester’s man of business, who managed his investments—but suspected it was barely enough to make some repairs at Rosewood.

There was no getting around the fact that he needed to marry an heiress. He wanted somebody not too terribly young—somebody who could be sensible because he could not offer love. No, never that. He had no desire to experience such a crushing emotion all over again.

It would be a practical arrangement. A true marriage of convenience. Her money would help restore his estate and he would give her status and children, one of whom would hopefully be a better steward than Andrew had ever been.

So, no. Miss Martin was not for him, no matter how much he appeared to be drawn to her.

Andrew watched with increasing displeasure as Miss Martin danced the next set with Needham’s other secretary, a tall, dark-haired man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a Gothic novel.

Dennehy. That was his name. He was exactly the sort of brooding looking man that women seemed to find attractive.

Miss Martin was smiling up at him and laughing at something he’d said. Dennehy smiled—a faintly villainous smirk—his eyes heavily lidded as he stared down at her, a different expression slowly taking possession of his features.

Andrew recognized the look on the other man’s face instantly because he’d felt the exact same thing himself. Dennehy had just realized how attractive his dance partner was. Oh, she looked pretty enough in general, but when she laughed or smiled? Then she truly came alive.

He didn’t know Dennehy’s background, but marriage to the daughter of a viscount—even one as impoverished and lacking in connections as Miss Martin—would certainly be a step up socially.

An image of Dennehy and Miss Martin doing something other than dancing—Dennehy’s much larger body covering Miss Martin’s delicate, far-smaller one—flickered through his mind,

Andrew gritted his teeth against the image. He did not like it. Not. At. All.

“Are you…growling?”

His head whipped around at the sound of Kathryn’s voice. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was clearing my throat.”

“She would look at you the same way if you didn’t constantly refer to her as a drab little dab of a woman.”

Andrew didn’t bother to pretend that he didn’t know who she meant. “Constantly? I only said it once.” And I deeply regret it.

He leaned back in his chair, putting some distance between himself and Kathryn’s far-too-knowing gaze. But his irritation got the better of him and he leaned toward her and snarled, “It is none of your business who I look at or how I look at them.”

“I have made you my business, Shelton.”

Andrew felt a stab of genuine alarm at her words. “What the devil does that mean?” he asked, using a low, menacing tone of voice that had sent his soldiers scuttling to obey.

But the woman beside him only smiled. “I am determined to wipe that miserable, sulky expression from your godlike features.”

Godlikewas something he’d heard many times. But sulky? “I am not sul—”