Page 107 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Chapter 22

Andrew shifted yet again on the torture contraption of a settee, the ancient wood creaking beneath his weight. He picked up his watch and squinted at it in the low light from the fire. It was only ten after one—scarcely a quarter of an hour since the last time he’d checked.

He bit back a groan. Christ. He’d never get any sleep. He’d been tossing and turning since eleven o’clock, when he’d had the presence of mind to send Miss Martin to bed before he did something he knew he’d be less than proud of later.

When he closed his eyes, he saw her face tilted toward him like a flower, laughing and joyous at something so simple as a waltz. The sight had been like a kick in the jewels. How had he ever thought her a grim little dab, or whatever idiotic description it was that had tripped off his tongue?

He’d merely seen a tiny female garbed in grays and browns and had dismissed her.

For years.

Andrew flopped onto his side and tried to pull his legs up onto the settee, but his tight pantaloons—and his current tumescence—made the action unpleasant. He ran a hand over the hard ridge of his arousal, touching himself too lightly to do anything but tease and torment. He had removed his coat, waistcoat, and boots, but had prudently kept on his shirt and pantaloons. It would have been too easy to take the edge off his desire if he’d been naked, which is how he preferred to sleep.

He rolled onto his back, grunting at the way the sofa sagged beneath him, pushing his spine in ways that woke up old injuries.

“My lord?”

Andrew made a thoroughly unmanly sound and sat up so quickly that his head spun. It took a moment for his blurred vision to focus on the figure of Miss Martin wrapped in a blanket, standing at the end of the settee.

“What are you doing up?” he demanded.

“It is impossible to sleep with all your thrashing about.”

He slumped onto his back, grimacing at the discomfort. “So sorry to inconvenience you.”

“You take the bed. I will take the—”

“I’m not taking the bed and putting you on this torture rack.”

“I am a foot shorter than you; it would not be nearly so bad.”

“No.”

The room was silent but for the slight settling of the old timbers.

“Then we can share the bed,” she said quietly.

Andrew sat up—all of him. “What?”

“You are clothed, as am I. And if—if—”

She appeared to be stuck, like a clock with a broken gear. “If?” he prodded.

“If you give me your word to behave, then I believe we can both enjoy a comfortable rest.”

“Behave, hmm? I have never heard that word before. What does it mean?”

“Very droll, my lord.”

“I’m not sure I’m capable of behaving, Miss Martin.”

She heaved a sigh. Even though it was dark, he could imagine her tightly pursed lips.

“But I will try,” he said after a moment, and then stood up with a groan.

“Was it very bad?” she asked as they walked toward the bed.

“Awful. Left side or right side?”