Page 175 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

“He’s quite the lad,” Andrew said, laughing as he turned from the portrait to Stacia. He took her hands in both of his and her heart pounded at the warmth in his eyes. “You are very somber for a ball, Stacia. What thoughts are consuming you? Is it your employer and how I’ve landed you in hot—boiling, probably—water?” He clucked his tongue before she could answer. “You needn’t suffer her ill humor, love. You know you have friends here—powerful ones like Chatham and Needham—and they will help you find a more pleasant mistress.”

Stacia felt strangely disappointed in his words.

Why? Because you wanted him to offer marriage so you could reject him yet again? You will need to wait a year to hear the words you now want. If you are fortunate, that is.

“There is another alternative, of course,” he said, his eyelids lowering slightly, his gloved fingers tightening around hers. “You could marry me and let me sweep you away to a life of moderate comfort in a ramshackle Yorkshire manor.” His mouth twitched into a self-mocking smile. “I wish I could fib and say that I will one day make you a duchess, but that is a position I have never wanted. Not just because Chatham would first need to die, and I would dislike that terribly, but because I would make a dreadful duke.” He raised a hand to her cheek, lightly skimming her jaw. “If you marry me, you will likely have to satisfy yourself with living out your days as plain Mrs. Andrew Derrick.” He cocked his head. “What say you, Miss Martin? Will you throw in your lot with a man who will never be screamingly wealthy, whose ridiculous definitions will always ensure you win at Dictionary, and…” his smile grew wicked, “who will always agree to don a blindfold and perform naked whenever you desire.”

Nobody was close enough to hear his naughty words, although she could tell by the way several of the couples were stealing glances and smirking that at least a few people suspected Andrew might be proposing.

“If you say no today, I will come ask again in a year, Stacia,” he said, his serious tone bringing her gaze back to his. “But if you tell me to leave you alone forever—that you do not want me—then I will not trouble you again.”

The stab of fear she felt at his words told her—even if she had not already decided—what she had to say. “I do not care about titles or ramshackle manors or stylish frocks. But I cannot marry a man who does not believe in fidelity.”

His expression turned almost terrifyingly stern. “Is this a condition to you saying yes, Miss Martin?”

Stacia quailed slightly beneath his intimidating gaze. This was it—the moment that could change her life forever. The men of their class kept mistresses—or at least patronized brothels. Even her father, least aristocratic aristocrat she had ever known, had kept a mistress.

If you stand your ground on this matter, you might lose him. Not just for a year, but forever.

That might be true.

But if I do not remain firm…

No, it was too unbearable to contemplate a future in which he not only did not love her but gave himself to other women.

“Yes, my lord. That is precisely what I am saying.”

He nodded slowly, his expression, for once, difficult to read. “My immediate reaction was to be offended by your question,” he said. “But then I realize that I have earned it with my reckless, caddish behavior over the years. I believe in marital fidelity, Stacia—not just for men, but also for women.” His nostrils flared slightly. “I will not share you. Ever.”

She caught her hysterical laugh before it broke free. As if that was even a remote danger!

But she didn’t say that. Instead, she reveled in the raw dominance—and yes, affection and desire, too—that blazed in his eyes. It was not love, but it was more than she had ever expected from the unobtainable Marquess of Shelton.

Was it enough?

That was a difficult question to answer. And she wasn’t sure it was a fair question, either. Could people ever know what might be enough ten, twenty years hence?

One thing Stacia knew for a certainty was that she did not want to envision a future without Andrew in it.

And that, she decided, was answer enough.

“I will marry you, my lord.”

A slow smile spread over his face, and he took her chin between his fingers, his eyes boring into hers. “You have made me a very, very, very happy man, Stacia. And a proud man. I vow that I will always put your comfort and needs before my own.” He kissed her upturned lips.

Stacia told herself that what he offered—companionship and hopefully children—was far better than what he must have had in his youth with the love of his life. Passion burned out, after all.

Did it not?

Yes, this was better.

She was still trying to convince herself of that as they walked back toward the ballroom. Before they were even half-way there, the countess—trailed closely by the Duke and Duchess of Chatham—entered the hall.

“A word in the drawing room, Martin!” The countess didn’t wait for an answer before storming toward a door and flinging it open before a hovering footman could sprint over to open it. “Leave us,” she snapped—although it was unclear who the words were directed at: the servant, Shelton, or the duke and duchess.

Andrew turned to her. “You don’t need to face her, Stacia. I will speak—”

“I need to do this.”

He stared into her eyes for a moment and then nodded. “I know you feel as if you owe her service until she can find a replacement companion, but you do not. I will see there is somebody to accompany her back to Bath. Even if I must do it myself.”

Stacia nodded, her head in a whirl.

He pressed her hand and then released her.

She took a deep breath and followed her employer.