Page 41 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“Hurting? No, but it is rather, er, cramped.”

Andrew laughed. “I’m afraid there is no avoiding that.”

“No, I suppose not.” But he felt her try to shrink away, regardless.

“Stop squirming,” he said, tightening his arm around her midriff.

“I am not squirming,” she said, stilling her squirming.

They rode in silence as Drake picked his way through the trees. Only when they reached the path did Andrew feel some of the tension leave her body.

“So, you are an early morning riser, too,” he said when it was clear she would not speak.

“Yes.”

He thought that was all he’d get, but then she went on.

“It is the only time of day when my services are not needed.”

“When does your mistress usually wake?”

“Not until eleven, sometimes even twelve.”

“And then you are at her beck and call until you retire?”

“That is the life of a companion,” she agreed, a certain wry amusement in her tone.

Odd how Andrew had never given any thought to companions before. Well, not really odd, he supposed. Why would he think about such people? Companions were, in his experience, wraithlike women who flickered insubstantially around either very old ladies or young girls in their first Seasons. The only time he had really noticed a companion or chaperone was when he’d needed to conceive of ways to get around them and steal time with their charges.

“Do you like working for Lady Addiscombe?”

“She pays a generous wage.”

Andrew was amused by her evasive answer. “Is she your first employer?” he asked, recalling what Kathryn had said about her father dying.

“Do you really care? Or are you just asking questions to pass the time?”

He blinked at her hostile response. “I don’t think you like me, Miss Martin. Why is that, I wonder?”

“I should think the answer to that question is perfectly obvious.”

He had been expecting a polite denial and was nonplussed by her direct answer. “You refer to my notorious debauchery, I suppose.”

“Debaucheries.”

He couldn’t help grinning. When was the last time a chit barely out of the schoolroom—or any woman—had scolded him to his face?

Andrew couldn’t think of a single episode. Ever. It was his experience that women giggled, stammered, or lowered their eyes in his presence. Even those matrons who disapproved of him never made a peep of protest if he asked their daughters to dance.

Lady Selina had not giggled or blushed, but neither had she given him a proper raking. At least not until he had behaved abominably toward her.

You behaved abominably last night in the conservatory. Or have you forgotten what you said about Miss Martin?

Andrew felt a pang of embarrassment at the memory of his unkind words. But she had not been there—

He suddenly recalled how they had encountered each other on the stairs. He assumed she had been fetching and carrying for her employer, but the countess had gone up to bed earlier.