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."

Godlike was something he'd heard many times. But sulky? "I am not sul—"

"Oh, yes you are."

"What makes you think—"

"I overheard Hy and Chatham discussing you a few weeks ago."

"You overheard them? Eavesdropping is a nasty, craven, and detestable habit."

"My, my—how fierce you are! Rawrrr. " She clawed the air.

Andrew couldn't help laughing. "You are ridiculous."

"Do you want to hear what they said, or are you too noble ?"

Andrew's hands itched to yank Kathryn over his knee and administer the spanking she so desperately deserved. Instead, he sneered and said, "Just get on with it."

"They said you were nothing like your normal self—not arrogant, obnoxious, or even indiscriminately amorous, as far as Chatham could discern."

Why did hearing that irritate him? Why should he care if his cousin and his wife had noticed that he'd not gone tomcatting while living in their house?

The fact that he was bothered, bothered him even more.

And it was all Kathryn's fault.

He retorted, rather lamely, "Little girls like you should not be privy to such information."

Rather than be offended or annoyed—as any normal adolescent would be—her smirk grew into a smile that was truly terrifying. "I know what you need, Drew. "

"Oh, do you?" Andrew heard himself taunt. Christ! Are you mad? some far wiser part of his brain demanded. Do not poke her!

Kathryn nodded. "Yes, I certainly do."

"And what is that, Katie ?" Andrew asked, evidently unable to control his own mouth.

"You need a wife. And I am going to find you one."

He sputtered wordlessly and shook his head. "Why you—you impudent saucebox! Just who the hell do you think you are?" he demanded, not caring about his language or the barely leashed fury in his voice.

"Don't act so perplexed. It is our wager."

"Wager?" he repeated blankly.

"Don't you remember when I said that I would never marry, and you laughed at me?"

Andrew continued to stare in open mouthed incomprehension.

"You don't remember," she accused, looking peeved.

"No, I don't remember," he was happy to retort. "I daresay whatever you are babbling about is a product of your demented imagination as I sincerely doubt that I would wager about—"

"You. Did." Her quiet voice was unexpectedly menacing, and a shiver of dread rippled down his spine.

Andrew had been knee-deep in dead bodies, he'd charged into guns that all but promised death, and he'd stared his own mortality in the face a dozen or more times.

And yet Lady Kathryn Bellamy, a mere chit, somehow managed to put the fear of God into him.

It is because she fears nothing.

Andrew suddenly knew that was the truth. Kathryn was reckless, careless, and—quite frankly—half-mad. She reminded Andrew of the stories he'd heard about Richard Barry—the infamous Lord Hellgate. Andrew had been an adolescent when Hellgate had been in his prime, but he remembered well enough the tales he'd heard at Eton about how the young lord had arrived at school with an unprecedented ￡1,000 at his disposal. Barrymore's money had run through his fingers like water. His antics increasingly extreme until he had died at the tender age of three-and-twenty.

While Andrew doubted Lady Kathryn would eat a live tomcat, which had been one of Barrymore's more shocking wagers, he could see from the desperate glitter in her eyes that there were few self-imposed limits on her behavior.

Do. Not. Provoke. Her, a voice in his head commanded.

"Why don't you go talk to her instead of yearning from afar?" the object of his terrified ruminations demanded. "Ask her to dance. That is why we are here."

For once, Andrew refused to be drawn by her baiting.

"What? Is the big, brave war hero afraid to ask a downtrodden dab of—"

"Would you please keep your voice down," Andrew hissed.

"Nobody can hear me." She laughed, a warm throaty laugh that should have been appealing, but instead reminded him of how he'd felt when he'd heard artillery that was miles closer than it should have been.

"Is this revenge, Kathryn?"

"Revenge?" Her eyebrows shot up and she looked genuinely confused. "For what?"

"For abducting your sister?"

Kathryn scoffed. "Selina can take care of herself. If she wanted a pound of flesh, trust me, she would take it."

Andrew did not doubt that for a moment.

She leaned forward. "I know all about Sarah Creighton."

"What do you think you know?" Andrew asked, after a few seconds of slack-jawed shock. He knew that he should shut his mouth. But, once again, he could not seem to stop himself.

"You know what I know."

"Why don't you tell me, anyhow?"

She laughed.

Andrew struggled for patience.

"Oh dear," she said.

"What?"

"Look." She gestured to where Dixon was helping Miss Martin into her coat. "It seems that you missed what is often called a golden opportunity, Shelton."

Andrew wanted to say something clever and flip, but as he watched Dixon lay his hand on Miss Martin's lower back and guide her out of the church hall, he was forced to accept that Kathryn, for all her youth and inexperience was in this instance painfully correct.

He should have asked Miss Martin to dance.