Chapter 3

Andrew was just finishing dressing when there was a light knock on the door.

"Come in," he called out, giving his cravat one last tweak.

The door opened and Sylvester strode into his room. "I am glad I caught you before you went down."

"Are you doing reconnaissance for your wife?" Andrew teased, turning away from the looking glass and picking up his tailcoat.

Sylvester chuckled as he came up behind Andrew and helped him into the snugly tailored garment. "It is true that Hyacinth is very curious about how your conversation with Lady Shaftsbury went—so is Kathryn. So am I," the duke added, and then flicked a piece of lint off Andrew's shoulder before stepping back. "I do wish you would engage a valet, Drew. You know I will gladly pay."

"While I appreciate your offer, I must yet again respectfully decline. I'm already so far in debt to you that I will never dig my way out," Andrew said, slipping on his father's signet ring before turning to his cousin. "Besides," he added with a slight smile, "if I engage a valet then I won't be able to crow that I have a duke waiting on me hand and foot."

Sylvester rolled his eyes.

Andrew strode toward the door. "As for my meeting with Lady Shaftsbury, I am afraid you are precipitate," he said, opening the door for the duke and then following him out of the room. "She gave me short shrift earlier, informing me that she was too busy to waste time on me. I am on my way to her and Shaftsbury's chambers to have the momentous summit now."

Sylvester nodded but said nothing as they strode down a magnificent corridor that boasted pointed transverse arches soaring overhead.

"This is spectacular," Andrew said, his voice hushed, as though he were in a church.

"Hyacinth told me the entire south wing of the house had been a ruin the last time she saw it. Needham has evidently brought tradesmen from all over Europe to have the house ready by Christmas, sinking a fortune into the place."

"From what I've heard the man has a fortune and more to spare."

Sylvester's mouth pulled down on the side that was not rendered too stiff by the huge scar, his expression pensive. "It is true he is wealthy. But he has already done more than his fair share for the family."

Andrew groaned. "I know that look, Sylvester. Please tell me you aren't planning to take on part of the Bellamy burden?"

"Needham has been bearing the burden of Papa and Mama Addiscombe for half a year. They have four married daughters now; it only seems fair that the rest of us should shoulder our share."

"Four married daughters? But I thought the one working up in Scotland was unmarried?"

"Ah, you did not come for tea earlier, so you missed it."

"Missed what?" Andrew had gone directly to his chambers rather than join the family reunion. The last thing the Bellamy siblings needed was their sister's abductor taking tea with them.

"Lady Aurelia arrived."

"She was not expected?"

"Her brother and sisters believed she was not coming. Only Needham and his wife knew." Sylvester smiled slyly. "And she did not arrive alone, either."

"I can see you are almost bursting with news."

"She is now Lady Crewe and came with her husband, his daughter from his prior marriage, and two other guests."

"Crewe?" Andrew repeated, frowning. "Lord!" he said as he matched a face to the name. "You don't mean—"

"Yes, it is the same Crewe you are thinking of. Indeed, the only one I know of."

"This has to be his third or fourth marriage. I thought he was half dead from being mauled by a tiger?"

"It is his third marriage, and it was a panther." Sylvester reached up and stroked the savage scar on his own cheek, the gesture unconscious. "He is badly scarred, and not just on his face, but appears recovered."

Andrew recalled Crewe from years gone by. The man had a reputation for raking that did not equal Andrew's, of course, but he was a near rival. Or at least he had been. Andrew had not seen Crewe in ages.

He turned to his cousin, leaving aside the matter of the sudden marriage, and returning to the subject of Papa Bellamy and who should frank his expensive lifestyle. "You, Shaftsbury, and Crewe might be downy, but none of you can hold a candle to Needham's wealth."

"Thank you so much for pointing what an impoverished beggar I am."

Andrew smiled. "Now you know what it feels like to be compared and found wanting. And no, you have never made me feel like an impoverished beggar. I did that to myself." He stopped and frowned at the green and gilt door in front of him. And then he strode back down the corridor to the door he had just passed, which was scarlet and gilt. "This is where we must part ways, Sylvester."

The duke gave him a look of sympathy. "Er, do you know what you are going to say?"

"I am going to beg her forgiveness and grovel."

"That seems an excellent plan. Come find me in the billiards room when you are done."

"I will if Shaftsbury leaves me walking and talking," he said, only partly jesting. He waited until his cousin had disappeared down the stairs before knocking.

The door opened a moment later and Andrew found himself face-to-face with the Marquess of Shaftsbury himself rather than a servant.

The older man smiled. "Good evening, Shelton."

"Er, Shaftsbury," he said, sounding like an idiot. Andrew didn't know why he was so stunned that a blind man would answer his own door. "I suppose your wife told you I was coming?"

"No."

"Then how did you know it was me?"

"I recognized your smell."

Andrew's jaw sagged.

A squawky laugh that Andrew remembered well came from somewhere behind the marquess. "Caius, are you tormenting my guest?"

"No, that is your job, my dear. I am just teasing him a little." Shaftsbury's lips tilted up on one side. "It has been a long, long time, Shelton. I think you must have been ten or eleven the last time I saw you."

"Yes. I remember that summer well."

Shaftsbury's smile turned into a grin. "You used to follow Chatham and me around like a lovelorn chit."

"Thank you for reminding me."

The marquess threw back his head and laughed.

Andrew had expected the other man to call him out for what he'd done to his wife. He supposed mockery was better than being punched in the face. Although it was a near thing.

As if reading his thoughts, the humor drained from the marquess's face and he stopped chuckling, leaned closer, and hissed, "I can't bring myself to hate you since your caddish actions brought Selina into my life." He lowered his voice even more. "You behaved like a scoundrel, Shelton. If this wasn't a family get together and I wasn't in another man's house—and if I had not promised my wife that I would behave—then I would be sorely tempted to kick your arse for you."

Andrew swallowed at the menace in the other man's voice, pinioned by the intensity in his sightless silver-gray eyes.

"I deeply regret my behavior, Shaftsbury." He hesitated, and then added, "I am only grateful that something good came out of it."

"No thanks to you, " the other man retorted.

"No thanks to me," Andrew agreed.

The marquess hesitated for a long moment before taking a step back. "You might as well come in," he said, his gaze fixed somewhere over Andrew's shoulder. "I hope you have a taste for crow, Shelton."

"I have come prepared to dine, Shaftsbury."

The marquess snorted and Andrew entered a suite that was far grander than his own. The fireplace was almost as tall as he was, the high, coffered ceiling glinting with gold.

As spectacular as the trappings were, they were still eclipsed by the woman who occupied the room. Like a priceless jewel on a magnificent crown, Lady Shaftsbury sat in the middle of a gold brocade settee. Her delft blue eyes were cold and distant.

Heat surged up Andrew's neck at her scathing look.

The marquess made his way to the settee with the use of his cane and lowered himself beside his wife, who continued to stare at Andrew, keeping him standing like a supplicant for at least a minute before saying, "Lord Shelton."

Andrew was impressed by how much scorn she could inject into just two words. As he studied her beautiful face, he realized she wasn't the same soft kitten he'd abducted last summer. She had been a girl—regardless of the fact that she'd been at least twenty—last Season. Now she was all woman and had fully come into her own. Andrew doubted he would have meddled with this woman if he'd met her last spring.

Lady Shaftsbury inclined her head. "Have a seat, Shelton."

Andrew flipped back his coat tails before lowering into the big armchair across from the couple, not sure whether he should be flattered or alarmed that she was allowing him to sit rather than kneel.

"I was astounded when my sister wrote to me about you coming to my family's home for Christmas."

He'd not believed his face could get hotter, but the cool mockery in her tone made him feel an inch tall. "You were not the only one astounded," he admitted, smiling wryly.

She merely stared, unmoved by his attempt at humor.

Andrew discarded any hope of charming her. "In the main, I came here because my cousin asked me to. But I also came because I wanted to see you; to apologize to your face for the wrong I did you." When he paused, she gave a slight gesture for him to continue. "I am profoundly grateful that you were not irreparably damaged by my actions. I don't expect your forgiveness. You have already been more than generous just giving me this hearing and I thank you for that." Andrew stood. "I won't take any more of your time." He nodded at the marquess, recalled the man couldn't see and murmured a quiet, "My lord," and then turned on his heel.

"Lord Shelton." He had just reached for the door handle when her voice stopped him.

He forced himself to turn. "Yes, my lady?"

"I stopped being mad at you a long time ago, right after I met Shaftsbury for the first time." Her expression softened as she reached over and took her husband's far larger hand, entwining their fingers. Her lips suddenly quirked into a mischievous smile, this one more like the innocent young woman he'd known before. "Perhaps it wasn't the first time I met him, but surely by the third or fourth."

Shaftsbury laughed. "Thank you, my dear." He lifted his wife's hand to his lips, the love on his face so raw that Andrew felt shaken.

He jerked his gaze away from the other man and inclined his head to the marchioness. "Thank you. You are very generous, my lady. Far more than I deserve."

"I have one question, Lord Shelton."

"Of course."

"If the duke had not fallen in with your plans, would you have abandoned me like you did Miss Sarah Creighton?"

Her soft words were like a knife to his belly. And not entirely unexpected, nor undeserved.

"It was my plan that we would marry regardless of what happened, my lady."

She held his gaze for a long moment, and then nodded. "I believe you. And I also forgive you."

Andrew gaped, too dumbfounded to do more than say, "Thank you, my lady."

"I forgive you, but I cannot say the same for my family." She paused and then added, "Especially my mother." She gave him a look that was almost pitying. "Lady Addiscombe does not yet know you are here. I am afraid you have a confrontation awaiting you that will be far more unpleasant than this one has been."

Andrew felt like running down to the stables, hopping on Drake, and riding away as fast as his horse would carry him. Instead, he nodded and said, "It is no less than I deserve."

Lady Shaftsbury laughed. "Oh, trust me, my lord, nobody—and I mean nobody —deserves my mother's wrath."

***

If Stacia hadn't been hurrying so fast, and not looking where she was going, she would have seen the large man who stepped out of a door right in front of her.

But she was hurrying—her mind on her disgruntled employer rather than what she was doing—and so she plowed right into the man, the impact slamming a yelp from her and a low, masculine " Ooof!" from her victim.

It was like running into a wall and she bounced back, arms flailing as she struggled to stay upright.

Big hands closed around her upper arms, steadying her.

Stacia craned her neck until she could see the face of her savior.

The world seemed to shift on its axis.

"Steady on," the apparition murmured, his voice like something from a dream. If his hands had not been holding her, her knees would have buckled.

No, it could not be!

She jerked one arm free from his grasp and rubbed her eyes. Hard.

But when she took her hand away, the god-like face still loomed over her. It was a face she'd imagined in her dreams more times than she could count.

It was older now—there were lines fanning out from the corner of his eyes and the perfect bone structure seemed more chiseled, as if he had lost weight—but it was undeniably the man of her fantasies: Lord Andrew Derrick, Marquess of Shelton.

"You!"

The blazing blue eyes blinked and his golden-brown brows descended, his perfect features shifting into a mask of perplexity. "Er, I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

Although she should have expected them, his words were like a slap, and she reeled back a step, her head buzzing and her gaze blurry.

He reached out again to steady her.

"Don't touch me!" she snarled, swatting away his hands.

Shelton jerked back. "I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "I thought you were going to faint."

He was right, she had been feeling faint. Only her fury had revived her.

Stacia held his gaze, glaring with all her might, as if she could force recognition into his beautiful eyes.

But he just regarded her with a look of confusion that was quickly turning to an expression of impatience—as if he had somewhere more important, and interesting, to go.

How…lowering.

"You are not hurt?" he asked brusquely, glancing down the hallway, his attention already somewhere else.

Some things never changed.

"Of course I am not hurt," she retorted, ashamed when the misery that was crippling her leaked into her voice.

Not that Shelton noticed. He gave her a smile that was perfunctory at best and dismissive at worst. It was a smile she was more than familiar with, the sort she had received often. Only a few times had a man looked past her short stature and unfashionable coiffure to the person within.

And Shelton was not one of those men.

Without a second glance, he strode off down the corridor.

Naturally, Stacia turned to watch him, loathing herself as she did so. The familiar hunger—which she had foolishly believed she'd rooted out of her system—gnawed away at her as savagely as ever.

She shook her head in wonder. He was just so unspeakably gorgeous , even walking away. He moved with the athletic grace of a man entirely at home in his body. And why shouldn't he be? Who wouldn't like to occupy that body?"

Stacia blushed at the thought, even though nobody else was there and they would not have heard if they had been.

They might not have heard your thoughts, but they would have seen the naked lust on your face clearly enough.

Stacia wanted to argue against the truth of the accusation. After all, what in the world did she know about lust ? She who had never even kissed a man. And yet as hazy as her desire for him might be, there was no denying the visceral sensation in her belly—and lower—as she all but consumed him with her eyes.

You know exactly what those excruciating, unladylike urges you feel in the middle of the night are. And we both know what you've done to find relief from—

"Shut. Up," she said. And then glanced around to make sure nobody had overheard her.

Stacia might not know what it was she wanted from Shelton, but there was no doubt that she wanted him.

Disgusted with herself, she forcibly pushed and shoved Shelton's image out of her mind and collected her rattled wits. Why was she still slack-jawed, standing in the middle of the corridor while her employer was probably fuming about her lengthy absence?

She hurried back the way she'd been going before she literally ran into the object of her fantasies.

Lady Addiscombe had sent her down to the kitchens to fetch a posset that evidently only the housekeeper at Wych House could make.

"It needs to stew for hours, and I want it to be ready when I come back after dinner," she had explained, even though Stacia had not asked why the countess couldn't just ring for a servant to deliver the message. She had learned over the past seven months that she'd worked for the older woman that it was easier to do what the countess wanted without asking questions.

She scratched softly on the door to Lady Addiscombe's room—one was never to knock—before opening it.

"What in the world took you so long, Martin?" the countess demanded as Ackers dressed her hair.

"Er, I got lost, my lady."

Lady Addiscombe fixed her with a piercing, suspicious look before making a loud hmmph noise. She scowled at her expression in the looking glass and then slapped away her maid's hands. "Quit fussing, Ackers," she snapped when the other woman attempted to adjust the turquoise velvet and silk turban that complemented her rich chestnut hair.

Miss Ackers cut Stacia a wry look and even gave a slight eyeroll that had Stacia dipping her chin to hide her smile. The countess would be furious if she ever discovered that her employees often shared a laugh or smile at her irritable temper tantrums.

"Come, come, Martin! Don't dawdle." The countess strode toward the door, which Stacia hurried to open for her. "I know my children will meet down there before dinner even though Lady Needham "—she sneered as she said the words, her mouth twisting into an ugly pucker that bore an unfortunate resemblance to the back end of a pug— "neglected to impart that information."

Stacia had no response for that. What could she say? That she sympathized with the countess's daughters in wanting a few moments without their mother's critical observations and crushing expectations?

It was difficult to imagine growing up with such a parent. Her own mother had been sweet, vague, and ill for most of the eight years Stacia had known her.

"—that is not something I shall take part in. Martin? Martin ! Are you paying attention?" The countess stopped in the middle of the corridor and whirled on her.

Too late, Stacia realized she'd missed the first part of her employer's words. "I'm sorry, my lady. I—I'm afraid my mind wandered for a moment." She forced herself to meet the older woman's annoyed gaze.

"Is this too much excitement for you, Martin? Are you overwhelmed? Perhaps eating dinner in the dining room is more than you can manage? I could arrange for a tray to be brought up to your room. Or perhaps you would rather eat in the servants' hall?"

"No, my lady. I'm sorry, I was just trying to memorize the surroundings, so I would not get lost again."

The countess's nostrils flared slightly, as if she smelled a falsehood. Finally, after what felt like a hundred years, she resumed walking. "What I said— if you had been listening—was that I have no intention of getting caught up in any after dinner foolishness." She lightly touched her temple with one elegant hand. "I already have a slight headache just thinking about the evening ahead. Protracted exposure to my children's boisterous and relentless enthusiasm would only make it worse."

"I understand, my lady." Why would you want to socialize with your children after not seeing them for half a year? And how appalling that your offspring and their families are exhibiting boisterous and relentless enthusiasm so close to Christmas?

The countess's head whipped around and for one horrifying moment Stacia wondered if the sarcastic words had accidentally slipped out of her mouth.

But the other woman merely gave her a brooding look before saying, "I want you to stay with them when I go up to my chambers."

"Er, you do?" The words were out before she could catch them.

She gave Stacia a withering look and said, in the tone one would use with an imbecile, "You have not heard a word I said, or you would know that I am not only horrified by the presence of Needham's illegitimate spawn in the house, but there is the added aggravation of my oldest daughter's… entourage, " she spat the last word.

Stacia had been astonished to learn the newly minted Countess of Crewe had brought along not only her husband and his daughter, but her husband's illegitimate son as well as the young man's mother. From the little she had seen the quintet seemed to adore each other.

How bizarre. And fascinating.

"—neither my son, nor Kathryn, associate with either. You will inform me of whatever they are plotting and planning for the upcoming days so that I might quash anything that is inappropriate before it is too late. My daughter Phoebe has all the sense of a toddler when it comes to propriety. Somebody must be the voice of sense and reason." The countess's mouth flexed into a petulant frown, the deep furrows in her pale cheeks indicating this expression was habitual.

Stacia felt profoundly sorry for the other woman. Even though she was attractive, healthy, and surrounded by family, Lady Addiscombe was not happy. Indeed, she had not been happy the entire time Stacia had worked for her.

Why was the woman so miserable all the time? Stacia would forfeit years of her life just to have a few more hours with either of her parents. Was there nobody in the world the countess loved or liked? If there was, Stacia had not met them yet.

A footman leapt to open the door to the drawing room and Lady Addiscombe sailed past him without sparing him so much as a glance.

Stacia gave the handsome servant a smile of thanks and hastened after her employer, almost slamming into her when the countess screeched to a halt in front of Lord Shelton. "You!" she accused, unknowingly echoing Stacia's exclamation from earlier.

Lord Shelton's eyes went comically round as Lady Addiscombe leveled an accusatory finger at him. "What on earth are you doing here? " she demanded in a voice that could probably be heard in the village.

Shelton's eyes slid right and then left, as if seeking an avenue of escape. When it was apparent there wasn't one, he bowed to the countess and said, "I am—"

"He is a guest in this house, Mama," Lady Needham said, speaking from one of the settees.

Lady Addiscombe's head whipped around and she glared at her daughter. "Have you lost what little sense you once possessed?"

The viscountess looked pained by her mother's words, but not—Stacia couldn't help noticing—especially hurt. "Mama, this is hardly—"

"I know he was living with your sister, but I don't expect any better out of Hyacinth as she has never had the sense to recognize what is proper behavior. But I did hope for better judgement from you, Phoebe."

"Hyacinth and His Grace wrote to Selina first and asked if it would be acceptable to bring Lord Shelton. Lord Shelton apologized to Selina in a letter months ago—and would have done so in person long before now if Selina had invited him to Courtland. As it is, he just left her and Lord Shaftsbury's chambers where he apologized."

"Of course he is apologizing! He was caught red-handed. No doubt Chatham has curtailed his allowance and now he is hanging on his cousin's sleeve for every penny he receives." She sneered. "Naturally Needham is so lacking in all decency that—"

"Mama." The viscountess spoke the single word in a quiet, calm tone, but the command in it was enough to stop her mother's diatribe. "You may say whatever you like about me but never utter a disparaging word about my husband in my presence."

Lady Addiscombe's jaw sagged at the quiet chastisement.

Stacia wanted to cheer. Although she had only exchanged a few words with the intimidating looking Viscount Needham she had quickly seen how kind he was to his wife and her family, not to mention that all the servants at Wych House absolutely adored their employer.

Lady Addiscombe glared at her daughter for a long, fraught moment.

The younger woman lifted her chin and stared back, the dull flush that crept up her throat the only sign she was agitated.

"Very well," the countess said. "As you are evidently determined to run your reputation into the ground by handing it over to a man who has no clue how to go on—an ironmonger, for pity's sake—I will speak to Needham myself. Where is he, pray?"

"Mama, I don't think—"

"No. You don't think," her mother snapped. "I wish to speak to your husband. If you don't tell me where to find him, I shall ferret him out myself. You will come with me, Martin," the countess said.

Stacia's jaw sagged. "Er, my lady? Should I summon a servant to—"

"That won't be necessary. I will take you," Lady Needham said wearily, and began to push to her feet.

Shelton, who was still standing in the middle of the room, hastened toward the viscountess and offered her his hand.

"Thank you," Lady Needham said, cutting him a swift, distracted smile before turning to her mother. "Needham was called to the library for some urgent business only a short time ago. I will accompany you."

" Business, " the countess sniffed. "I hardly require an escort; I know where the library is."

"Nevertheless," Lady Needham said firmly, "I will take you there."

Lady Addiscombe swanned from the room without responding, Lady Needham behind her.

Stacia glanced from face to face, meeting looks of sympathy, embarrassment, and—from Lord Bellamy's young school friends, open-mouthed befuddlement.

The countess's voice came from the corridor, " Martin! Do quit dawdling! I am waiting for you. "

Stacia briefly squeezed her eyes shut.

And then she hurried to catch up to her employer.