Page 192 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Stacia laughed. “I know you have more seat—I can see it.”

He grinned down at her and slipped his arm around her. “How did your fitting go?”

“It is the last one, for which I am very grateful.”

“I am eager to see you in the gown.”

“You will laugh,” she assured him. “I resemble a short, squat toadstool with legs.” He laughed, but Stacia was serious. “I will just be glad to get the affair over with,” she said, and then looked up at him. “And then I want to go Rosewood.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to spend at least a few weeks enjoying the Season?”

“I do not.” She hesitated. “Unless you do?”

“I do not,” he said emphatically.

Stacia sighed with relief. “Good.”

He took her hand and gently squeezed it. “You know there will be no rest when we get there? A mountain of work awaits you at Rosewood.”

“You have already warned me, Andrew.” More than once. More than five times. Her husband harbored a great deal of guilt toward his estate. The sooner they could put it to rights the sooner he could stop flogging himself.

The carriage rolled to a gentle stop in front of one of the newer mansions on Russell Square. The houses were huge, and, in Stacia’s opinion, had sacrificed elegance for sheer size.

“Who lives here?” she asked as the carriage door opened and the footman put down the steps.

“You will see,” he said, handing her down from the carriage and then placing her hand on his arm.

“You certainly have a flair for the dramatic, Andrew,” she groused as they mounted the few steps to the house.

“It is something I learned during my brief time on the stage.”

Her head whipped up. “Are you—oh,” she said, scowling when she saw his grin. “You are so odious!”

“I cannot help myself, darling. You snap at the lures I cast so readily.”

“Hmmph.”

Still smiling, he lifted a hand to the knocker and rapped twice.

After a long moment the door was opened by a footman wearing a powdered wig and the sumptuous blue and gold livery of an older age.

“The Marchioness and Marquess of Shelton to see Lord Clayton. He is expecting us,” her husband said, using a haughty tone that Stacia had never heard him employ before.

It took her a second to realize the name he’d just spoken.

Again her head whipped up. This time Andrew was looking straight ahead, his expression of aristocratic ennui so complete she would have laughed if she’d not been so thunderstruck.

The footman hastily stepped back, bowing low as he admitted them into a gaudy foyer, the gilt and mirrors like something from Versailles.

“What are we doing here?” she hissed at Andrew as they followed the servant up the broad white marble stairs.

He merely smiled. “You will see.”

“I am going to discipline you for this, my lord.”

He grinned.

The servant stopped outside a pair of white and gold doors and opened the left-hand one. “Lord and Lady Shelton.”