Page 38 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Chapter 7

Several Mornings Later

As usual, Andrew rose before dawn and was the first of the houseguests to arrive at the stable.

What had not been usual, however, was the dream that had woken him that morning. It had been shockingly vivid.

It had been arousing.

And yet all he could recall of it was that Miss Martin’s hair—which had to reach well past her arse—had been unbound and spread across his chest, abdomen, and cock. His hard cock.

That was all, and yet he could not recall being so hard in years.

It was…disturbing.

Naturally, he’d needed to take himself in hand.

Andrew scowled, shoved the memory from his mind, and focused on the breaking dawn. As sunrises went it wasn’t especially remarkable, but the pale-yellow sun made the frost glitter on every surface, turning the morning into something almost magical. Indeed, the enchanting scene filled him with an odd feeling of optimism.

Are you sure the reason for your elation isn’t the result of boxing the Jesuit first thing in the morning?

Andrew ignored the mocking reminder.

Being astride a horse was one of his favorite places in the world. It allowed him to clear his mind and order his thoughts.

This morning, he had good thoughts to ponder.

Like silky coffee-brown hair and—

Andrew jerked his errant thoughts back to the real reason for his happiness today: the letter he’d received right before he’d left Chatham Park. It had come from Jem Moore, the man who managed Andrew’s stud enterprise. Jem had filled all but two of the slots they had remaining for their prize stallion. Thanks to several excellent colts from last year’s mares the operation was, if not booming, at least flourishing. And all without requiring any large infusions of money.

Andrew smiled at the thought, the tension leaking out of his body as he rode through trees so ancient he felt as if he might encounter Arthur and Guinevere any moment.

He’d ridden every morning since he’d been a boy. It was a ritual that helped clear his head and prepare him for the day ahead.

These past months at his cousin’s house he’d ridden with Sylvester, too, but those jaunts took place a bit later in the day and were often shared with the duchess who was as skilled in a saddle—side or astride—as anyone Andrew had ever met.

He had never invited anyone else to accompany him on these early rides.

Not even Mariah.

She had been a slapping rider and had often begged him to come along.

After her death, Andrew had regretted that he’d not relaxed his rigidity and invited her. Especially since he had lost more and more of her with every year that had passed, his memory no more resilient against the incursion of time than a sandy beach against the tide.

Alarmingly, the forgetting process seemed to have sped up since he’d begun to reconcile with Sylvester, as if he had only room in his memory for one of them: his cousin or his dead lover.

Andrew was glad that he’d accepted his cousin’s invitation to spend time with him at Chatham Park. It was past time to let go of the hatred that had fueled him for more than a decade. But he’d not expected the giant void that had appeared in his life once he’d relinquished his vendetta.

It would have been all too easy to run from his cousin’s home and return to the familiar, almost comforting, cycle of retribution and hatred.

But Sylvester had said something during Andrew’s second week that had kept him at Chatham Park.

“You’re my brother, Drew—the only one I have left. Having you back in my life is worth some awkwardness and discomfort as we make up for lost time.”

Sylvester was right. It had been painful to reacquaint himself with a man who’d once been his closest friend. Part of that pain was admitting just how many years he had wasted—because there was no denying that the majority of their estrangement had been his doing—and would never—

A sharp yelp pierced the early morning air and cut off his thoughts.