Page 52 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

“How are you finding our little corner of Hampshire, my lord?” one of the twins asked Andrew, forcing him to turn away from Miss Martin.

“I am enjoying myself very much.” Or at least I had been, up until a few minutes ago. He turned to the three silent cousins, who were watching him with wide-eyed curiosity. “Of course I am even more pleased to be here now,” he felt compelled to add.

The twins giggled—they were gigglers, that much was apparent—while the far more sensible cousins merely blushed and smiled at his ham-fisted flirtation. Lord. When had exchanging mindless pleasantries become such drudgery? He had obviously been mired in the country too long.

“Are you ladies visiting for long?” he asked the cousins, hoping to stem the giggling.

“Until the beginning of the year,” the eldest said.

“And then we are all going to London,” the youngest piped up. “It will be our first time.”

Andrew smiled at her innocent enthusiasm. “Coming out, are you?”

The girl—Caroline or Catherine or something with a C—laughed. “I’m not old enough, sir. But Emma and Daph will be launched.” She pulled a face, her freckled nose wrinkling. “Sounds rather like joining the navy.”

Andrew laughed. “What will you do while they are attending balls and the like?”

“Lessons,” she said glumly, but then brightened. “Although Miss Brambly has promised that we will visit the Tower and the British Museum.”

He opened his mouth, but one of the twins decided her young cousin had been the center of attention long enough. “Our Papa says the Thames is frozen and there might be a frost fair if this cold weather continues. He has promised to take us to London, too.”

This news caught the young males’ attention. “I hadn’t heard that,” Bellamy said, and then fixed the Lowery girl with a look of mild scorn. “Are you sure you got it right, Twin?”

Both girls scowled at his form of address.

“It’s true, Bellamy,” his other mate—not Hornsby— said before either of the twins could lash into the young viscount. “I heard Lord Needham mention it at breakfast.”

“We must go,” Bellamy immediately said.

“The only place you’re going is back to school,” Kathryn taunted.

Bickering commenced.

The twins gave the arguing siblings disdainful looks, and one said to Andrew, “You probably think we are terribly rustic, my lord.” She fluttered what were, he had to admit, impressive eyelashes.

“Er, why would you believe that?” Andrew asked, not telling her what he really thought, which was that they all seemed terribly, terribly young.

“Because we are so excited about a frost fair. You must have gone to dozens.”

He opened his mouth.

Lord Bellamy gave a loud guffaw. “What a pea goose you are, Twin!” The viscount gave the girl a look of amused contempt. “He can’t have been to more than one, can he?”

The other twin bristled on her sister’s behalf. “Whyever not?” she shot back, her sophisticated disdain of only a moment earlier nowhere in sight as she squared up against the young lord.

Bellamy opened his mouth, but one of the cousins—the truly beautiful one—said, “Because the Thames hasn’t frozen enough since 1789. And the time before that was in the 1740s.”

Bellamy nodded approvingly at the cousin and gave the twin a derisive sneer. “That’s why, Twin. Shelton ain’t that old,” he added, giving Andrew a look that clearly said, girls!

“Thank you, Bellamy,” Andrew said dryly.

The young lord blinked in confusion as his mates jeered at him, but Kathryn gave her brother an approving nod and said, “Well done, Doddy.”

The viscount’s pale cheeks darkened when he realized just how his comment had sounded. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

One of the Lowery sisters discarded what little sophistication that remained, looked down her nose at the blushing lad, and said, “Your oafish comment is merely more proof that little boys should be seen and not heard.”

Her salvo managed to get under the skin of not just one, but all three young gentlemen.

Andrew sighed as a battle of the sexes flared to life and the argument blazed.

He turned to Miss Martin to suggest they slip away while the others were brawling but found himself facing an empty space.

He frowned and glanced around him. But he saw no sign of her long gray coat—noticeable for its dowdy functionality, especially among this group, many of whom sported festive reds, greens, and blues.

“Excuse me,” he murmured to nobody in particular—not that any of the others heard him—and left the ice, trudging toward the pavilion, thinking perhaps she had gone to enjoy an orange and some hot chocolate.

He saw Sylvester and the duchess and a few dozen older guests, but no Miss Martin.

Well. Where the devil had she darted off to in such a hurry?