Page 54 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Andrew paused to watch for a moment. “What is this for?” he asked a man who was prying the lid off an enormous crate.

“The Christmas fete.” The older man’s eyes slid over Andrew’s person, assessing him. “Lord Needham bought a brand-new tent.” He gestured to the crate which held familiar blue-striped canvas. Andrew smiled at the sight of the pavilion. The man really did have his finger in everything.

“Any idea where I can get a glove mended?” he asked, holding up his hand to exhibit the rip.

“Aye, that be a fine one—don’t want Mr. Oliver on that. He be the cobbler,” the man explained. “Go to Mrs. Johnson—she who owns the dress shop. Mostly she has finery for women, but Mary Finley works for her. Right clever with a needle.”

“Thank you,” Andrew said, and then turned toward the dress shop.

Only to see the door open and Miss Martin come strolling out.

Interesting.

Andrew was about to hail her when a man approached her—Captain Walker, Crewe’s son—and the two commenced talking.

He dropped his half-raised hand and watched as they turned and headed across the street to a tea shop.

Andrew stared for a moment, his mind strangely…frozen.

He blinked rapidly and shook himself. So, what if she had left skating with him to come and meet Walker?

Andrew was nothing to her; she could do whatever she pleased. With whomever she pleased.

If she preferred Walker to him, what of it?

It took him a moment to identify the emotion he was feeling as rejection.

He firmly put Miss Martin from his mind and strode toward the dress shop.

A bell tinkled when he opened the door and he was immediately assaulted by an almost oppressive blast of floral perfume—more than one sort of flower, if his nostrils served him correctly—and the hum of feminine chatter. Which stopped abruptly when heads turned toward him.

Andrew smiled and shut the door behind him.

One of the women, an attractive dark-haired female who was probably a few years his senior, hurried toward him.

“I am Mrs. Johnson, proprietress. How may I serve you today, sir?” she asked, her sharp eyes sweeping his body appraisingly—not once, but twice.

“I was told you might have somebody who could repair my glove?” He held up his hand.

She leaned forward and took his hand in both of hers.

Andrew’s lips twitched as she examined the glove with far more thoroughness than it required. After a long moment she looked up at him through her thick eyelashes. “Indeed, yes—I can have this repaired. We even carry a few sizes of men’s gloves here—if you need something to wear in the interim.”

“Thank you.” He gently removed his hand from hers. “Yes, I will take another pair to wear home today if I can leave these.”

“Of course, of course. Right this way.”

And then Andrew startled himself by asking, “Was that Miss Martin I saw leaving a moment ago?”

A lightning-fast look of chagrin flickered across her face before a sly smile replaced it. “Tut, tut! You should know better than to pry into a lady’s personal matters, sir.”

“I should know that,” he agreed, already regretting his question. “Perhaps you might show me the gloves you have available.”

Mrs. Johnson suddenly leaned forward, pressing her rather spectacular bosom against his arm while beckoning him closer with one finger.

Andrew found himself leaning forward out of courtesy. “Yes?”

“It wasn’t buying that Miss Martin was doing here today. It was selling.”