Page 109 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

“Because I would like to know. Unless it is too painful to talk about him.”

Again she was quiet. This time for so long that he thought she might have fallen asleep. “It was only the two of us for a long time. He was a very fond parent, but…absentminded.”

Andrew thought she sounded affectionate more than exasperated. “Your mother died when you were young?”

“I was eight.”

“My parents died when I was four.”

“Both at once?”

“Yes. A carriage accident.”

“I am sorry.”

“I hardly remember them as I rarely saw them. I’m sure it was far worse for you at eight. You would remember more—have more to grieve.”

She did not confirm or deny his words. Instead, she said, “The Duke of Chatham’s father took you in after your parents’ death?”

“Yes. I was raised with his two sons, Nicholas and Sylvester. Sylvester—that’s Chatham—was only a few years older, but Nick was an intimidating fourteen when I came to Chatham Park.”

“The duke’s older brother died?”

“Yes. Nick died in a hunting accident while Sylvester was in a field hospital recuperating from the injury to his face. I was given leave to accompany him home—he was still in a bad way and unable to travel alone—but afterward I was to return.” Andrew’s thoughts touched dangerously on the particulars of that trip and he shied away. “But you have changed the subject. We were talking about your father.”

“There is not much to say. That sounds bad,” she quickly added. “What I meant is that he had a solitary nature and lived a quiet, scholarly existence.”

“What did he study?”

“Illuminated manuscripts.”

Andrew thought of the fans he had purchased—of the absolutely exquisite detail and how long it must have taken her to master such an art. Had she learned to paint to please him? To make him notice her?

He did not ask.

Instead, he said, “He was absentminded and yet you had a Season, so he must have lived in the real world to some degree.”

“My aunt—on my mother’s side—reminded him of his duty. As it was, I didn’t end up going until I was twenty. Almost on the shelf.”

Andrew wished like hell that he could recall meeting her. “We, er, never danced?”

“No.”

He wanted to tell her that she was better off not having attracted his notice, that he had been too busy nursing his hatred and looking for ways to harm Chatham to care about anyone he met at the balls and parties he haunted. But the argument would sound too self-serving.

“When did your father die?”

“A few weeks before the end of the Season. He died in his sleep. We—I—there was no hint or clue that his heart was weak, so it was completely unexpected.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Martin.”

“Thank you.”

“And your cousin inherited the title?”

“He inherited everything.” Pain and anger colored her voice. “He even—”

“Yes?”