Page 128 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

“My turn?”

“Tell me about yourself—your life.”

“But I have no experiences like yours.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he said dryly.

“I just meant that my life has not been very interesting.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me about school—how long did you go? Where? Did you like it?”

“I went to the same school my mother attended, a lovely old manor house that accommodated only forty girls.”

“Only forty? That sounds like a great many girls for one house.”

She laughed. “It could feel crowded and lacked privacy at times, and I occasionally yearned for the solitude of my father’s house, but I loved the companionship. I am an only child, and my father often forgot my existence—not in a cruel way, but it made for a lonely life. I went to Mrs. Pritchard’s Academy for four years, leaving at eighteen. After that I kept house for my father, until my aunt decided I should have a Season.” She shrugged. “And you know the rest. My father died and my first position took me to Bath.”

“You felt nothing for the young man who proposed to you—er, Townshend, was it?”

“I felt the sort of affection I imagine one feels for a brother.”

“Obviously he felt otherwise.”

“No, that was the problem. He did not ask me to marry him because he loved me. He asked me because he valued my expertise and knew I could be of help to him when it came to his collection. That was why I could not say yes, no matter how much easier it would have made my life in some ways.”

Andrew took a sip of wine to wash down his mouthful of pie, wiped his mouth, and said, “Expertise?”

“Yes, with illuminated manuscripts. I had been helping my father restore them for years. On occasion I did work for others—Townshend was one—but my father kept me busy enough that did not often happen.”

“You restore illuminated manuscripts?”

“I did, but it has been years.” She cocked her head. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Because I should have guessed your work was too good to be that of a dabbler.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “But how do you know what my work looks like?”

“Mrs. Johnson let slip that you’d visited her shop to sell some fans.”

“Oh. I wish she would not tell people about that.”

“I suspect I am the only one she shared that information with.”

She frowned at him. “Why would she tell you?”

“I can be very persuasive.”

She snorted. “I can imagine. You saw the fans at the Christmas fete?”

“I not only saw them, I bought three.”

“Three!”

Andrew found her expression of shy delight…delightful. “You have an extraordinary talent. Why are you working as a companion when you could be restoring priceless documents?”

“The paintings I do are good enough for fans and such—no,” she said when he scoffed at her tepid description, “I am not denigrating my talent, my lord, but it is a far cry from the work done by experts. There are only a few people in the country—probably in the world—who would notice such differences, but they are the same ones who can afford the valuable manuscripts. They want the best, and I am not that.”

“To my untutored eye your work is magnificent. By the by, you made Lord Needham a very happy man. Evidently his wife attracts butterflies, and your fan was the sort of gift he had been hoping for.”