Page 2 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Sarah’s cheeks pinkened and she stammered, “Y-yes, my lord. I have—I have permission to waltz.”

His full lips twisted in gentle amusement. “It is my lucky night.”

Sarah cast a stunned, almost apologetic glance at Stacia as she was borne off on the golden god’s arm to join the other dancers.

She knew that Sarah’s hasty glance had been meant kindly. After all, Sarah knew just how terribly infatuated Stacia was.

Rather than soothe her, however, her friend’s pity was like a knife in her breast.

Stacia turned to see if the other wallflowers had witnessed the exchange. But they were staring in open-mouthed bafflement at Sarah and Lord Shelton.

Sarah, the daughter of a country baronet, was neither gorgeous nor an heiress, and yet Shelton had not only singled her out—and remembered her name—he had asked her to dance. This from a man infamous for appearing at a ball and departing half an hour later without leading even a single partner onto the floor.

Stacia and Sarah had been schoolmates, and she had always liked the other girl, who was sweet and unassuming. Sarah was passably pretty but utterly unlike the sort of beauty who usually attracted the attention of England’s most eligible, handsome war hero.

Lord Shelton’s choice of Sarah was the ultimate irony as she had never seemed as slavishly smitten by gorgeous marquess as the rest of them.

Indeed, of all the girls who languished together at every ball, she would have said that Sarah was the one who was leastinterested in finding a husband. She would have gone so far as to say that Sarah pined for her home and family.

And yet Sarah had somehow managed to do the impossible and attract Lord Shelton’s interest. What had she done to make him notice her?

What you really mean is, why can’t it be you?

Yes. That is exactly what she meant!

Have some pride! He doesn’t even remember who you are. How many times does he need to forget you before you stop yearning for him?

The voice of self-preservation was right and Stacia debased herself daily—hourly—by worshipping at Shelton’s altar, even if he never learned of her adoration.

But she could not make herself stop.

Watching him bestow his attention on Sarah—dancing and laughing with her—was like quaffing acid and she felt something very close to hatred for the mild, inoffensive woman.

Stacia took comfort—albeit slight—in the fact that she was not the only woman unable to control her unwanted reaction.

By the time Shelton asked Sarah to dance with him a third time—scarcely a week later—the small clique of wallflowers who had once been Sarah’s friends were so bitter toward her that she no longer sat with them.

Stacia couldn’t blame her. Neither could she stop herself from hating her.

The fourth time Stacia was introduced to Shelton and he didn’t recognize her, she was no longer breathless with awe in his presence. Instead, she felt an almost irresistible urge to do something he would remember. Like club him over the head with her reticule.

“It is an honor to meet you,” he murmured after Lady Crowley had made the introduction, his beautiful eyes aimed at somebody over Stacia’s shoulder.

Irked beyond bearing, Stacia said, “We have been introduced before, my lord.”

Lady Crowley gasped and Lord Shelton’s gaze finally snapped to Stacia’s face.

A slight notch formed between his jewel-like eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, we have been introduced before.” Stacia gave him a tight smile. Four times, she might have added. Which doesn’t include the dozens of times you’ve stood as close to me as we are now and flirted with some other woman.

His gaze sharpened, like a man who’d just been stung by an insect he’d heretofore believed benign. His befuddlement gradually shifted into amusement. “I see. I beg your pardon, Miss, er…”

“It is Miss Martin,” Stacia said after letting the silence drag out a few extra seconds. “However, I’ve learned to answer to Miss Er… .”

The golden god barked a laugh. If Stacia hadn’t already girded herself against it, she would have been reduced to a quivering blancmange by the sheer splendor of such a sight. Fortunately, she had been subjected to his male beauty several nights a week at that point, although the full force of his attention had never been focused on heras it was at that moment. While her exposure to him had not inoculated her against his devastating looks, it had mitigated the severity of the symptoms and she no longer gawked and trembled.

“My dear Miss Martin,” Lady Crowley murmured in a chiding voice, giving a nervous laugh. “Whatever has come over you?”