Compromised by Christmas (12 page)

"She's very good with scissors," said Julia. "She
taught me how to cut the patterns just so. Every one is
different."

"Indeed," answered Max.

Her heart thumped erratically as she strained to
catch the wreath on the hook.

He moved behind her. "Allow me, Miss Winston."

"I have it," she said mulishly and bounced on her
toes and missed the nail again.

He reached around her and guided it to the wall.
Since she hadn't relinquished the task to him and stepped aside,
the brush of his body against hers was inevitable. Heat flashed and
spiraled into her stomach. With every ounce of willpower she
possessed she restrained the urge to lean back, to feel that broad
strength with the length of her body. She did not want to imitate
the antics Mrs. Porter encouraged in a ballroom.

The holly wreath in place, he stepped back and leaned
a hand against the carved mantelpiece. "All is well with you?" he
asked.

She nodded.

"I'll go get the last wreath," said Julia, and like
that, they were alone.

The ballroom was vast. She could put yards between
them by just walking to another place in the room. Her feet refused
to move.

He looked down at her, mesmerizing her. Looking upon
his countenance was so much more pleasant than looking at Mr.
Breedon. Roxana gave herself a mental shaking. Pleasant looks
weren't everything.

He reached out and touched a stray tendril of hair
that had escaped her topknot. "You look beautiful this
morning."

His voice reverberated down her spine, leaving trails
of soothing warmth. How did he do that? She brushed her bare hands
over the apron she had donned to protect her dress. She was
thoroughly coated in dust and pieces of holly. "I look a mess."

"You do not like compliments, Miss Winston?" he asked
as he rubbed the strand of hair between his fingers.

"Why, of course I—" she gave up the pretense. Why was
Max comfortable enough to treat her with an intimate gesture, but
she had not managed to make Mr. Breedon so much as touch her hand?
"No, I do not like insincere flattery, but thank you just the
same."

Max smiled, and she could hardly tear her eyes away
from his mouth. The change from a stoic expression was slow and
measured, not a lightning flash of teeth such as Scully treated her
with. But it tugged at her just the same, as if her insides were
turning to mush. Everything would be so much easier if she were
willing to be married.

He pulled his hand back, and she felt bereft.

"I have a letter for you," he said.

"A letter?" she echoed stupidly. What had her father
done now? Heaviness pulled at her heart.

Max reached into his breast pocket and drew out the
sealed missive.

She took it, feeling the warmth of Max's body on the
paper. She clutched it at her breast, fearing that whatever it
contained, the news would not be good.

Max's smile disappeared. He gestured toward one of
the chairs that lined the walls of the ballroom. "Would you read it
now?"

"Yes. No. I shall read it in my room." Dread
tightened her spine.

"Roxy, if you fear it contains bad tidings read it
here. I will assist you in whatever way I can."

"I . . . no . . . I just am surprised to get a
letter. I did not expect one so soon." She tried to laugh, but the
sound that left her mouth was more of a nervous titter.

What was she doing with Max? She needed to be with
Mr. Breedon. She needed to spend her time pursuing him. She had to
encourage Breedon to behave recklessly. How could she persuade him
to her room when he had shown little interest in seducing her?

She had long ago accepted that she would not take her
place in the world as part of the privileged and pampered upper ten
thousand, but that she would slip into the working world of the
middle class. But she was unsure she could pull off the first part
of her plan.

If she could not get money to start her business . .
. her future as well as her sisters' and brother's future yawned
before her as a dark black hole, their grasp on dignity pried loose
by the wicked hands of a fate they did not deserve.

Max watched her, waiting for her to speak. But her
tongue was knotted in her throat. He held out his hand. Roxana put
her hand in his, aware of the pounding of her heart.

His hold steadied her. "Roxy, read me the
letter."

She could not. Her mother would write of the urgency
of their situation. She would plead for Roxana to save the family
by marriage to a man of means. Or there may be worse. Anxiety
clawed at her insides.

She pulled her hand back and walked away, concerned
Max would penetrate her fragile hold on her emotions. She did not
want him to notice her trembling.

Yet she wanted to confess to him, to tell him the
only reason she was here was because she needed money to start her
business. Her sisters and her brothers were living no better than
crofters. She had to save them, but she had never accepted her
mother's plan to marry as the only course. Marriage certainly
hadn't saved her mother. Marriage had broken her mother.

Max lived in opulence and comfort. He would never
understand the horror of not knowing if food would be on the table,
or if the knock on the door was the sheriff to escort them to the
workhouse. Or that the idea of turning over her trust to a man who
should protect her struck terror in her heart.

Max's hand closed around her upper arm. Memories of
her father jerking her around doused her in panic. She wrenched
free and spun away from his grip.

"Roxana?" He folded his arms in front of him. "Tell
me your situation so I might help you."

She wanted to confide in him. She wanted to believe
he could help her, but everyone she had confided in had scoffed at
her plans.

She had tried to get a loan through the local
bankers, through applications to a group of investors and finally
from Mrs. Porter, who knew how well Roxana made clothes, but all
had refused. She was a young woman who should get married and have
babies, not become a mantuamaker. Besides that, she was underage
and could not be held to a loan without a guarantor. Everyone had
thought her scheme bacon brained. But she knew she could make it
work. She had to.

"Unless you wish to loan me money, I do not see how
you could offer more help."

*~*~*

"There you are, love," said Devlin Scullin. He'd seen
Fanny head down the stairs for the great hall and followed her.
"Where have you been hiding this morning?"

"I was preparing the ballroom for the festivities a
week hence, but guests are arriving," said Fanny.

She sidestepped away from him and cast herself into
the mid-morning sun shining through the window. Her hair caught the
light and reflected off the honey-colored curls peeping out under
the edges of her lacy cap. Devlin leaned back against the newel
post of the great staircase and crossed one booted foot over the
other. "Do you intend to avoid me the whole time I'm here?"

She twisted her hands together in front of her. "I'm
sure I don't know what you mean."

She knew what he meant.

"Is all hope lost for me, then? Do you trample my
hopes and crush my dreams?" he asked with an exaggerated clutching
at his breast.

"Do not," she whispered.

He eased out of his relaxed pose, catching her around
the waist. "You look like an angel with the sunlight dancing in
your hair."

She twisted away from him, out of his grasp. "Do not
trifle with me, Scully. You are kinder than that."

She reached to tuck stray curls under her cap. Years
ago, when her hair had streamed across her pillow, it had been
lighter, more the color of bright sunshine. Perhaps he'd said
something like that. Yes, he had made a remark about her hair
resembling sunshine then. But then, he had remarked on everything
from her dainty toes to her Cupid's bow mouth.

"You have no husband who could be wounded now," he
said.

Fanny turned her startled blue eyes in his direction,
eyes he had seen fill with tears of remorse. The happiest night of
his life, and she had regretted it, wished it away, wished him
away.

"Do not think I shall be easy pickings because I am
alone now." Her chin lifted, but he could see her hand shake.
"Other women are available for you to amuse yourself. I want no
part of your . . ." She looked about as if she would find the words
she wanted stuffed in a corner. Perhaps she would discover them in
the gilt around the mirror, or the bowl holding wax fruit, or the
Chippendale chair in the corner.

"My what?" Devlin crossed the marble floor, narrowing
the gap between them. Why wouldn't she look at him?

"Your stable of discarded loves."

"You are hardly discarded, my pretty Fanny. You sent
me away, remember?"

"Do you like Miss Winston?" asked Fanny.

"Well enough. She is an interesting girl."

"You might amuse yourself with Lady Angela DuMass or
Miss Lambert. The Misses Ferris are joining us too."

Devlin studied Fanny. Since she was no longer
married, did she want him attached to preserve her distance? Had
that night meant anything to her? Or was it just a moment's
indiscretion, a bad choice instantly regretted? "But I am already
pledged to dance attendance on Miss Winston. Max said that would
best please you."

"Yes, that pleases me." Fanny's blue eyes narrowed in
such a way as to make him think she did not like his escorting Miss
Winston around. "Do not break her heart."

"I do not believe Miss Winston's heart is at stake,
Fanny."

"No, well, you break many hearts, Dev," Fanny paced
away from him again. "I have seen you collect them like so many
pearls to a string."

He had made sure she had seen him and his conquests.
What a foolish notion that had been. "Fanny, none of them ever
meant anything to me."

"Yes, I know, Dev," she said in a soft tone riddled
with weariness.

He clenched his fist. "You are the—"

"If I hold a special allure merely by virtue of
refusing you, do give over. It is nonsense that shall pass."

The butler crossed the hallway and opened the front
door and the Ferris family entered, two unmarried misses and their
parents. Footmen followed with baggage and the hall transformed
into a hive of activity with servants pouring out of the woodwork
to take outer coats, hats and muffs.

Fanny stepped forward and greeted her newest guests
with smiles and hugs. She had not given him so generous a welcome
when he had ridden overnight to reach her at the first possible
moment.

Had he waited too long? Should he have pushed his
advantage when she fell into his arms but begged him to leave? He
had waited years, and now she no longer wanted him? Anguish clawed
at his throat as he stepped forward and greeted the two Misses
Ferris with his usual bland flattery and teasing about his
fluttering heart. Only it was not all teasing. Fanny did make his
heart skip and race . . . and bleed.

Max stared at Roxana's door, his mind on her plight.
Her face had gone pale when he handed her the letter. Her request
for a loan had left him flat-footed. When he did not answer her
right away, she had fled.

He wanted to help her. It was his duty. How to assist
her was the question. The last thing he expected her to ask for was
a loan. He was cash starved himself. He could not take on more
debt. Besides, what means would she ever have of repaying a
loan?

He wanted to be sure she was all right when she
emerged from her room. He'd escort her to the drawing room and see
if he could not persuade her to divulge the contents of her letter.
Besides, it was his turn to play chaperone since Fanny and Scully
were otherwise occupied.

Lady Malmsbury strolled toward him. Too late he
turned to walk away. Had she realized he was loitering about
waiting for Roxana to exit her room?

"Max, darling, you are neglecting me dreadfully.
Won't you show me about your home?" Lady Malmsbury threaded her arm
through his.

Her cloying scent flooded his nostrils, and his
instinct was to recoil, but the right thing to do was to be
unfailingly polite. "Of course, my lady."

She tugged him toward his bedroom as if she hoped for
a midday tryst. Instead, he aimed her toward the next flight of
stairs and the ballroom. As they strolled down the gallery, he made
the required comments about the portraits.

Lady Malmsbury cooed and claimed she saw resemblances
to his ancestors.

"Would you like to see the ballroom, my lady? It is
decorated for the winter solstice ball."

Lady Malmsbury leaned close, pressing her breast
against the back of his arm. "You are so formal, Max. Come, we know
each other better than this. I have missed you so. Surely you have
missed me a little."

Max felt unease slide down his spine. Malmsy acted as
if she planned on cavorting on the ballroom floor. "I have been
busy."

Malmsy stuck her lower lip out. But then she spied
the kissing bower and headed straight for it, dragging him along
with her.

Repugnance skittered down Max's spine. The last thing
he wanted to do was taint his memory of kissing Roxana under the
mistletoe, by being forced to go through the same motion with
Eliza.

*~*~*

Roxana was shaking like a leaf by the time she sat
down near the window of her room. She had seen from Max's
stiffening that he was offended by her mention of a loan. He would
not help her in the way she wanted. He had told her he would not
marry, and that of course would be the only way he would see as a
way to help her. Judging by Thomas's complaints earlier, Max was
quite serious about keeping his half brother as his heir.

She popped the seal on the letter, dreading what she
would find. Her mother's tiny script crisscrossed the page.