Compromised by Christmas (13 page)

Dread snaked down her spine as she leaned so the
natural light would shine on the paper.

Her mother's letter started with the news that all
the girls were well. With a hacking cough from the cold, Jonathon
had hunted deer unsuccessfully for three days. He had finally
returned with a rabbit just in time to feed their father.

Roxana hated the idea that the slender amount of meat
would be wasted on Lord Winston. Remembering the chill of the
cottage in winter, Roxana drew her shawl tighter around her
shoulders.

As near as Roxana could figure through her mother's
disjointed comments, their tenants' risqué party had angered the
baron, and he'd evicted them. Roxana suppressed a sigh of
impatience. What did he expect when he rented their home to a
semi-retired abbess and her girls?

She tossed the letter onto the writing desk and sat
on her trunk that contained many of the scraps of dresses and
peignoirs that she had sewn for the women renting the main house.
She had used their leftover cuttings to trim her own dresses. The
ladies fondness for lace had been a blessing in disguise, giving
Roxana the expensive touches to her gowns without costing her a
penny.

She castigated herself for being distracted by Max's
attentions.

She needed to be more active in pursuing her plan;
time was running out. The only thing she knew to do calm her
overset nerves was to create. She crept out the side door of her
room, the door that led to the narrow servant passageway and
stairs. Across from her room was Mr. Breedon's bedchamber. He was
so close, yet so far away.

Stealing up the back stair, she headed for the attic
storeroom to see if she could use the discarded bedcovers. The
habit she had from Fanny was pretty, but its cut and color were
better suited to an older matron. Roxana fretted as she moved
stealthily. She thought she could use one of the Duchess of Trent's
lists. Flirt with the richest gentleman present—Mr. Breedon. Seduce
him, but let him think it his idea.

With that income from the rent gone, what would her
family do? The estate had been so neglected and crops so poor in
recent years that little income could be had from the land. Her
mother had gone on to say that her father was planning to break the
entail and sell the estate, which he didn't actually own yet. Cold
hard doom stabbed at Roxana's spine.

She could not allow the other guests at the house
party to guess her circumstances. Only Max knew a bit of her
troubles and she had probably erred in sharing hints of her
family's plight with him.

With Mrs. Porter no longer paying the lease and
suing, the family's main source of income was gone. Their creditors
were hounding them, the green grocer refused to deliver any more
food without payment . . . and then there was the mortgage her
father had taken on the property. If her father succeeded in
selling the heavily mortgaged estate, it would just be a matter of
time before nothing was left. And that was the best scenario.

More likely he would take money from someone and she
would have to find a way to repay it when the buyer discovered Lord
Winston had no legal right to sell the Wingate estate.

A sense of fatalism bore down upon Roxana's
shoulders. Even if she wanted to go home, her main source of
income—sewing clothes for Mrs. Porter and her "daughters"—was gone.
Her mother had closed with pleas for a successful conclusion to her
daughter's mission. She must urge a man of means to marriage, by
any available method, before her family was thrown into the
workhouse.

A teardrop obscured the writing near the bottom of
the page. For a minute Roxana was not sure it had not come from
her. She had touched her fingertip to the stain on the letter and
found it dry.

She opened a door to the long gallery that ran
outside the ballroom. Relieved to find the room empty, she ran
toward the storeroom. She found the bedspread and gathered it
up.

A large scorch mark on the satin lining showed the
damage. Roxana shook out the material and sneezed as a cloud of
dust rose in the air. The dust surprised her, because the army of
servants kept the household so neat. Still, there was plenty of
material if she cut judiciously. If she started on it this
afternoon and worked through the night, she might be able to finish
it in time for the hunt. Perhaps that would help impress Mr.
Breedon. Or should she concentrate on the Duke of Trent?

Her heart stumbled to a trot. No, her involuntary
response to the duke made keeping her head unlikely, even if he did
mean to offer more than a flirtation.

Roxana could not see that marriage even to a wealthy
man would be anything more than a stopgap. Her father's gambling
went unabated. A new source of income would just provide him with
license to continue his reckless course. That he had the right to
destroy her entire family with his behavior went beyond unjust. But
a man had total control over his family's resources, and no one
could say him nay.

She had to get the money for her dress shop, and
soon. Even then she was not sure it would be enough to save her
family from complete and utter ruin.

Voices emanated from the ballroom. Curious, Roxana
leaned her head in the room.

Max was in the kissing bower with the red-haired Lady
Malmsbury, and their embrace was more than familiar. Lady Malmsbury
had her fingers threaded in Max's hair and she stood on her
tiptoes, her back arched as she pressed her bosom into him. A stab
of pain shot through Roxana's chest. Her breath whooshed out as if
she had been dealt a doubler blow. Did the duke go around kissing
every woman at the house party?

*~*~*

Hearing a noise behind him, Max swiveled. A figure in
a white muslin dress moved away from the open doorway. Who else
would be up here besides Roxana? Alarm skittered down his spine.
What had she seen?

"Max," Eliza protested. "Kiss me." She pushed her
hips against him, swaying in a provocative rhythm.

He grabbed her arms and ripped them away from his
neck. "Excuse me."

He strode after Roxana.

"Max!"

At the door, he turned around and bowed. "My
lady."

Eliza glared at him and planted her hands on her
hips. "What? Are you afraid that our relationship will disturb your
pursuit of Miss Winston?"

"I am not pursuing Miss Winston," said Max. However,
since he was itching to follow her, his words rang hollow. He
clasped his hands behind his back.

Lady Malmsbury sashayed toward him, her green eyes
narrowing. "No?"

She moved close enough to put a finger on his chest
and traced it over his lapel. Her voice dropped to a purr, "She is
just a inexperienced girl. I know she cannot offer you the
pleasures that I can."

His skin began to crawl.

"Really, Max. It is clear she means to snare
Breedon."

"You should not have come to this party, Eliza."

She pouted. "I was invited, darling."

"Not by me."

"Have I hampered your seduction of Miss Winston? I
promise you she has no need to know of any night games we
play."

"I am not seducing her." Max winced.

"She is seducing you, then," snapped Eliza.

"She is a perfectly modest young woman. No one is
seducing anyone." Max closed his eyes in an attempt to modulate his
rising anger and lower his voice. "I will not have you speak ill of
her."

"Then I want what I came here for," Eliza
demanded.

"I assure the entertainment will be exemplary," he
said, banking on the idea that Lady Malmsbury would not be bold
enough to state her desire so baldly again. "Now, if you will
excuse me, I have duties I must attend."

Was it too late to catch Roxana? He hurried toward
the stairs, abandoning Eliza to find her own way. What could he do
to help Roxy anyway? If she needed money he could not help her in
that way. But then she had settled on Breedon, and he could help
her with capturing him.

Lady Malmsbury's accusations of seduction swirled in
his brain. Lord help him, the idea of seducing Roxana excited him
far more than it should. That was one thing he could not do.

The right thing to do was assist her in landing a
rich husband. He just wished his duties lay anywhere else.

*~*~*

After dinner, Roxana listlessly wandered around the
drawing room while waiting until the gentlemen joined the ladies.
She did not know what to make of Max. Were they friends or
something more? Then had called her Roxy this afternoon, but then
he'd had a tryst with Lady Malmsbury.

The drawing-room door opened and the gentlemen filed
in. Before Roxana could even react, the voluptuous redhead, Lady
Malmsbury, latched on to Max's arm. Who was Lady Malmsbury to
Max?

Obviously her conduct was too warm for them to be
just casual acquaintances. A sinking sensation settled in the pit
of Roxy's stomach as she thought about the way Lady Malmsbury had
plastered her body against his. She was always following Max around
the room with her eyes when not attached to his side. Roxana was at
a disadvantage with not knowing so many of the people present and
their unspoken connections.

Max met her eyes across the room and Roxana
deliberately turned her gaze away. She should not waste time ogling
her host. That he knew too much about her situation undoubtedly
made her breath catch in her throat. It could not be the broad
breadth of his shoulders or the masculine shape of his mouth that
made her feel light-headed around him. She would stay well away
from the sprigs of mistletoe around him. Clearly he was
indiscriminate about taking advantage of the license to behave with
more freedom.

Mr. Scullin had glanced in Fanny's direction then
headed toward Roxana. She was glad to see him in better fitting
clothes with a blue evening coat over a gray waistcoat. The colors
suited him better than the brown he had worn this morning. Not that
anyone else cared about clothing as much as she did. Following
Max's advice to continue wearing her outlandish clothing, Roxana
wore her best evening gown, sewn from the red silk.

Mr. Breedon headed directly toward the tea tray.

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Scullin?" asked Roxana
as he took his place at her side and offered his arm. She didn't
particularly want tea, but Mr. Breedon was filling a plate.

"Call me Scully. Everyone does. And yes I could use a
spot of tea." With her hand in his elbow he tugged her toward the
tea tray.

"I have to tell you her grace's cook prepares the
most delicious scones. I always think they will melt in my
mouth."

"That good, mmm?" said Mr. Scullin. He looked to the
tea tray containing the silver service. "I shall have to have some,
then."

He pulled her up to where the tea tray had been
placed on the low table in front of the sofa. A tea cart laden with
platters of sandwiches and sweetmeats stood in the center of the
floor between them and where the duchess poured tea into fine china
cups and handed them to those around her.

Fanny's cheeks were flushed and her conversation
animated, but there was an edge to her. She spoke to everyone
around her except Scully.

Likewise, Scully greeted those around them, although
he turned away before speaking to the Duchess of Trent. "Got enough
there, Breedon?"

Gregory Breedon turned his moon face their direction.
Roxana glanced at his plate, which contained four of the thin
sandwiches and so many scones, tarts and biscuits she could see
nothing of the ivy leaf pattern around the rim. His little eyes
opened wide and the few scraggly hairs that passed for eyebrows
lifted high up on his forehead.

"Ah the food here is too die for, is it not, Mr.
Breedon?" Roxana pasted an indulgent smile on her mouth.

"It is adequate," he answered, but he looked slightly
relieved.

His moon face settled into a frown. "Would you like a
plate?"

"Please, sir." Truth was Roxana had eaten enough at
dinner to last her until breakfast. She took the plate he shoved
her direction. "You are too kind."

"And would you prefer coffee or tea?" asked Scully,
reminding her that he still had her hand trapped under his hand, on
his arm.

She could only hold the empty plate with her one
hand, not dish anything upon it.

"Oh, I could not hold a cup and saucer, but do get
whatever you wish." Perhaps he would let her loose. Although she
wanted to know why he had been charged with watching over her.
Since the guests had started arriving, if Max was not at her side,
Mr. Scullin was. Since the kiss it was more often Scully. Although
Max seemed to watch her constantly.

Scully looked straight at Mr. Breedon and said, "I do
believe Miss Winston expressed an interest in the scones."

Mr. Breedon gave a short snort and set his plate down
so he could dump four scones on her plate, more than she could eat
under the best of circumstances. She smiled and thanked him as if
he had just slayed a dragon for her. Scully rolled his eyes. She
slid her hand out from under his, and he took her elbow. "Right
this way, Miss Winston, I believe there is room on this sofa for
us."

"Mr. Breedon, would you join us?" asked Roxana.

The three of them headed for the open sofa. Roxana
sat in the middle with the gentlemen flanking her.

"I shall fetch us tea, then," said Scully, leaping up
almost before he had finished sitting down. Roxana watched her
appointed guardian move across the room. He walked with a
loose-limbed stride. Scully had a contained energy that unsettled
her, although it was Max who tended to make her jump.

She knew most men were unlike her father. Most men
did not lash out with violence when displeased, but that was the
only explanation she had for the strange way the air felt charged
when she was close to Max. As if a storm were about to break.