Compromised by Christmas (14 page)

Yet, as she looked up, he was moving toward her. Lady
Malmsbury was plastered against his side. Roxana's throat caught.
Although, Max looked mildly displeased, the same way he looked when
his brother and sister fussed at each other. On the other hand, he
looked quite ducal as he greeted his guests, stopping often to
exchange pleasantries.

She forced herself to turn to the man beside her.

"How are you settling in, Mr. Breedon? Is your room
comfortable?"

"A bit smaller than what I'm used to," Mr. Breedon
said around a mouthful of food.

Roxana suppressed her shudder of distaste. His
assigned bedchamber was twice as large as hers. "I'm sorry to hear
that, but you know, these . . . older houses are just not built
with modern comfort in mind."

"It is well enough for a guest, I suppose. Although
my house is much newer. I have put many of the public rooms on the
ground floor. No reason to be traipsing up and down the stairs all
day long. It is not as in the olden days where one had to build a
house to withstand attack."

"How very clever of you."

Mr. Breedon's sparse eyebrows shot up. She imagined
he was not often told he was intelligent.

"My father broke his leg once. I assure you, it was
quite difficult for the servants to take him up and down the
stairs." Actually it had been mostly Roxana and her mother who had
to convey him up and down the stairs, until she'd finally told him
to make his bed on the sofa. His fury was restrained until his leg
was healed well enough to bear his weight.

Roxana did not know that she would have continued to
cater to his whims, knowing the outcome of that protracted stay of
her father. Really, that moment convinced her of the need to
succeed, convinced her of many things, the least of which was the
certainty that she would never willingly place herself under the
control of any man.

"Your parents are not here, Miss Winston?" asked Mr.
Breedon. Crumbs decorated his cheek.

"Mama cannot get away with the younger children and
Papa is still tied up with his affairs in London. The Duchess of
Trent has been gracious enough to invite me to stay. She and my
mother are fast friends." Exchanging a letter once a year hardly
made them bosom bows, but Roxana was taking a lot of liberties with
the truth these days.

She steeled herself for the uncomfortable questions
that were sure to follow.

"You did not have a season, Miss Winston?"

She smiled brightly. "Not yet."

He frowned.

She wondered if she could wipe off the food without
belittling Mr. Breedon, or if she should just let him wander around
with crumbs on his cheeks.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lady Malmsbury
using her handkerchief to wipe away a reddish spot on Max's cheek.
It was where Lady Malmsbury had kissed him, and it also meant Lady
Malmsbury used vermilion on her lips. Mrs. Porter and her daughters
used pots and pots of the stuff.

Since Roxana did not have a napkin, she reached for
her handkerchief and turned toward Mr. Breedon. "You have a bit of
food on your cheek, sir. I could get it if you would like me
to."

Mr. Breedon stared at her blankly. Roxana leaned
toward him and was well aware of when Mr. Breedon's gaze dropped to
her cleavage. Well, she had learned a few tricks from Mrs. Porter
and her daughters. She gently brushed the crumbs away. His cheek
was soft and smooth like a baby's.

"See there, all better." Roxana straightened, knowing
that her neckline reverted to its proper position. She thought she
had managed the whole maneuver without being obvious, but as she
turned back around and lifted a scone from her plate, Scully's
raised eyebrow and Max's scowl greeted her. She looked down,
certain that they could not have had the same view Mr. Breedon
had.

Scully leaned forward, extending a saucer with a
steaming cup on it. "Your tea, Miss Winston."

Lady Malmsbury bumped Scully from behind, then
grabbed his arm, and the tea went sailing. The shock of scalding
liquid against Roxana's bare chest jolted her out of her seat. The
now-empty cup fell to the floor, although she made an ineffective
grab for it.

"Oh, I say!" Mr. Breedon lurched to his feet. "What a
clumsy oaf you are."

Scully looked blankly at the empty saucer in his
hand.

Roxana wasn't quite sure if Mr. Breedon was talking
to her or Scully, but her chest burned.

She hunched over, and tried to pull the steaming
material of her bodice from her skin.

Max jerked out of his coat, tossed it around her
shoulders, and grabbed it closed just below her chin. Max tugged
and she had no choice but to follow.

Curious stares followed her out as they crossed the
immense room. Roxana was aware of the sting of humiliation. Worse
than that, as she tried to point to the Limoges china teacup on the
carpet, Mr. Breedon, the unmentionable region of his unmentionables
coated in clotted cream, stepped on the cup, shattering it into a
thousand pieces.

And where on earth was Max dragging her as if she
were a pest a cat deposited into the middle of the company. As soon
as the drawing-room door closed behind them, he barked orders to
the servants. "The door, James."

A footman sprang forward to open the door of another
room. "Fetch cool water and towels. Send for Miss Winston's maid
and tell her to bring a dressing gown for Miss Winston. Do not
allow anyone other than the duchess or the maid in here."

He pulled her around in front of him and looked her
in the eye. "Are you burned?"

He loosened his grip and Roxana swiveled away,
leaving the coat in his grasp. A large table with red balls on a
recessed baize top blocked her path. Roxana realized this was a
billiards room. Nearly every occupation possible owned its own
separate space in this house.

Her efforts to peel away the soaked bodice made her
neckline gape, and she tugged it up. She was a little scalded, but
nothing that wouldn't heal. "I'm fine."

She looked down at the reddish cast to her skin. "If
I could just go and change."

"Your maid is coming. I'll get Fanny."

"Vinegar eases the sting of a burn," said Scully from
the doorway.

"For God's sake, get out. Miss Winston . . ."

"Pretty sure we are the only ones who saw," continued
Scully. "Breedon is making a fuss. I am so sorry, Miss Winston.
Fanny is on her way."

"Tell her not to bother. I am all right. I shall just
go to my room and change," Roxana wondered if Mr. Breedon would
associate his own humiliation with her. Would everyone at the house
party think of her as the victim of Lady Malmsbury's
clumsiness?

"I'll tell her," said Scully.

"Wa—"

The door clicked shut.

Max's "wait" trailed off. "Damnation."

Roxana looked at her chest. The redness wasn't going
away, although the material of her bodice had cooled. She dabbed at
her front with her handkerchief, which came away pink. If she
rinsed the gown right away the tea might not stain it. But keeping
the dye from washing out might be impossible.

"My apologies, Miss Winston."

She wasn't sure if he was apologizing for his
language or the whole incident. "I would just like to go to my room
now."

"You cannot. You must wait for your maid to bring you
a dressing gown. I . . . am sorry for your discomfort."

"There is just one problem," she said. "Well, two
problems, really." She turned around, wadding the stained
handkerchief in her hand. The silk was too cheaply died, but that
was problem number three.

His eyes darkened and he seemed to struggle to
breathe. "Miss Winston?"

"I do not own a dressing gown and I do not have a
maid," she said.

For a long second the rasp of Max's breathing was the
only sound. The air charged with raw energy and she felt edgy.

"You cannot go through the house like
that.
"

Max's gaze was trained below her chin. "My skin is
red, but it does not hurt." Although as she spoke, a tingling
spread across her chest.

His gaze threatened to burn through her, warming the
skin that had started to chill with the dampness. What on earth had
him so transfixed?

She looked down and realized the thin layers of
saturated red silk were transparent. Worse than that, the material
molded against her breasts, revealing
everything.

"That is the most striking of your gowns thus far,
Miss Winston." He said with a low burr to his voice that reached
right down to her toes.

"Oh, God!" she whispered, folding her arms across her
chest and spinning around to present her back to him.

His hands settled on her shoulders and Roxana wanted
to melt to the floor. Yet the feeling wasn't all mortification. His
touch affected her like the flash of hot water followed by cold.
Her heart thumped erratically and her skin tingled and tightened.
The paper thin layers of silk felt like heavy fur pelts, startling
her with the every shift across her skin.

After retiring last night, Roxana had heard lots of
doors and now she sat impatiently in her room, waiting for the
sound of Mr. Breedon's door. The midmorning sun peeked in her
window. He must be a very late riser.

She had done a fair amount of sewing this morning,
but now she was at a place where she needed to try things on. She
feared that the minute she removed her morning gown to try on the
riding habit skirt Mr. Breedon would leave his room.

Fanny had appeared sporadically throughout last
evening to check on Roxana. The duchess had been dismayed to find
her guest using the cold water and towels to blot the tea from her
gown rather than attending to her reddened skin. Fanny's maid had
shown up and whisked away the gown after that. Then a lot of
fussing and dabbing with vinegar left Roxana smelling more like a
pickle than the lavender soap she'd washed with afterwards.

A door snicked. Roxana crept to her door and gently
opened it an inch. Ah, finally, Mr. Breedon was up and about. Even
though his back was toward her, mistaking his robust form was
impossible. She quickly followed him out into the passageway. "Good
morning, Mr. Breedon."

He stopped and looked back at her impatiently.

Roxana hurried forward. "Oh I do hope I have not
missed breakfast. I am famished. Have you eaten yet, sir?"

"Not, yet, Miss Winston. But we shall not have missed
breakfast. We are early."

"All's well, then." She moved past him as if she did
not notice his extended arm. As Max said, she would gain nothing by
appearing too eager. Mr. Breedon did seem put out with her.

"Are you the type of gentleman who dislikes chatter
in the morning? For my father does not like us to speak before he
has eaten his fill. I assure you I am quite adept at holding my
tongue," she said.

"You may talk."

How absolutely gracious of him.
She kept her
disgust out of her expression. "I do hope you suffered no ill
effect from Lady Malmsbury and Mr. Scullin's collision after
dinner."

Mr. Breedon's closed his eyes as if the memory was
painful. Perhaps Roxana should not have brought it up.

"I vow I have never been so
mortified
in all
my life. I was quite afraid that everyone present would think that
I
had caused the mishap," she said in a confiding tone.

"I doubt anyone would think that, Miss Winston."

"As long as
you
do not think that, sir."
Talking in a breathless, brainless manner was making her
lightheaded. "I had, after all, told Mr. Scullin I did not want
tea."

"Yes, why yes, you did," said Mr. Breedon
brightening.

"I should have fetched it myself. Women should wait
on men. One is only asking for disaster by reversing the natural
order of things."

Mr. Breedon nodded as if he was in complete agreement
with that bit of blarney. So when they reached the breakfast room,
she insisted on dishing his plate for him and setting the heaping
mound of his selections in front of him. "Would you like the paper
to read?"

"No, I am set," he answered.

She frowned. "Are you sure? Because I am quite sure
the plate does not hold enough food. I can get you more if you
wish."

"They are smallish plates are they not?" said Mr.
Breedon.

"Quite small." His plate held enough food to feed her
entire family breakfast.
Just a few days
, Roxana recited in
her head. She could keep up this false front for two weeks.

Mr. Scullin entered the breakfast room. He paused,
seeing the two of them sitting at the table. "Good morning, my
adorable Miss Winston, Breedon." He bowed slightly.

Mr. Breedon continued to shovel food into that slit
of a mouth. He grunted a response, while Roxana returned Scully's
pleasantry.

Mr. Scullin moved forward to hunch down by Roxana's
chair. His blue eyes searched her face. "Are you all right, Miss
Winston? Any ill effects from my clumsiness last night?"

"I am fine, thank you." Roxana looked over at Mr.
Breedon, who had not even inquired about her well-being. She'd have
to find a way to make him think she appreciated his lack of
consideration.

"Max says you have a very good seat. Would you join
me in a ride before breakfast tomorrow? I will assemble an adequate
party if riding would please you."

Roxana would so much prefer to ride in the early
morning briskness than to sit twiddling her thumbs in her bedroom
waiting for Mr. Breedon to join the living. She looked at Mr.
Breedon, who did not stop shoveling food. "I . . . I . . ."

"Breedon, you'll join us, won't you? Your horse will
need exercise before the hunt."

Mr. Breedon wiped his mouth with his napkin. "My
grooms will see to my mounts' readiness, I am sure. Besides, I have
brought enough horses that I can change them out during the hunt.
My horseflesh is too valuable to risk damaging by too much hard
riding."