Compromised by Christmas (16 page)

He tapped on Fanny's sitting-room door.

"My lady went to greet arriving guests, your grace,"
said Fanny's maid. "She said to give you this. It is everything you
requested." She handed Max a pouch of sorts. "I put your dress back
in your room, Miss."

The maid curtsied and then shut the door, leaving
them alone in the empty passageway. He slid the pouch into his coat
pocket and the pocket bulged out.

Max hesitated, then he guided Roxana down the
passageway. He had meant to discuss things with her in private with
Fanny present, but he could not take her into a room alone. At the
far end a slender table stood flanked by two unlit girandoles.
Hopefully none of the other guests would intrude on their
conversation.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"The end of the hall. We shall just be a moment."

His touch at the base of her spine made Roxana
shudder. She stepped a little faster so he would remove his hand
and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. Was it proper to
be alone with him?

He turned at the far end of the passageway and leaned
against the little table. "I spoke with Fanny this morning about
assigning one of the maids to act as your abigail."

"That's not necessary," said Roxana. "I am used to
making do without one."

The mirror above the table reflected the back of his
broad shoulders at her, while she could not help but notice his
form from the front. She wanted to look her fill. Was that how he
felt last night as he looked at her transparent dress? Seeing both
sides of him overwhelmed her. Her breath felt short and her knees
wobbled as if no longer capable of supporting her.

"Miss Winston, the official festivities will begin
the day after tomorrow with the hunt, followed by the choosing of
the Lord of Misrule at the ball and shall be nonstop. You will need
to change your gown three or four times a day."

Why was Max telling her this? It was the sort of
thing that should have come from Fanny.

"Then there is fixing your hair and everything
else."

Roxana's hand shot to her simple topknot as if by its
own volition. His brown eyes followed her hand, and she withdrew it
self-consciously. Roxana bit down the resentment that she needed
assistance.

A more rational part of her brain noted that she
should just accept his offer. Other women of her station had lady's
maids. Just because she had resigned herself to a working-class
future did not require that she should not live as expected
now.

"My sister will need an abigail in a year or two; you
will be helping us by trying one of the maids to see if she can
handle the increased responsibilities."

"Ah, you would turn it into a favor I do for you."
Roxana turned away. His attention made her feel odd, as if he was
touching her, although he stood more than an arm's length from
her.

"If that would help you swallow the idea, Miss
Winston."

"Very well." She was not in a position to refuse. He
was not like the duchess, who accepted her polite demurs when asked
if she needed anything. "I shall be ever indebted to you."

"Miss Winston, if I might speak plainly?" he said
gently.

Bracing herself, she turned back around and
nodded.

Max pushed away from the table and pulled the pouch
from his pocket. The bundle was a chamois cloth tied with a
ribbon.

"It occurs to me that if you mean to land a rich
husband, you should not look as if you need one."

Mortification flowed through her, making her joints
lock.

"I asked Fanny to go through the family jewels and
select a few items appropriate for a young woman to wear. She
agreed it was a good idea." He untied the ribbon and set the tie on
the table, then peeled back the edges of the cloth. Gold glinted
out among other shiny baubles.

Roxana swiveled away and ducked her head. She had
thought she had done a credible job of fitting in. But he had seen
her mended gloves, knew she had arrived without a maid or a riding
habit, and had guessed that she was the architect of her gowns. "Am
I so obviously destitute, then?"

"Yes," he moved around in front of her. His brown
eyes radiated concern. "I only mean to assist you, Miss Winston.
Julia was dancing around me this morning quite proud of her new
gown."

So was he helping her because she made Julia happy?
His nearness made breathing hard.

He turned her back to him and then slid a single
strand of pearls around her neck and fastened it at her nape.
Shivers poured through her as she touched the gems, just above her
neckline. But it might have been a strand of knotted hemp, because
it was the brush of his warm fingers along her collarbone that made
her skin heat and tingle and her stomach tighten.

All of the jewelry Mrs. Porter proudly displayed,
along with the tales of the protector who had bestowed it upon her,
raced through Roxana's head. "I cannot accept them."

"It is only a loan, Miss Winston. It is not as if
Fanny will need them while you are here. The family has a great
deal of jewelry that is currently not being used by anyone. If I
had more than one sister, it might be a different story."

Or if he had a wife. These jewels would eventually
become the province of his wife. If he married. How could she have
even thought for one second that he was offering her carte
blanche?

His hand against her shoulder did strange things to
her insides. That was why. Gently he pushed her toward the table
and the decorative looking glass on the wall. She saw her eyes,
wide and dark, and tried to ease the fear from her expression. His
face moved above her shoulder, and he held a teardrop pearl earring
up to her ear. His thumb grazed against her earlobe and a shudder
rippled through her.

Their eyes met and held in the glass. She could turn
her head and her lips would brush his cheek, he stood so close. Or
if he turned . . .

Roxana wanted to close her eyes and lean back into
him. As if aware he stood too close, he stiffened and stepped
back.

"You are too kind, but I cannot wear these."

Every time she touched them she would think of him.
Stars above, she could not forget why she was here and what she
needed to do.

"Why has your father not provided better for you than
to cast you among strangers?"

Roxana's hand curled around the pearls. Mentioning
her father was as good a reminder as any. She closed her eyes.
Pictures swam before them. Falling to her knees in the drive, her
hands scraping against the rough gravel. The thought that she
needed to protect her hands from injury had sustained her as the
stinging whacks fell across her back.

"Roxy, are you all right? You've gone quite
pale."

Roxana strode away, her gloved fingers unable to undo
the necklace's catch. "I do not think this is a good idea."

"Hold steady." Max followed her down the passageway
until he caught her shoulders and then undid the pearls. He put
them in the chamois cloth. "It is not a good idea for us to be
alone together overlong. But do take the jewelry, Roxy."

"I cannot think this is proper," she said.

"I did not expect you to object. No one ever
questions the propriety of my actions. I assure you, no one will
recognize them as Trent pieces." He looked down into the pouch. "I
can see a few of these were my mother's pieces. They haven't been
worn since her death."

Surely he would not use his mother's jewelry to
foster a seduction. Perhaps her own folly led her to misinterpret
his gesture. "I do not understand why you are helping me, when you
do not approve of my goals."

"Do not allow false pride to stand in the way of your
ambitions." Max retrieved the ribbon from the table and returned to
where she stood in the middle of the passage. He reached out for
her hand, pulling it up and setting the chamois cloth in it. "Would
wearing them not help you achieve your ends? It costs me
nothing."

From the weight of it, she could tell the contents
were more than the pearls. Max reached for her other hand that hung
stupidly at her side and brought it up to hold the makeshift bag.
His hands were big enough to hold the bundle in one hand, but her
hands were not. He wrapped the bit of ribbon around the cloth and
tied a bow. She studied his fingers as they deftly handled the
narrow strip.

"I want you to use them. All beautiful women should
have proper adornment." His hands closed around hers and the gentle
warmth of them burned through the back of her gloved hands. "I do
not know why the mention of your father upsets you, nor why you
feel your course is so urgent." He smiled encouragingly. "I would
hope that you could help me understand your plight."

Roxana wanted to tug her hands back, but she
hesitated because she could not pull back without looking as if she
was snatching the jewelry to her. If he understood her plight,
would it become a bargaining chip to persuade her with, or was his
inquiry only kindness?

"Is your family's situation so dire that you must
sacrifice your own happiness to marry a wealthy man?"

Roxana stared at him, unwilling to lie to him, and
yet knowing she could not tell him the truth. Yes, her family
situation was dire, but nothing upon nothing would convince her to
marry. She'd rather be a man's mistress first. She never wanted to
allow a man so much control, so many rights, not even when he made
her heart pound, and her knees weak, and was too, too kind to her
when he hated what she was doing.

But clearly Max was a man who wanted his own way. He
cajoled and flattered and reasoned until the path he thought best
was followed. Would he ever resort to the measures her father used
to demand his family's compliance? Roxana suspected Max had never
been so challenged. A duke was toadied to in a way that a baron and
future viscount could only dream about.

"I am sure Fanny could be persuaded to sponsor you in
a season," Max said. "You do not need to settle so quickly."

"Yes, I am sure you could convince her to chaperone
me through a London season, but I should not like to be so
demanding a guest, and I do not think her heart would be in it."
Besides, marriage was not Roxana's goal, and a season would not
offer the opportunities to be compromised that a house party
offered. "I will not protest any longer, because I can see it shall
be useless. Thank you."

She pulled away and moved toward her bedchamber door,
the bundle clutched in her hands. And if Max had looked a little
taken aback, then it served him right for making her think he was
offering to set her up as his mistress. Then Roxana had to
acknowledge that perhaps her own desires had warped her
understanding.

Max's horse nickered and resisted the standstill
after running so long. Many of gathering guests's horses were
flagging, their heads down, blowing hard out of their nostrils and
their hides wet with sweat. The grooms would have a difficult
evening, caring for all the horses. A chill breeze blew out of the
north, ruddying the cheeks of the already rosy cheeks of the
riders.

The hounds bayed as the kennel master and whipper-ins
yanked them back on newly attached leads, the kill left for the
equestrian pursuers. Mud and decaying leaves clung to many of the
riders, the result of a recent run through a creek.

As Max dismounted, he mentally counted the riders,
wondering if any had dropped out or been hurt in the last hour of
hard riding. His boots squished against the spongy ground near the
boggy stretch of reeds where the fox cowered, the red of his brush
clear through the thin stalks. Max disliked this part.

The fox had given a good run, but now it trembled,
beaten, its sides heaving with fatigue. Max would have preferred to
let the fox live another day; the beast had provided a good hunt.
He'd kept the chase alive for many hours, leading them over hill
and dale. Mostly their quarry had kept to Trent lands and hadn't
dragged the riders through forest, until the end when nearing
exhaustion.

"There you are, fellow," Max cooed softly. "Almost
done now."

Scully and Thomas as well as a few of the other
hunters closed from either side, the servants taking positions on
an outer ring to cut off any avenue of escape. Not that the fox had
the energy to run any longer. Besides, dusk crept through the
trees, the shadows long and low.

Max reached for the fox with his gloved left hand.
The animal wasn't done yet, as he snapped at Max, but it was too
late. Max caught the brush of his tail, yanked him up and slit his
throat almost before Scully could assist him in the kill.

Max held high the limp animal to the triumphant
cheers of the hunters and the hysterical baying of the hounds. Max
gave the order to one of the servants to run back to the house and
let Fanny know that the hunt party would be back within the hour.
They were far enough away that he was not sure she would hear the
horns.

Thomas skipped forward to receive the smears of fox
blood on his cheeks.

The Misses Ferris urged their horses in to receive
their mark, more because Max was bestowing it than because it was
truly their first hunt. Max scanned for Roxana.

"Miss Winston." He lifted the bloody carcass. "Your
first participation in the kill?"

She stared at him, her eyes glassy and accusatory.
The brilliant red flush of her winter-chilled cheeks drained before
his eyes. She shook her head and wheeled her mount around. For such
a pragmatic woman, she had surprisingly soft sides.

Max continued forward, offering the blood to the
eager clamoring of the other hunters. Many of the women who had
fallen back near the end now joined the circle around him.

"Go after her, Dev," he whispered to Scully.

Scully backed away and out of the crowd, but he
returned a few seconds later. "Breedon has her."