Compromised by Christmas (17 page)

Max thrust the fox's body in Thomas's direction, and
the boy struggled to hold the animal aloft to the cheers around
him.

Max peeled off his bloody gloves, tossing them in the
direction of a groom.

"Has she never hunted before?" asked Scully. "Did she
not know what to expect?"

Max had killed animals dozens of times. Killing the
fox was expected and more humane than letting the dogs rip the poor
beast to shreds. He'd never questioned the necessity of it. The
cold stung his bare hands as he mounted his horse again.

Roxana's wary expression and the way that she shied
away from him made him feel just a bit savage.

No doubt Breedon, with his aversion for
hunting—aversion for anything physical—and his slothful movements,
made her feel that he would never so much as hurt a fly.

*~*~*

Roxana wasn't sure why the killing of the fox had
bothered her so. Perhaps because Max had gone about it with an ease
and a matter-of-factness that reminded her of the way her father's
hand would fly across her mother's cheek if his dinner was late or
his slippers did not appear as promptly as he wished. As if the
recipient of the cruelty deserved the treatment.

When they lived in Winston Hall it had been easier to
avoid her father, but after they moved to the cottage, they were
too on top of each other and the rages were harder to sidestep.

The poor fox had done nothing more than lead them on
merry chase over the countryside. It hardly seemed fair to
slaughter the poor animal when he could run no more.

"Miss Winston, ho, wait for me," called Mr. Breedon
behind her.

She pulled her ambling horse to a halt and waited for
him to catch her.

Mr. Breedon pulled alongside her and bent forward to
stroke the neck of his horse, cooing to his steed. The horse tossed
its head.

Roxana brushed below her eyes and turned. "My, it is
turning cold, is it not?"

Mr. Breedon noticed her gesture. "The end is hard to
watch."

"I suppose I am quite silly, but I wanted the poor
fox to get away."

Mr. Breedon smiled. "Why, Miss Winston, you have such
a tender heart."

No, she did not, but such brusque violence by Max
unaccountably affected her. She shuddered. Had she thought that Max
could be only kind, that he was incapable of the violence that
those of his sex relished?

She was being a ninny. The all-night sewing stints
must have made her overtired. First had been her mad rush to
construct her fashionable new riding habit. Then she cut apart her
new pelisse to make scarves for the men. She started sewing
drawstring reticules for all the women. Hopefully, by Christmas she
would have respectable gifts for everyone.

The evenings had been quiet, games of charades or cap
verses and cards. Evenings were the best time to make up to Mr.
Breedon. The hunt kept her in his presence—even if it did not allow
for a tête-à-tête—so she had participated, even though riding a
horse for so many hours when she was unused to it had made her sore
and tired.

Mr. Breedon's mount sidled toward her and pinned
Roxana's legs between the two horses. Mr. Breedon reached across
the distance and plucked a bit of dead leaf from her shoulder. She
felt as much as the leaf. If Max had done that she would have
experienced his touch deep in her womb—which was insane. But she
tried to substitute in her head the reaction she had with Max.

"You have quite a good seat," said Mr. Breedon.

"I enjoy riding. I have been admiring your mounts all
day long. You keep quite impressive horseflesh, Mr. Breedon."

Mr. Breedon looked down. "I like to ride too. I just
prefer riding at home where I know all the paths."

"And walking when away from home?"

"Just so. Riding occasionally bothers my knee. It has
seized up on me. I find it mortifying to be laid up in bed when
visiting."

"Yes, one would hate to miss the festivities."

Mr. Breedon, for all his girth, actually exercised
quite a bit. She knew things about him that she suspected he had
not shared with others. In fact, she was starting to feel quite bad
about her plans to trick him, but then she needed to prod him along
the path. He did not act as though he even wanted to compromise
her.

"Miss Winston, might I ask you a question of a
delicate nature?"

Mr. Breedon's horse still brushed her leg. She slowed
her mount so her legs might brush Mr. Breedon. "Certainly."

"Is there an arrangement between you and the
duke?"

Arrangement?
Roxana's horse neighed and backed
away, so the planned gentle touch of their extremities became a
bone-jarring crash. So much for her use of subtle physical
enticements. "No, why would you think that?"

"The others are speculating, and Lady Malmsbury . .
." Breedon cleared his throat. "Just did not want to be
poaching."

Were the others gossiping about her and Max? Surely
they did not think her his mistress. "What kind of
arrangement?"

"Well, since his father's passing, there are those
that say he is looking for a bride."

Roxana sucked in a calming draught of cold winter
air. "No, I have it on good authority he is
not
looking for
marriage."

Mr. Breedon looked down at his hands. "Oh."

Panic rose in Roxana's throat. She had allowed her
natural sharpness to show through her sweet-as-sugar pretense. "Not
that I care about that."

Mr. Breedon looked off across the field. "No, of
course not." He urged his horse forward.

Stars above, he probably thought she had cast out
lures for Max and failed before she began angling after him.

"Gregory—I beg your pardon—Mr. Breedon, I find the
Duke of Trent too sure of himself."

Mr. Breedon looked back at her as if wanting to be
reassured. Would he comment on her
accidental
use of his
first name?

"I do not think whomever he chooses as a wife shall
be very comfortable. He is a very forceful man, is he not?"

"I had not thought him forceful."

"I do not wish to be critical of our host," said
Roxana. Had she set her cause back too far? Panic clutched at her
throat. She was much better at her role when her emotions were not
running high. "I am sure there are those that would think his
strength of character one of his best assets, but I find him
intolerant of dissenting opinions."

"No. He is quite tolerant of diverse opinions. He
entertains all of the gentlemen after dinner by making sure all
different ideas are honored."

Roxana bit down on her tongue. She could not argue
with Mr. Breedon, and certainly not about Max. "I am sure you must
know him better than I do. I have, after all, only just met him. I
only know that I feel much more comfortable in your presence than
in his."

"Yes, well, he watches you a lot," said Mr.
Breedon.

Heat curled under her skin, but Roxana tried to
dismiss it. "I am sure it is that he takes his temporary
guardianship of me quite seriously."

Did Max watch her? Their eyes seemed to meet often
across the room, as if he always was aware of where she was. When
he watched over her did he feel that same odd fluttering as she
did?

*~*~*

"There, love, the fox is killed and it is too bad we
cannot eat him," said Scully as Fanny went around the massive
dining-room table, checking that the place settings were in proper
precedence.

"We have plenty to eat without resorting to eating
vermin," answered Fanny, while switching two place cards.

Scully went behind her and switched Miss Winston's
card to the place beside his seat and away from Breedon, who was
farther down the table. He wandered around looking over the china
and silver and made sure that Malmsy was on the opposite side of
the table and far enough away that she'd have to launch a gravy
boat to decorate Roxana with food.

"Thomas enjoyed his first hunt," Scully said, knowing
Fanny would be worried about her son but would not ask directly
about Thomas's well-being.

Fanny stopped for a second and then resumed her
chore.

"I rode with him and let him regale me with all the
tales of the fences he took."

Fanny turned her blue eyes toward him and then closed
them. She gripped the back of a chair. "I should not have let him
go."

"Never fear, Max or I had him within our sights every
day." They had traded off between keeping an eye on Thomas and
keeping an eye on Miss Winston. "I never would have let him take a
fence that he could not clear."

Scully moved to her side.

"You should be upstairs in the drawing room," said
Fanny. "I'm sure that more of the younger set are gathered up
there."

"I would rather be here with you."

"Yes, well, you are making a nuisance of
yourself."

"Shall I go play with the children in the nursery?"
asked Scully. "For you seem determined to treat me like a little
boy."

"Perhaps you should not. My children talk of nothing
but you or Miss Winston." Fanny strode away.

Scully paused. Had he erred in ingratiating himself
with Julia and Thomas? Not that he was overplaying his role, but
just treating them as a friendly uncle would. And why did Fanny's
voice have an edge to it when she mentioned Miss Winston's
name?

Fanny came to a complete stop when she saw the two
place cards he had switched. Her gaze rose to meet his, and he did
not mistake the hurt in them.

"I'm not a boy or an unformed youth who does not know
my mind." As Devlin said the words he wrestled with the idea that
he was not sure of what he wanted. He had ridden here fast,
thinking he knew, but Max had raised the stakes and Fanny shied
away from him at every turn.

A servant entered the room to light the tapers on the
silver candelabrum gracing the table every five feet. Fanny exited
the room without saying another word. What had happened to the
woman who had delighted in his company, smiled at his cajoling and
laughed at his compliments?

Was she just a distant memory he had idolized in his
youth, or was the Fanny he knew and loved still hiding under her
stiff widow's reserve?

He looked down the long polished rosewood table. The
largest table in his home could seat no more than two dozen, but
this table was set for more than twice that number. Did Fanny hate
the idea of losing all this splendor? Was that the reason for her
animosity toward Roxana and her resistance to him?

*~*~*

Roxana curtsiyed to her partner and then joined the
polite titter of applause. A small orchestra played on a raised
dais and local gentry had been invited to fill out the company in
the ballroom.

Too many times she had looked across the floor and
encountered Max's gaze.

"Ah, there you are, Miss Winston," said Scully as she
returned to the Duchess of Trent's side. "You are looking
heavenly."

Whenever Fanny's hostess duties kept her busy, Scully
seemed to have taken it upon himself to make sure Roxana never
stood alone.

"Heavenly? More like devilishly wicked," said Lady
Malmsbury nearby.

Roxana looked up, but the words were not addressed to
her; Lady Malmsbury was speaking to Lady Breedon.

"Have you ever seen such clothing on a woman of
quality? Miss Winston dresses like a Cyprian."

My stars, she did not need Mr. Breedon's mama
thinking she was beyond the pale. Lady Breedon's color rose, and
she refused to meet Roxana's gaze. Lady Malmsbury had no such
qualms. Her green eyes shot venom in Roxana's direction.

"Hell has no fury, eh, Malmsy?" called Scully.

Lady Malmsbury turned her back to them, her long red
curls bouncing with the vehemence of her cut direct.

Roxana tugged Scully along. Much as she would like to
confront Lady Malmsbury, nothing would be gained and much could be
lost. She could not repay the Trents' hospitality by creating an
unpleasant scene.

Roxana looked down at the gathered swags of red silk
across her chest and shoulders. The whole dress consisted of layer
after layer of swooping skirts, each layer shorter and shorter,
until the top layer hung just below her hips. Or perhaps it was the
matching long gloves, the gathers on the forearms mirroring the
drape of her dress. Every other woman in the ballroom wore long
white gloves.

"Do not pay her any mind. She is just jealous and in
a bad mood," Scully said. "Your gown is simply stunning, and you
are beyond compare in it."

"Don't. I do not quite fit in, do I?" whispered
Roxana.

"If you don't fit in because you stand above the
others, there is no fault to you in that."

"You are too kind," said Roxana.

Scully had taken over their direction and Roxana
stopped walking as she realized he was leading them to the group
where Max stood surrounded by a bevy of young women.

Roxana tugged at one of her gloves.

Max backed away from the group and headed toward
them. "Miss Winston, Dev."

"Malmsy is on the warpath," warned Scully in a low
undertone. "Fanny is precious close to where I want her."

Max nodded and extended his arm to Roxana. "Might I
have this dance, Miss Winston?"

*~*~*

Fanny watched Scully approach with a determined
stride. She looked around for an escape, but the only clear path
was toward the mistletoe hanging in the corner of the room, a
corner that had been conspicuously avoided thus far.

"Might I have this dance, your grace?" Scully stepped
so close her skirts brushed against his legs.

She took a step back. "I have to see to things."

"No, you don't. Everything is running smoothly, as
usual."

Fanny wasn't sure if she enjoyed these house parties
anymore. She had at first enjoyed the increased stature she gained
by hosting one of the most exclusive of holiday parties, but in
recent years she found her concerns about her guests' pleasure
trumping her own enjoyment. A disaster always took place, but by
dint of her ability to contain it, rarely did all her guests catch
wind of whatever catastrophe befell each party.