Compromised by Christmas (19 page)

"I think you are teaching him as you were taught. You
are not impatient, nor are you unreasonable. You have high
expectations of him, but not impossible expectations. I believe
that Thomas feels the rules have changed without notice."

Max gestured toward the graves. The rules had
changed. Death had changed all their lives. "When did Thomas tell
you this?"

"When we were decorating the ballroom." Miss Winston
turned her head back toward the graves, her bonnet hiding her
expression from him. Her voice was evenly modulated, not shrill or
accusatory. "I hope I am not too forward, but I promised Thomas I
would speak with you."

Had she watched Max for a moment to catch him alone?
So far he had only seen her employ such tactics for Gregory. "And I
thought you must have been laying in wait for Mr. Breedon."

Roxana's head dipped forward. "I was, but I believe
he did not walk today, as is his habit."

Tenseness had crept into her voice, negating Max's
disappointment that Roxana was not watching for him.

Max reached out and put his arm around her shoulders.
She felt rigid under his touch. He told himself he offered her only
comfort, but he suspected he sought solace for himself.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to digress. I did suggest
to Thomas that he speak to you himself, but he declined. He said
you would not listen to him."

"I listen."

"Yes, I believe you do, but have you given Thomas the
full measure of your thoughts?"

"I've told him my intention is to keep him my heir,"
said Max.

Roxana moved forward and brushed snow from
Alexander's tombstone. The snow fell all around her, dusting her
blue cloak with white specks. "Do you suppose your father yearned
for a military life?"

"Why?"

She turned and looked back at Max. "He encouraged
three of his sons to follow the drum, did he not? Would not at
least one son normally be encouraged to become a member of the
clergy? And a third perhaps encouraged to engage in civil service?
Many positions in the government are drawn by appointment, are they
not?"

"I do not think he foresaw this outcome. And I think
my brother's deaths took the will to live out of him. I will not
have this future for Thomas." His own role in encouraging their
choices figured more prominently in his mind. They had trusted him.
That they had to take employment while he, as the oldest son, had
everything was a crushing weight he found hard to bear.

Had his father planted the enthusiasm for military
careers in his brothers' minds? Even in his, for even as he knew he
was the fortunate one, he'd envied his brothers' carefree military
careers.

Roxana turned around and walked toward him. He wanted
more than anything to pull her to him, just to feel alive. But that
felt blasphemous in this place.

"I suppose it is small comfort to think they are all
in a better place," she said softly. Reaching out from under the
folds of her cloak, she put her gloved hand on his sleeve.

"Indeed." As far as he could see, the gentle rolling
hills and the massive house on the hill behind them, was his. There
was no place better than this.

Her touch heated him, provided barrier to the chill
wind. A snowflake fell on her dark lashes and clung for a moment.
The cold had brightened her cheeks and he felt caught in a moment
out of time. He could hear his brothers urging him to quit being a
stick-in-the-mud and have fun. Kiss the girl.

But his place was to do the right thing. A duke could
not go around kissing unmarried girls without them thinking that he
would offer for them. After looking at the graves, he knew he could
not marry. It was a fleeting fancy that he would not spend the rest
of his life alone. His duty lay in grooming Thomas to take over the
title and estate.

Roxana deserved better than a dalliance that would
lead to nothing. And his behavior in the kissing bower had been
beyond the bounds of acceptable. Nothing good ever came from
incorrect behavior.

Another snowflake fell on her cheek and he wanted to
touch his lips to the moisture. "We should return to the house,
Roxy."

She took a step back and smiled. "Ah, but it is so
beautiful out here. I love snow. Ah, and there is Mr. Breedon on
his constitutional after all. You should of course go back to the
house, and I will just say hello to Mr. Breedon."

She skipped toward the gate, excitement coloring her
eyes. He watched her run toward Mr. Breedon with all the enthusiasm
of a child. She scooped up a handful of snow to throw just before
she reached him. And Max was left behind with the dead and
buried.

*~*~*

After Roxana's loosely packed snowball hit him on the
shoulder, Mr. Breedon turned and scowled at her. With his round
face he resembled a petulant child more than an angry man. Hardly
the expression to strike fear in a miscreant. She could not imagine
a situation where she would ever fear Mr. Breedon.

Roxana had actually meant to miss. She laughed anyway
and stepped forward, allowing her legs to slide out from under her.
The heavy wet snow was not so deep that it provided cushion for her
fall, and she was throwing the game before she even started. She
suspected Max would provide a worthy opponent in a snow fight, and
she would never have to pull back. That is, if he could be
persuaded to relax.

"Do you not love snow, Mr. Breedon?" Her thin cotton
dress sopped up the moisture like a sponge.

"No."

Roxana scrambled upright, making sure that Mr.
Breedon was allowed a healthy glimpse of her ankles. Did he even
notice? He had not stepped forward to help her to her feet.

"I am sorry, then." She brushed snow from his
shoulder. "I will contain my enthusiasm."

"My apologies, Miss Winston. I fear that I am quite
worried about the snow."

"The snow?"

"Yes, I am afraid this snowfall may make the roads
impassable."

Roxana slid her gloved hand into the crook of Mr.
Breedon's elbow. Why was he concerned about the snow? "The party
has just started. Surely you do not plan to leave soon?"

"I hate feeling as if I am trapped in a place and
cannot leave."

"If the snow delays your departure, then I cannot be
dissuaded from liking it even more."

Mr. Breedon shuddered. "Well, frozen ground makes
better traveling than mud, so it may not be such a bad event after
all."

They walked along the snow-blanketed path as the
flakes fell all around them, creating a veil between them and the
whitening countryside. At least the trees they walked between
blocked the wind. Although where moisture had seeped through the
darned areas in her glove her fingers stung from the cold. And
holding Mr. Breedon's arm meant her thin cloak was open, allowing
the frigid air to penetrate the wet muslin of her gown. Perhaps
falling down had not been such a good idea, and it had failed to
draw Mr. Breedon closer, as was her intent.

"I think the snow quite beautiful," said Roxana.

Mr. Breedon's lips flattened to that simple slash in
his face. "Makes my knee hurt."

"Was your injury from a riding accident?" inquired
Roxana.

Mr. Breedon shook his head. "My phaeton
overturned."

"It must be perfectly terrible to have such a thing
occur. I am not entirely sure those high carriages are safe. You
are quite brave to drive one."

"I was not driving," squawked Mr. Breedon. "They must
have wanted to cause me injury."

Roxana was not quite sure who "they" were.

"Well, I am truly sorry for your difficulties. I wish
I could ease your pain."

Mr. Breedon stopped abruptly and swung around in
front of her on the path. "Miss Winston, are you my friend?"

The question took her by surprise. "I should hope
so."

He screwed up his mouth. "My mama thinks you are
offering false coin because . . ."

Roxana's heart pounded heavily in her chest. One
misstep and her chances of bringing Mr. Breedon to a place where
she could ask for a financial settlement would crumble. What if he
asked to marry her without compromising her? What if he held
himself to the rigid bounds of propriety?

"Because you are well heeled?" She finished for him
and looked down at her toes, toes she could barely feel, which was
blessed relief from the stinging they had been doing earlier.

"That is usually why women toss their handkerchiefs
in my direction."

"Yes, but I do like you, Gregory. You are very kind
and . . . and . . . gentle. Mr. Scullin and his grace treat me
quite differently. They frighten me at times. I am very comfortable
with you. What proof could I offer to you my affection is genuine?"
Roxana had a clue, but she could not suggest it.

"My mama says something is havey-cavey about you
being here at the party without your parents."

Roxana took a leap of faith. "Yes, but you do not
always agree with your parents' assessments."

He stared at her as if unable to make up his mind.
Roxana stood her ground although she shivered in earnest. A cold
spot grew in her heart. She feared that self-absorbed Mr. Breedon
actually had started to care for her, and what she intended to do
would wound him. Even though she would treat a monetary settlement
as a loan to be repaid, he would see her actions as a betrayal.

"I do hope we are friends, Mr. Breedon. I would not
be averse to being more than friends, but I have been given to
understand that I would not meet your parents' expectations. I
quite understand that, although your parents could not find fault
with my lineage or my c-connections." She gestured to the house as
the wind resumed and blew right through her.

"B-b-because I have f-f-four sisters my p-p-portion
will be small." Her teeth chattered and she could no longer stop
them. Her portion would be nonexistent, but Mr. Breedon did not
need to know that.

"Are you cold, Miss Winston?"

Nearly frozen solid, but at least he noticed. She
nodded her head.

Max had slid his arm around her shoulders, or he
would have seen her back inside. Mr. Breedon stared at her as if he
had never been confronted with such a dilemma.

"C-c-could you warm me?" she asked.

He grabbed her arms and began rubbing vigorously up
and down. Roxana was impatient with his obtuseness and she stepped
forward, touching their chests together. Finally, he wrapped his
arms around her and pulled her against his warm body. She settled
her gloved hands at his sides, barely feeling her fingers.

"Oh, thank you," she whispered. Even through his
clothes she could feel warmth. She tucked her head into the crook
of his neck, her nose touching his chin.

"You are like ice," said Mr. Breedon.

"I am sorry, although I feel much warmer
already."

He rubbed her back fiercely. She would have asked him
to be gentler, but she needed him to make an advance before she
turned into an ice sculpture, before he realized he should be
leading her back to the house, before she began to think he did not
like women.

Finally, his stroking changed and Roxana took that
moment to lift her head and meet his eyes. Their lips were only an
inch apart and he was not so much taller than her that he would
have to bend over. Roxana stared at his milky white face and his
little eyes and she lowered her lashes for fear he would see her
assessment for the coldhearted thing it was. If he did not kiss her
now, she knew he would never be persuaded to compromise her.

Finally his lips nipped at hers. Roxana tried not to
pull away or resist. And she was acutely aware of her lack of
engagement. With Max her heart had pounded and her knees had gone
weak. With Gregory she felt only chilled and detached.

She tightened her arms around him and waited . . .
waited . . . would he not do it again? Her eyes fluttered open just
as Mr. Breedon was plunging forward for another kiss. His face hit
hers with the speed of a galloping horse, and Roxana wondered if
teeth could bruise. But she had to concentrate hard to keep her
teeth from chattering. Lord knew biting him would not further her
cause.

Mr. Breedon folded both his arms around her back, and
in her half-frozen state she tried to convince herself that his
embrace was pleasant even if his kiss was not. Oh stars, Max's lips
had felt so much better, firm, where Gregory's were nonexistent.
And it was as if he intended to squeeze the life out of her in his
bear hug.

Mrs. Porter had told her that men were pretty much
interchangeable when it came to matters of intimacy, but oh she was
so wrong, thought Roxana as she pushed at Gregory's shoulders.

*~*~*

Max leaned against the wrought iron fence, the cold
of the bars seeping through his greatcoat. Yet as he watched Roxana
charm and cajole Mr. Breedon, Max knew he needed to keep her in his
sights. That was the trouble with having an unchaperoned guest; no
mother or father would raise the alarm if Roxana was gone too
long.

When Breedon kissed her, Max slammed his hat low on
his head and trudged toward them. How could she? When the taste of
her burned in his mouth, the feel of her curves imprinted on his
brain, and the sight of her blue eyes made his insides turn to
mush, how could she throw herself at that overgrown boy?

Because Breedon would perchance marry her, whispered
a devil on Max's shoulder, and he could not. Not if he wanted to
keep Thomas as his heir. Her scheming and manipulation bothered
him, but she seemed to like Mr. Breedon. Had Max not watched her
face light up as she saw he was out walking? Could she really care
about the lout?

The snow came down in clumps and the wind shifted
over it, filling in the indentations of their footfalls, erasing
the hollow where she had fallen—deliberately, Max assumed. God, for
one of her tricks on him, he'd show her what a real man would do.
Yet, Breedon seemed to be giving her a good demonstration of a
far-too-intimate kiss, without the thin excuse of mistletoe hanging
overhead.