Compromised by Christmas (2 page)

She put her pen down and rose, her blue eyes
contrite. "I am so sorry. Welcome home, Max. I trust you are in
good health?"

She crossed the room and pressed her cheek to
his.

"Excellent health. And your grace?"

"Stop being so formal, Max. You know I cannot abide
it." She tugged the bell pull. "And do not send for Scully if he
means to tag after me like a lovesick puppy. But if you can think
of any other unmarried men, you should invite them, posthaste. I
need eligible men for our houseguest. It is probably much too late
to send her home. I am quite in a dither with this situation."

"What situation?" Max settled in for the wait. Fanny
was likely to circle the issue many times before it became clear to
him.

"I did not know she was coming, or I should have
planned this all differently. I shall invite more young ladies of
marriageable age too. You should be thinking of setting up your
nursery."

"I can hardly boot my own brother and sister from the
nursery, Fanny, dearest." Plus, Max had no intention of marrying
and setting up his nursery.

"Well, Julia is too old to keep in the nursery and
Thomas will be off to Eton next year. The timing is perfect for you
to settle down. You are not getting any younger, you know."

"Do not invite any young ladies for my benefit." At
thirty, Max had no reason to be discontent with his life. He would
not muck it up with a marriage.

His halfbrother's prospects were much better if Max
stayed single and kept Thomas the heir presumptive. Max would
rather not lose yet another younger brother to a war on foreign
soil.

"I invited the Malmsburys on your behalf."

"Oh hell and damnation, tell me they did not
accept."

"Lady Malmsbury accepted." Fanny wrung her hands.
"You did not want her to come? She said you would, and are you no
longer . . . ?"

"Do not fret about it, Fanny. You could not have
known." He was not in the habit of discussing his affairs with his
stepmother, although he realized she had always managed to include
his latest paramour among the company at the house parties. His
parting with Lady Malmsbury had not been quite as amicable as he
would have liked, but she was a lady and he a gentleman. "I am sure
we shall manage to be civil to each other."

"Well, then that is all the more reason why I should
attempt to include more of the marriageable set. If I use the rooms
on the west wing, we could house a dozen more guests. Are there any
young ladies whom you would like me to include?"

He could only imagine Lady Malmsbury's reaction to
his paying any mind to young lady of a marriageable inclination.
Her increasing possessiveness had prompted him to end their
liaison. "Why are you hell-bent on matchmaking?"

A footman opened the drawing-room door.

"Please send in a tea tray. I'm sure Max is
famished," she instructed the servant. "Pray tell the children
their brother is here and do see if you can locate Miss
Winston."

"Very good, your grace," said the footman before he
bowed out the door.

"Who is Miss Winston?"

"Our houseguest." Fanny's lips flattened. "The reason
I must have more younger people. I promised her mother, you see."
Fanny wrung her hands. "I never intended to match make, and I am
not quite sure that she is everything she should be. But I cannot
send her home now, can I?"

Max pulled his stepmother to a chair. "Perhaps you
had better begin at the beginning."

"You remember my friend Beth from my Bath
days...Well, no, you probably don't—"

"Your friend"— prompted Max, knowing Fanny could
wander about quite a bit before she got to the point—"from
school."

"Yes, well, she married Sir Winston—or was it Lord
Winston? He is a viscount or a knight or—"

"He's a baron," interrupted Max. Actually, he wasn't
officially a baron. He just used a lesser rank from his father's
honors, but Max wasn't about to debate the difference between
actual title holders and courtesy title holders. "Baron
Winston."

"That's right," said Fanny. "I remember now. His
father is the Viscount of Wingate, still alive and married to that
Spanish Condesa. I always thought it strange that the viscount
would abandon his home to live in southern Spain."

Max sighed. Would he have to listen to Miss Winston's
entire history? "Do hurry, dear, before the children attack
me."

"Why, Max, my children would never attack you," said
Fanny with her hand at her chest.

"Yes, but if you hurry you might explain before they
demand all my attention." Max wanted to know why his stepmother had
invited this young lady and why she was now having regrets. "Miss
Winston is the product of this union?"

"Well, yes. Her mother and I were quite good friends
and we have corresponded over the years, although lately not near
as much. She wrote earlier this year and asked if Miss Winston
could be invited to our house party, there were so few prospects
for her in Montgomeryshire, and the Winstons would not be able to
present her in London. Apparently nothing can be spared to bring
her out. And she has no dowry at all. There are other children and
a brother who should be in school and they have been trying to get
him in as a King's scholar."

Max tapped Fanny on her hands, hoping to redirect her
conversation to the problem of Miss Winston and not her entire
family's concerns.

He could hear the thump of feet above him, racing for
the stairs. Julia and Thomas would be upon him in a moment.

"Beth, er, Lady Winston asked if I might invite
her—Miss Winston, that is—to one of my house parties, so she might
have a chance of affixing a gentleman's interest."

"And now she is here." What was the problem? Was she
bracket-faced? Were her manners boorish? Was she unmarriageable?
"Whatever is causing your misgivings?"

"I never received an answer. I did not
know
she was coming. And, well . . ."

"Yes, well?"

"She arrived on the
mail coach
, alone. She
said it was more economical than traveling in a post-chaise
and—"

"Miss Winston traveled on the mail coach alone? Her
parents do not attend with her?"

"She is all alone. So you see my dilemma. I certainly
expected that Lady Winston would accompany her daughter. I was
rather looking forward to seeing Beth again. I never thought—"

"Are her manners amiss?" Max was quite sure he did
not see why Fanny was in a fret. It was a bit unconventional, but
hardly unusual for an unmarried miss to stay with her parent's
friend.

"No, she seems a lovely girl, but her clothes—"

"Are rags?" So Miss Winston was a charity case and
poor as a church mouse to boot. While it was not well done of the
Winstons to send their daughter without escort and on a public
conveyance, it did not make the girl a total liability. She was,
after all, wellborn.

His siblings clattered down the uncarpeted staircase
from the third floor. One more flight of stairs and a carpeted
passageway before they were upon him.

"No, that is just it. Her clothes are to die for—a
bit too fast for a girl not out—and, well." Fanny tapped her lip
with a forefinger.

Max wondered if Fanny had forgotten how revealing the
current London fashions were. Nearly sheer, dampened gowns were
found in all drawing rooms. The duchess's black silk gown was cut
modestly, a somber tribute to her widowed state.

"I suppose she should have been presented last year.
She arrived with two monstrous trunks as well as two smaller
bandboxes as if she meant to stay forever. I suppose she has a
great deal of clothes. But I do not understand how she could afford
such fashionable and well-made things. She seems quite enamored of
my lady's magazines—"

"Fanny," Max cut her off. So if Miss Winston's
clothes weren't rags...

"I sent my dresser to help her unpack, you see."

No, Max didn't see. He heard Julia's exuberant
laughter and Thomas calling out as the carpeted passageway muffled
their footfalls.

"She wouldn't open one trunk at all. I hate to think
what might be in there."

"Fanny."

As red stained Fanny's cheeks, her voice dropped to a
strained whisper. "But my maid says that Miss Winston has
undergarments made of sheer red silk. Shifts and stockings
and—"

The door burst open. Thomas and Julia flew across the
room, knocking into Max. They were big enough to almost bowl him
over and too old to be so rambunctious. He hugged them tight
anyway.

Over their blond curls he saw what must be the owner
of such scandalous undergarments made of
sheer
red silk. His
first thought was that even without a dowry, she should arouse
enough interest to be satisfactorily settled.

She took a step into the room. Her gown caressed her
slender form and the only thought he could raise was that with her
dark hair and midnight blue eyes, she'd look damn good in red silk.
But then again, from the way the jade green material slid against
her body, he was not sure she wore any undergarments at all. In
either case, he'd really like to see for himself what was under
that dress.

Then he banished the thought as totally
uncharacteristic. He never bothered with innocents and he had no
plans to start now.

*~*~*

Roxana Winston entered the massive drawing room more
sedately than the youngest St. Clairs. Both of them had raced past
her on the stair, shouting,
"Max is home."
Julia and Thomas
threw themselves at the newcomer. He enfolded them in a bear hug,
lifting both the nearly grown youngsters off the floor.

The joyous greeting for the return of the head of
household was a far cry from what happened in Roxana's home when
her father arrived after an extended absence.

The intensity of the duke's gaze on her started
flutters in her stomach. Then he ruffled Thomas's hair and grinned
down at Julia. Instead of looking imperious and imposing, he looked
. . . friendly, perhaps kind. "Good grief, I believe you both have
grown an inch. Have I been gone so long?"

His tousled tawny brown hair appeared windblown and
his skin was ruddy. As she neared him, she caught the scent of the
outdoors, crisp with the cold.

Even the Duchess of Trent appeared quite excited by
her stepson's presence. Her color was high as she clapped her hands
together to restrain the boisterous antics of her son, who was
jumping up and down clamoring, "Max, you have to come see me ride.
I can take the paddock fence now."

Roxana glided forward and waited quietly to make her
curtsy. She'd practiced, looking in her cheval glass. This was
probably the only time she would ever make a curtsy to a duke in a
social situation. In the future she would be shunned by the ton.
Persons of trade were not welcomed in polite society.

"Roxy is designing a new gown for me," said Julia as
Roxana neared the family group. "You should see it."

"Oh, dear," said the duchess.

The Duke of Trent cast a glance at his stepmother and
then turned his brown eyes Roxana's way, his warm gaze roving over
her gown.

Roxana supposed that was good. She wanted her dresses
noticed, but she was not entirely sure that he was looking at just
her creation. An edgy energy crept up her spine.

He urged the children to step back. "Allow me to meet
our guest."

The Duchess of Trent performed the introductions.

Roxana pasted what she hoped was an appropriate smile
on her face and dropped to her curtsy. "I am most grateful for your
hospitality, your grace."

As her lowered gaze returned to his face, she noticed
the way his buff unmentionables clung to the muscles of his thighs
and the cut of his chestnut-brown coat emphasized the breadth of
his shoulders. Her curtsy had been designed to emphasize the bias
cut of her dress; instead she noticed him.

"Charmed to meet you." He cast a disparaging glance
in his stepmother's direction. "I have heard so much about you,
Miss Winston."

The Duchess of Trent hardly looked old enough to be a
mother of the two youths, let alone as old as Roxana's mother,
although they were of an age. "I cannot imagine that you have heard
much. I am sure I was never much more than an afterthought in my
mother's correspondence."

"I was just telling Max of your interest in fashion
and how I so admire your wardrobe." The duchess rolled her eyes
toward her stepson as she sat down.

The duke gestured for her to sit and Roxana complied,
perching on the far end of the sofa. As soon as the Duke of Trent
sat, Thomas leaned against his halfbrother's knee and Julia crowded
the sofa next to them. How different from when Roxana's father
returned home and everyone scattered. Giving Lord Winston, a wide
berth with only the kitchen, bedroom, parlor and attic to provide
refuge, often proved difficult.

"Thank you, I do enjoy clothes and could spend hours
discussing them, but the Duke of Trent will surely not want to be
bored with such feminine diversions."

"On the contrary. Perhaps you could describe the
dress being made for Lady Julia," he said.

While the question seemed innocuous enough, an
undercurrent of caution threaded through the words. Had the Duchess
of Trent's "Oh dear" signified an objection to Julia's new
dress?

Fearing she'd broken an unwritten rule, Roxana turned
toward the duchess. "Would you rather I did not help Julia
construct a new gown, your grace?"

The Duchess of Trent looked left, then right, before
she answered. "She is only fourteen."

"Pray tell, what color is this gown?" asked the
duke.

The duchess rapped her stepson with a closed fan.

"I thought a simple day gown in white muslin, as
would be appropriate for a young lady." Roxana looked down at the
green dress she wore with pride. Was the neckline too low? Was her
lace fichu too transparent? Was the movement from the innovative
bias cut a problem? Until this minute Roxy had thought the gown,
which could be worn day or evening one, of her better pieces. "I
was thinking of pink ribbons in love knots. I could show you the
sketch I made, your grace, to see if there is anything you would
alter."