Compromised by Christmas (20 page)

Roxana pushed at Breedon's shoulders and a feeling
Max would otherwise call relief surged through him.

"Mr. Breedon, Miss Winston," he called, still a
hundred yards away. "I do believe the weather is turning quite
nasty."

Breedon did not release Roxana as Max had expected.
Instead he clumsily patted her and looked around her. His round
face glowed with excitement. "Miss Winston has grown quite
cold."

Not the usual reaction of a woman being kissed.
Perhaps Max could garner joy from that. He needed joy to temper the
black wish in his soul to offer to meet Mr. Breedon at dawn. Not
that he had ever seen Gregory roll out of bed before noon. "I
daresay it would be best to return inside, then," said Max.

As he neared them, he saw that the redness of
Roxana's cheeks had faded to a pale waxy white. She shivered.
"Y-y-yesss," she said, backing away from Breedon.

Max yanked loose the buttons on his greatcoat and
shrugged out of it, then draped it about Roxana's shoulders. He
wrapped the muffler she had given him around her face up to her
eyes.

"Oh, I say," said Breedon.

Roxana did not say anything. Max steered her up the
slope and over the park, directly toward the house. The footpaths
were covered anyway. "Cannot have one of the guests frozen," said
Max.

The wind kicked up around them and Max felt the bite
of it through his day coat. His overcoat dragged through the snowy
ground as Roxana stumbled forward. What kind of footwear was she
wearing?

He knew she was warmer when she protested half the
way to the house that he should take his coat back. Mr. Breedon
trudged along behind them, looking disgruntled.

"I will be fine, Miss Winston. My clothes are warmer
than yours."

Finally he whisked her up the stairs and into the
front hall. "Fire in the library?" he asked the footman taking his
hat and gloves.

"Yes, your grace."

"Stoke it up and send for Miss Winston's maid." Max
trundled Roxana toward the room, paying little heed to her muffled
protests.

Roxana drew off the scarf and uncovered her mouth.
"Thank you, Mr. Breedon," she said at the doorway. "I enjoyed
myself so much."

Gregory mumbled something and headed for the stairs.
His face was a picture of surprise, disappointment and excitement
all rolled together.

"He lets you turn into an icicle and you are thanking
him?" muttered Max. With his hands on her shoulders, he wove her
between the leather chairs, sofas and reading tables of the room.
Her cloak felt ridiculously thin, and, he could see from the darker
splotches of blue, quite damp. Stopping a few feet from the
fireplace he turned her and reached for the ties under her chin.
After casting aside the muffler, he undid the cloak and then her
bonnet. He tossed the items toward a chair.

He stepped to the side, allowing the footman who had
followed them into the room access to the fire. The man silently
added wood until the small flames snapped and crackled and roared
up the chimney with a rush of a large blaze.

Max reached for her hands and stripped off the gloves
that clung to her hands with dampness. Her wince made him gentle
his movements.

The footman scooped up her cloak and bonnet—a silly
little thing that hardly provided protection from the weather, but
by the same token did not impede a gentleman's kiss with its tiny
brim. "Anything else, your grace?"

"Just send her maid, thank you."

The footman bowed, then closed the door. Max should
have told him to leave it open.

Max took her bared hands between his. They felt like
ice. He rubbed his hands over hers, trying to bring blood back into
them. "For God's sake, do you mean to freeze to death just to be
with him?"

"It was the dampness, I think. I had not realized it
would snow. And I did not dress properly for the bad weather."

"No, you did not." Max pushed her palms toward the
fire.

"I really had not intended to be outside for more
than a few minutes."

"But you could not bypass an opportunity to waylay
Breedon?" Max shoved a footstool to within a few feet of the fire.
"Sit."

She sat on it, her blue eyes following him. "I have
been colder before."

He was relieved to see color returning to her face,
although she held out her ashen gray hands toward the fire. He
knelt down and lifted the edge of her skirt.

"Max!" She drew her feet back under the white muslin
of her gown.

"Take off your shoes."

As he suspected, she was not wearing boots, but
thin-soled slippers meant for indoors.

Impatient at her silent refusal, he reached under her
skirt and slid off her shoes, then reached up to strip down her
damp stockings. He swallowed hard as he realized he was undressing
her. Her toes were red and adorable, cold but not showing signs of
frostbite. Her foot cradled in his hand, he could not bring himself
to let go.

"I hope you enjoyed his attentions," Max said.

He looked up at her face and her hair was mussed from
his hasty removal of her bonnet, and her blue eyes luminous in her
face. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly kissed. Only
not by him.

She shook her head but said, "He was only trying to
warm me."

"Roxy, you cannot go about inviting men to kiss
you."

"I have only ever invited one man to such
liberties."

And that wasn't him. But as he looked at her and
continued to hold her foot in his hand, he wanted to be the only
man she thought about no matter who kissed her.

He lowered his eyes to her collarbone, right before
him. The muslin of her day gown dipped only an inch below the
indentation at the center of her throat, yet the sight was
obscenely intoxicating, especially since a necklace with a sapphire
pendant hung there. He had a vague memory of grabbing for the gem
as his mother leaned over him.

Before he knew what he was doing, he touched the
pendant. Roxana's chest rose beneath his fingertips. "I'm glad
you've worn these."

His fingers slid along the edge of the chain and
sparks flew down his fingers, down his arm and spread through his
body, like a rich brandy.

He should give Roxana a drink, he thought. That was
the right thing to do, but her breast was just below the heel of
his hand, and she was breathing so deeply that she just might close
the gap between his hand and her flesh. Yet as he thought of
curling his hand around her curves, his fingers slid lower on the
soft bare skin below her delicate collarbone.

Her lips parted and beckoned him. She had such a
soft, welcoming mouth, so sweet. The space between them was
evaporating. His hand pushed closer as if he would make sure one
deep heave of her chest would bring them in contact. Her breath
wafted across his lips and he could no longer think beyond how he
wanted to touch her, hold her, make love to her.

"Do not ever do that again," said Fanny as she glared
at Scully.

Scully looked up from the newspaper and realized the
drawing room was empty except for the two of them. After the late
ball last night, the day had been desultory, with most of the
company lounging around. They must have disappeared to dress for
dinner. Until this moment Fanny had been distant, as if their kiss
had never happened.

"Do what?" he asked calmly.

Anger at least showed a bit of passion on Fanny's
part.

"Do what you did last night." She paced away from
him.

"What was that, love?" asked Scully as if he'd done
nothing of consequence.

Fanny stopped, swirled around and stared at him,
blinking as if uncertain if her kiss was so easily forgotten or
that he did not understand the implications of kissing a widow so
thoroughly or so publicly. Then again, he did not want Fanny
ringing a peal over his head.

Scully stood and stretched his arms.

Fanny resumed her pacing. "You cannot go around doing
such things in company. Everyone now thinks that I am your
paramour."

"So it is my failure to be your lover in truth that
offends?"

"No!"

"Oh, so I should kiss you only in private, love?"
There had been a moment under the mistletoe when she sagged against
him. If she would just let him in.

"No," she whispered.

"Ah, are you saying, I should never kiss you
again?"

"Yes." Her shoulders slumped, but relief ran clear in
her voice.

"I cannot contemplate such a desolate future"—he took
a long step toward her—"and deny myself so heady a pleasure. I am
afraid I cannot grant your request."

She turned to face him, her hands on her hips. "It
was not a request."

He took a determined stride toward her. Fanny's anger
crumpled into an expression of alarm. As he neared her, she
squealed and ran toward the door. He caught her before she had gone
four steps. Laughter bubbled under his breath, but he held back.
Fanny was not yet in a state to appreciate the humor of the
situation.

He caught her around the waist, and she struggled to
free herself but not with true conviction. She shoved at his arm
across her stomach, but did not spin out of his grasp. He did not
hold her so tightly that she could not break free if she really was
of a mind to. He put his other hand on her shoulder, stroking
lightly.

"Come, my pretty Fanny. You would not deny me your
sweet kisses. I should pine away and expire without them."

"You destroy my dignity." She stopped struggling.

Scully pulled her tighter against him. He could
hardly kiss her when her back was turned to him. "By making a
public display of my affection for you?"

She stilled. "Dev, please, I beg of you, do not toy
with me."

Scully dropped his arms. "I have never, not now or in
the past, toyed with you."

After a moment's hesitation she stepped away, then
slowly turned. "I am a duchess. I must behave accordingly."

"You have been listening too much to Max." He stepped
forward. "Come, love, do not pretend that I was the only one to
feel anything last night."

She ducked her head. "I cannot bear being hurt again,
Dev."

He tucked both his hands around her jaw and lifted
her face up. "I would do nothing to hurt you, love."

"But—"

"Shhhh. It was not I that hurt you, but our
situation. You are free to follow the dictates of your heart now.
You are no longer married to an old man."

"I loved him," she protested.

Scully could not hold back his wince. "Yes, but do
you feel nothing for your poor Scully anymore?"

Her eyes shut, and she shook her head ever so
slightly. Had he waited all these years for nothing? The looks
they'd exchanged across crowded ballrooms and theaters were just
acknowledgment of a guilty secret on her part. It was as if an ax
had been tossed into his chest.

He leaned forward to brush his lips across hers, just
once. The petal softness of her mouth burned into his brain and
scorched him with need.

He pulled away before his anguish bled through. It
never did for a man to make complaints of pain, and he never did
unless they were false. It never did to take more than was offered,
and Fanny offered him nothing. He walked to the window and stared
out at the falling snow.

"Scully?"

He raised a finger to the frost on the glass. "Ah, I
am doomed to ever wait for you. Alas, I had such high hopes when I
was installed in your old bedchamber."

"I need to change for dinner."

He swiveled around. "Might I offer assistance?"

She backed toward the door. "No." The look of horror
that crossed her face wiped out his hopes.

"You know where to find me if you change your mind,"
he said lightly, as if he wasn't bleeding inside.

*~*~*

Max's fingers against Roxana's skin made her tremble.
His palm was just a hairsbreadth from her breast. He knew how close
he was to touching her; she had watched his eyes drop to her
heaving breast. Caught in this mesmerizing web of fascination, she
did not know what she wanted him to do. Part of her wanted that
intimate touch, but she feared it too.

All she knew was that her blood rushed through her
veins, making her fingers tingle and heating her more powerfully
than the fire. His mouth was nearly upon hers, and the door clicked
behind them.

Max released her bare foot and stood, their near kiss
aborted. Roxana sucked in air as if it had been in short supply.
Max had not even kissed her, yet she felt as if he'd nearly
ravished her. She felt on the edge of wonderful.

"You sent for me, your grace?" The girl who had been
assigned as Roxana's maid bobbed a curtsy.

"Your mistress needs fresh stockings and slippers, if
you would be so good as to fetch them and a shawl for her." Max
picked up the stockings he had removed and draped them against the
fire screen. Steam rose from the material. "Leave the door open,"
he said, leaning his arms against the mantelpiece.

As soon as the maid left, Max moved across the room.
Roxana stared into the fire, wondering what had just happened, or
not happened. Had Max intended to kiss her, or was he just
employing a trick to warm her?

He returned with a deep-bowled glass. "Here, drink
this brandy. It will help."

"Do you mean to ply me with spirits?" she asked,
taking the glass of reddish brown liquid.

He met her eyes then. His expression was that of a
man suffering regrets. Roxana lowered her gaze to her drink, but
she did not see that. She saw Max.

His hair was damp and disordered from the outdoors;
his skin was a pale gold. He stood tall, his strength visible in
the breadth of his shoulders. In one sense he made her feel small
and fragile, in another sense she knew he could impose his will on
her with physical force—but would he?