Compromised by Christmas (23 page)

"Do you need a litter?" asked Max.

"They are trying to kill me," muttered Gregory under
his breath.

"Oh, I am sure not. It was just an accident." One
that could have been avoided if Mr. Breedon had turned the sleigh
right instead of left. Not that it had been his fault. Everyone's
natural instinct was to yield to the left when meeting another
vehicle. "We will get you back to the house and give you"—she would
have offered her youngest brother or sister a candy or pudding—"hot
soup and tea and you will feel better."

Thomas's lower lip quivered. Roxana put her hand on
his shoulder. "Just an accident with no harm done."

Other couples and several of Max's servants had run
toward them and arrived at the scene of the accident.

"I need my moth—a physician."

"Can you sit, sir?" asked Lord Frampton.

"Here, put this under his head," said Lady Angela,
holding out her fox-fur muff.

Roxana urged Mr. Breedon to put his head in her lap
and used the muff for good measure. Continuing to pat his shoulder,
she raised her head. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Max's
expression of disgust. He erased the expression before she could be
sure of what she had seen.

The grooms and a few of the men righted the tipped
sleigh. Max signaled a couple of the men to lift Mr. Breedon into
his sleigh. As they settled him, padding the blankets all around
him, he moaned and then stared at Max.

"How could you let that infant drive?"

*~*~*

Max watched as the company milled about the drawing
room. The night before Christmas, and he was not in the spirit of
the season. He blamed it on the idea that his family was no longer
intact. Fanny had resorted to building new traditions, insisting he
cut down an evergreen and bring it inside, following the Hanoverian
custom of a Christmas tree, recently established at court.

In his opinion the tree had been felled far too
easily. Scully had told him to quit beating the snow off, before he
broke all the branches.

Scully pulled up beside him, a glass of wassail in
his hand. "Quit scowling."

Roxana, Fanny and Lady Breedon were all flitting
around Mr. Breedon, where he sat with his foot propped on a stool
and a blanket draped around him. Nearly everyone commiserated with
him. Roxana straightened his pillows at least a dozen times.

"He doesn't get so much attention often." Scully
lifted his glass and took a drink. When he lowered the glass, his
eyebrow was arched.

"Stop." Max turned his back on the domestic scene. If
Breedon had more than a bruise or two he'd burn the Thames. Roxana
knew it too. She had met Max's eyes with an eyeroll.

"He should have had enough consideration to have
needed to take to his bed so that you might have a clear
field."

Max looked up and caught Lady Malmsbury watching him.
She flipped her red hair and crossed over to sit beside Mr.
Breedon.

"Miss Winston, I don't believe we've heard you play
the piano. Surely you would like the opportunity to demonstrate
your skills," Lady Malmsbury said in a loud voice.

"Malmsy should take to the stage. She projects so
well," whispered Scully.

"But she doesn't like her assigned role."

"Ah, well, what woman does not want to be your
leading lady?" asked Scully.

"The ones who want to be yours," said Max, looking
back at Roxana. When he managed to drag his gaze away, some
circumstance always drew it back to her.

She shook her head. "I am sure you do not wish to
hear my play, it is very mediocre at best."

"Yes, do let us hear you play," echoed Lady
Breedon.

Roxana stood slowly and walked across the large room
toward the piano. Max met her halfway there. "Allow me to turn your
music for you."

It was the move of a gracious host, since the man she
was attached to could not move out of his chair.

Roxana looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. She
seated herself on the bench, and as she lifted her hands to the
ivory keys, they trembled. "I am sorely out of practice," she
whispered.

"I shall be vastly relieved to learn you have flaws,"
whispered Max, hoping to make her relax.

"You know I have flaws," whispered Roxana
fiercely.

She was a schemer and perhaps too direct, yet capable
of maintaining a polite fiction with Breedon. "Nothing worth
noting. Now, what would you like to play?"

Lady Malmsbury was looking a bit like a cat that
swallowed a canary. What was she up to?

"Something monstrously simple." Roxana shuffled
through the sheet music.

Max put his hand on her shoulder. She stopped moving
all together. He was aware of both the feminine curve of her
shoulder beneath his hand and her tension.

"I don't know any of these," whispered Roxana.

"Play anything."

She took a deep breath and started in on a piece he
had heard Julia practicing. Roxana's touch on the keys was
tentative, but she seemed to gain confidence as she played. She
left out a few notes, and other than hitting one wrong note and
once two keys together, she played marginally better than
horrid.

Max kept his hand on her shoulder the whole time. Her
playing would not impress anyone, but he could feel her trembling.
Her composure and ability to manage a performance under pressure
impressed him. He could not have known her tension if he had only
looked at the expression on her face. She managed a cool serenity.
He stood steadfastly by her side, refusing to desert her while she
struggled to perform.

"Well done, Miss Winston," he said when she
finished.

She gave him a tightlipped nod and stood. She did not
protest in a way that prompted him to extend false compliments.

Lady Malmsbury drifted closer. "Oh, do play
another."

"It would not be nice of me to inflict my poor
performance on the others in the room," Roxana said with a curtsy.
"I have neglected playing in recent years."

"Perhaps you should play for us, Lady Malmsbury,"
said Max. "I am sure you can manage to woo us all."

Why had Roxana not played in recent years? Max took
her elbow and pulled her away from the piano.

"I see you are anxious to put a great deal of
distance between me and that instrument."

"Perhaps you would do better with a harp." Max tucked
her hand into his arm and headed for an empty corner.

Roxana blanched. "No. I fear my talent is with my
needle."

"Yes, I know." Max swung her into the alcove. "Are
you all right?"

"That is the question
du jour,
is it not?"
Roxana wore a haunted expression as she looked over Max's shoulder
toward Mr. Breedon.

"He is not injured."

"Yes, I know, but he . . ." She bit her lip.

As Max stared at her cherry lips, he realized he
wanted to kiss her. He wanted more than to kiss her. He wanted to
protect her from Lady Malmsbury's attacks. He wanted to shelter her
from her family's poverty. He wanted to prevent her from marrying a
man who loved himself better than he could ever love her. And he
had could have done all that if he did not need to keep Thomas as
his heir.

He rubbed his hand against his forehead. His thoughts
swirled in a disordered mess. Roxana did exhibit affection for
Breedon, and Gregory was rich enough to solve many of her problems.
Max knew he should step aside, let Breedon have her. It was the
right thing to do. He just wished it did not bother him so.

"I must get back," she whispered. "Before his mama
convinces him that I could never entertain him of an evening."

"Never worry, Miss Winston, I am quite sure he is
tone deaf."

"Then I am well suited." Roxana smiled, but she
feared it appeared more as a grimace.

She drifted back over to Gregory's side. Would he
comment on her lack of skill? Thank goodness she had helped Julia
with her piano practice the other day. Julia had been frustrated
with her ability, and Roxana had sat down to help her. They both
ended up giggling over Roxana's poor skill, which had given Julia
more confidence in her own playing.

Lady Malmsbury's hands glided over the ivory keys,
playing an aria that showcased her superior skills and belittled
Roxana's inferior ones.

"Can I get you more tea, Mr. Breedon?" she asked.

"No, no, I have had enough." He held out his teacup
toward her. "I believe I shall retire."

Panic rose in Roxana's throat. Sleighing with Gregory
had turned into a disaster. He had been cold and distant with her
ever since their accident. She had fussed over him the same as if
he were her little brother—four or five years ago. "I am
disappointed," she murmured.

"Well, I cannot participate in the dancing later. And
since you suffered no injury you will wish to dance."

"I shall not enjoy it above half if you are not here.
I am sure I suffered no injury because of your thoughtful shielding
of me as the sleigh overturned."

Gregory frowned, then brightened.

"I feel ever so guilty that you were hurt on my
account." Roxana resisted rolling her eyes. She knew Max was
watching her. "Do you need assistance? Shall I have the duchess
send for the footmen?"

"No, I think I can manage on my own." He made a great
production of struggling to his feet.

How could she get him to compromise her if he did not
spend any time with her? Could she use the excuse of concern for
his well-being to check on him later?

He hobbled toward the door. Roxana walked beside him.
"Here, do lean on me, sir." She held out her arm. "It distresses me
to see you in pain."

"Well, never fear, I have discussed it with my
parents and we will leave tomorrow."

Alarm shot through Roxana. "But the roads will be
impassible."

"Well, we shall have to go slowly anyway and the
grooms will just have to walk alongside the horses. I cannot abide
staying when my safety is in jeopardy."

She stared at him, her future crumbling like dust
around her feet.

"Even if I make it only as far as the nearest posting
inn, I shall be relieved."

Roxana turned toward Lady Breedon who looked away.
Were his parents encouraging his plan to leave for fear she was
getting her claws too deep into him?

She looked around, her eyes blurring. "I will miss
you," she whispered.

Roxana turned and stared at the dozens of burning
candles on the Christmas tree. Her family would be lucky to have
one candle burning this night. Little gifts dangled from the tree
and were piled under it. At home there would be only the meager
gifts she'd left for them. She missed her family and the idea that
she would have to return to them empty-handed tasted like sawdust
in her mouth.

She couldn't let them down. She would have to seduce
Mr. Breedon. Stealing into his room tonight was the only way.

*~*~*

Max stared into the low embers of the fire, swirling
the brandy in his glass. Scully had declined his invitation to
drink with him and could not see that Max was only sipping, as he
should.

Back in his old room he could pretend his brothers
were still alive, that they would come racketing in, boisterous and
unrestrained. Fanny would laugh, and his father would grant them
that indulgent smile that was never turned in Max's direction when
he behaved in a less-than-decorous manner. And instead of acting as
if their antics were insufferable, Max would grab them to him in
tight hugs and never let go.

Yet it was not really his brothers who occupied his
thoughts. Roxana had appeared crestfallen when Breedon told her he
was leaving. She had put on a brave front for the duration of the
evening, but she'd had the wind knocked out of her sails.

Max unfastened the catch of his dressing gown; the
radiant heat of the fire more than kept him warm. He propped his
feet on the footstool in front of him and slunk low in the
high-backed chair. He should be relaxed, but he was edgy and
restless instead. In front of him on the mantel was one of the
gifts he'd bought for Roxana.

That she had failed to bring Breedon up to scratch in
a little over a week was no surprise, but she should have had the
twelve days of Christmas to ply her charms.

The door clicked behind him. Had Scully decided to
join him after all?

When the interloper did not speak, Max looked around
the side of his chair and saw a white nightgown and a female form
scurrying toward his bed. She tossed back the covers and scrambled
in, pulling up the bedding and turning her back as if this were her
bed.

His first thought was that Lady Malmsbury had
discovered his new room, but as he looked he realized the
trespasser in his bed had dark hair.

Emotions rolled through him with a tidal wave of
force. Overwhelming him was the fast coursing of his blood. The
pooling and pulsing in his lower regions reminded him what to do
with a desirable woman in his bed. He stood and tossed back the
rest of the brandy and shed the dressing gown.

"Roxana, what are you doing?"

She bolted upright. "Oh my goodness, I must have
mistook the door when returnin—Max?"

He could tell from the very breathiness of her
delivery she lied. Anger flared through him. He took a step toward
her. "Did you mean to trap Breedon or was it me all along?"

"I-I-I went to the necessary. My room is the next
one. I m-m-mistook the door. I am ever so sorry."

"Don't lie to me," he snarled. He turned and paced
away from the bed, trying to restrain his anger, his desire and his
anguish.

"The bed is in the same . . . place . . . as in my .
. ."

He made a chopping motion to end the lie.

"What happened to Mr. Breedon?" she whispered. He
heard her stealthy slide across the bed as if she meant to slink
out. He'd stepped between her and the door.

"He is, I hope, sleeping like a baby in my room." The
excuse he'd given Breedon, that his snores bothered Scully, had
been accepted and the rooms changed without a hitch.