Compromised by Christmas (33 page)

She blinked her eyes open. They were glassy and tear
filled.

He shuddered. Holding his desire in check made him
quake. "I'm sorry. I've hurt you." His voice broke. He kissed her
cheek. "I'll stop."

He said the words, but he did not know where he would
find the strength to withdraw, and she needed to loosen her legs.
His mind swirled in confusion. He reached to pull her leg away from
his backside.

Instead she slowly rotated her hips and a rush of
heat burned through him. She held his gaze. Her eyes were like
sapphires, glittering in the low light from the single lamp.

"I am given to understand that it won't hurt again."
Her voice was breathy, yet sure. "Please, I want you. I have wanted
you forever."

He heard "forever," and that was all he needed. He
loved her forever too. And she was his in every possible way. He
began that slow slide in and out, watching her for any indication
that she was in pain. When she met his thrusts with eager moans,
the thread of his control snapped. Then he was lost in the blue of
her eyes, the warm heat of her compliant body, the magic of her
sighs.

*~*~*

The butler leaned in the London drawing-room doorway.
"Should I hold dinner longer, your grace?"

"You have not heard from the duke?" asked Fanny.

"No, your grace," answered the butler.

"This is not like him," she muttered. "Very well,
serve dinner. If the duke returns please inform me at once."

"Very good, madam," said the butler, closing the
drawing-room door.

Fanny turned to Scully. "I'm worried about Max. He
always sends word if he does not plan to eat dinner here."

Scully stood and offered her his arm. "He is out
looking for Miss Winston. Perhaps he has found her."

"He would have sent word about dinner. He is always
proper when it comes to these things."

"When it comes to Miss Winston, all bets are
off."

In spite of his nonchalance, Fanny knew Scully was
worried about Max too. He had insisted they accompany him to London
to be there at the town house with him. He had confided that he had
seen Max behave in unexpected ways that were quite alarming.

"I never should have let him take responsibility for
her well-being. He feels he has failed and must make amends."

"Ah, well, if he brings back Miss Winston as his
bride, you shall have to marry me, you know. I want to take you
home with me. I have to go home sooner or later."

Fanny had resisted Scully's repeated requests for
marriage. She was worried about Max. He had changed so much from
the time the caskets came home. It was as if the tight control he
kept on his emotions had broken. Then the whole affair with Miss
Winston shattered him, turning him sullen and angry, snappish,
unlike the Max she had known.

He had always been so easygoing, well mannered and
perfectly behaved, she had thought he no longer felt the emotions
of a normal person. She had done him a terrible injustice. "I think
we need to tell him about Alexander and Samuel."

"It is not up to us to decide," said Scully.

"Yes, but I thought it would be a few months, but it
has been three years. What will Max thinks when he hears the
truth?"

"He'll probably forbid you to marry me, so we should
hurry up and do the deed, love."

Fanny shook her head. It had been months now that
Scully shared her bed, yet her womb had not quickened in pregnancy.
He might protest all he wanted, but she knew denying him children
was wrong.

*~*~*

Roxana relished the feel of Max. His skin was warm
against hers. His breath rasped into her mouth and his hands were
magical as they coaxed her body into new heights of rapture, and
then that male part of him filled her, stretching her so much she
did not think it possible to contain him, but as he drew back and
forth nothing had ever made her feel more complete than him inside
her.

He groaned and pushed deep inside her, and then
wracking tremors shuddered through his body. The throbbing pulse of
his release deep within her was magical. Her heart pounded against
his and she was filled and complete, connected to him in a way that
was beyond the physical. This joining of their bodies was as close
as they could come to marking their rapture. Yet she was
disappointed it was over so fast, disappointed they would need to
talk, disappointed that she would again hurt him with her need to
be independent.

He rolled to his back, carrying her with him and then
pulling her up. She protested the breaking of the connection
between them. But then his mouth closed around her beaded nipple
and spark after spark flew to the fire still smoldering in her
woman's core. His tongue rolled and teased her to a new tenseness
that could be ended only with a release.

He moved to her other breast, nuzzling and sampling
as if she was a tasty treat to be savored. Then, his hands at her
hips, he drew her up as he scooted down the bed, his kisses
trailing down her belly. Her shock and surprise was soon replaced
by raw pleasure at the wicked ministrations of his mouth on that
most sensitive part of her. Then she was coming apart and falling
all at once, and Max was there to catch her.

He settled her against him, drawing the covers over
her and settling one hand over the curve of her bottom, the other
holding her head to his chest. He pressed kisses on her forehead
and crown as she drifted down through the glow of completion.

She was nearly asleep when he said, "You need to get
dressed."

She shook off the fuzziness and raised her head. He
slid her to his side and scooted to the edge of the bed, leaning
over to retrieve his clothing.

"My carriage is outside, and I'm taking you away from
here."

He handed her shift to her.

Roxana clutched the red material to her breast. He'd
heard nothing of what she'd said. Her breath snagged as she shook
her head. But his back was to her as he drew on his underclothes
and he did not see her refusal. "I'm not leaving. This is my
life."

He turned toward her as he buttoned his
unmentionables. "Roxana, you have to marry me now."

She shook her head. How many times did she have to
refuse him?

"You could be carrying my child." He reached for his
shirt.

Roxana backed off the bed, still clutching her shift
to her, feeling naked. Her feet encountered the cold bare planks of
the floor. Their unpolished worn feel was familiar to her,
comforting because this was her place. Yet the floor was frigid
against the bare soles of her feet, as if to mark her step into a
separation from him and the bliss they had shared.

"I'm sorry, I do not want to marry you, Max." It hurt
her to say it.

He stared at her as if she were a foreign creature.
He bunched his shirt in his hands. "My honor demands marriage,
Roxana. I cannot live with knowing I have ruined you. I thought . .
." He shook his head. "You have given me no reason to refuse that
makes sense."

He might be standing there barefoot and shirtless,
but he was every inch the imperious duke. And she hated to defy
him, but . . . "If I were to marry any man, it would be you, Max.
But I shall not marry."

"You are mine, now, Roxy." He pulled on his shirt.
"You will marry me."

"You do not own me," she said in a low voice. A wife
was a possession, which was why she would never marry.

He bent and picked up his socks and sat in the chair
to tug them over his feet. Even his feet were beautiful, long and
masculine. "I want to take you away from this miserable place."

Anger sparked in her. "This miserable place is my
business that I planned and saved for years to have, and I have
struggled to make my dress shop successful. I know I have not paid
you back yet, but I will. I have clients, and for God's sake, can
you not see that I am proud of this?"

His brown eyes turned stony. The warmth that had been
there as they made love was gone. "Why do you feel you must
struggle? I can take care of you. I can take care of your family.
You do not have to work so hard to live. I
want
to take care
of you."

"I do not think you know me, if you cannot see how
important my dress shop is to me. Please, Max, I do not want to
fight now. I cannot marry you. I just want to be with you."

He stopped in drawing on his low boot. "Then marry
me, Roxy."

She took a step back, biting her lip. If he said the
right words, she feared she would say yes. And then she would live
in a perpetual state of fear, waiting for the day she pushed him
too far. "I think you should leave now."

"What was this, Roxy?" He stood and gestured to the
bed where the evidence of their lovemaking was clear. "What did you
intend when you invited me into your bed?"

"I wanted money," she meant it as a jest, but it
petered out when she could not add the smile.

"Bloody hell!" He tossed his boots aside and
thundered toward her.

His boots thudded against the floor. She spun away.
The wall stood in front of her and there was nowhere for her to go.
Memories of her beatings when she defied her father flashed like
lightning strikes through her head. Max did not like being
defied.

She dropped to her knees and wrapped her shift around
her hands. She needed to shelter her hands; they were her
livelihood. He would beat her into submission. It was just like her
father beat her mother, beat Roxana when she was defiant. A husband
had that right. A lover might assume it. How foolish she was to
think the distinction mattered.

He stood over her. She could feel him towering above
her, his shadow completely enveloping her, and she waited for the
blows to come . . . .

*~*~*

"I think you should go look for him," said Fanny,
putting down her napkin.

Devlin continued with his soup. "Not, yet, love. I do
not mind having you all to myself of an evening. Do you think you
could forget about Max for a moment and concentrate on me?"

Fanny suddenly burst into tears. Devlin stared at
her, wondering what devil was in it now. He pushed back his chair
and moved around to her chair.

"My pretty Fanny, whatever has distressed you
so?"

"I cannot marry you, Dev. I know I cannot give you
children, and I cannot do that to you."

Devlin sighed. "I do not need children, Fanny. Am I
not child enough for you? Or am I too much a child in your
eyes?"

He had hoped for a smile through her tears, but she
turned away.

"I have decided it will not do. I have kept you from
your home too long. You should be free to marry a young woman who
will be your companion forever."

Perhaps he had been too indulgent with Fanny, letting
her decide when she trusted his love was strong enough, when she
believed enough. "Fanny—"

"You have been disappointed every month. I have seen
your reaction, Dev."

"Of course I am disappointed that we will wait
another month to be married or that I must restrain my ardor for an
entire week or more." A thought knocked at his brain. "How can you
think that I do not remain steadfast in my love and devotion?"

Fanny blushed.

There had been plenty of laughter and times that he
chased her down the walking paths at the Trent estate and she had
giggled, running away, but always let herself be caught in the most
secluded arbors or in the artificial grotto that seemed to have
been built for their private picnics. He had played the game,
stashing blankets and wine and strawberries. Other times he
included her children, teasing them into laughter and teaching
Thomas the finer points of piquet and crabbo, and telling Julia she
was growing into quite a beauty. He had given Fanny the idyllic
courtship any woman would beg for, and more.

But ever since they had arrived in London, following
Max on his quest to find Roxana, she had been a bundle of nerves
and exaggerated emotions.

"I am applying to the archbishop for a special
license tomorrow. We will be married by week's end."

Fanny raised her tear-filled blue eyes to his. "Dev,"
she whispered.

He was tired of hearing her protests. "What date is
it?"

"December tenth," she said, and then her eyes
widened.

"Special license, Fanny. I am done trying to convince
you of my love."

"Dev?" Her expression was uncertain, not daring to
hope. "Do you think I have—"

"Yes, your French friend is late."

She smiled, and for once her smile did not warm his
heart. That she would consent to marriage only when she was with
child bothered him. Did she not love him? Or was he still only a
playmate to her? Or just a means to an end?

He had to get away. He had gotten what he wanted; he
should not be so bitter about the method. He was sure that when he
had time to reflect he would be glad that she might be with child,
but he would have much preferred that their marriage had come
first.

"I'll go find Max," he said.

*~*~*

Max stared at the bony knobs of Roxana's spine and
the ripples that marked each of her ribs beneath the lily-white
skin. But most of all he noticed the long pink welts of scars
crisscrossing her back. He touched a finger to one long thick
ridge. How had he not noticed these before? But as he trailed his
finger down the pink strip, the texture of her skin was still soft
and silky, only slightly marred to the touch. Would he have even
noticed the slight change from undamaged skin to the healed
marks?

She shuddered.

Her dark hair was still in a low twist at the base of
her skull. The knot had loosened and hung down, but that they had
not unpinned the dark masses of her hair was another reason he
could see the scars now.

"You have cowered like this before. Do you think I
would ever raise a hand to you?" He hunched down behind her, his
fingers still tracing the lines and patterns of her disfigurement,
as if he touched her gently enough, soothingly enough, he could
heal her. But Max's anger and disappointment had stilled. Did her
refusal to marry have to do with this?