Compromised by Christmas (5 page)

"I believe her grace has invited several more
guests."

He pulled up at the inn where Roxana had arrived less
than a week ago in the mail coach. He removed a dozen or more
letters from his breast pocket. The official start to the house
party was just days away.

"Are those additional invitations?" she asked.

"Yes. I shall just be a moment posting them, unless
you should like to stay long enough to warm your hands."

She was plenty warm, and the idea of his tucking the
carriage robe around her again did strange things to her insides.
"Why would the duchess invite more guests now?"

He gave her a questing look.

Had the Duchess of Trent invited more single
gentlemen because of her? That must be the explanation. Roxana
looked down at her lap where her hands were tucked under the
carriage robe. "I must seem very naive. I did not realize that I
should be the cause of extra work."

"No, Miss Winston, you are just as you should be.
Besides, the extra guests are not all for your diversion."

"No?"

"Some are for mine." He grimaced and turned on heel
to enter the posting inn.

Was he being pressured to marry too? He did not look
as if he liked the idea much.

*~*~*

Two days later, Roxana had been enlisted to act as
secretary. Her pencil poised above the paper, she trailed after the
duchess. Her grace threw open the doors of a room along the
passageway containing Roxana's bedchamber. "I shall have to install
the Breedons here. Sir William will expect the very best."

Roxana peeked over the Duchess of Trent's shoulder
into a cozy pale-green sitting room. Four-poster beds were visible
beyond the two interior doors. Shimmery drapes extended from the
floor to the high ceilings.

"Mark down the green suite for the Breedons," said
the duchess with a sniff. "The carpets are new. I should hope they
will consider it grand enough."

The Duchess of Trent marched out of the room, as
Roxana looked down at the apple-green and yellow Aubusson carpet on
the floor. The rooms were fit for royalty, but then this manse was
far beyond her experience. Her grandfather's hall paled in
comparison to the grandeur of this ducal estate. And the cottage
had nothing more than a few worn straw mats over the bare wood
floors. Roxana felt guilty surrounded by all this luxury while her
mother, sisters and brother were undoubtedly huddled in the cottage
kitchen, struggling to stay warm.

Roxana finished writing and trailed after her
hostess. They stood at the doorway of a spacious room, the room
that was across a servants' passageway from Roxana's room. A
fireplace flanked by bookcases dominated the outside wall and two
high-backed chairs faced the empty grate. The cherry poster bed
stood to the right side of the door on the interior wall, just as
Roxana's bed was in her room.

"Room assignments?" asked the Duke of Trent from the
doorway.

The duchess stepped into the room and ran a gloved
finger over the table. "Just so."

"Whom do you plan to install in the blue room beside
mine?"

The Duchess of Trent turned and studied her stepson.
"I should not install Lady Malmsbury"—she stole a covert look at
Roxana—"in the blue room?"

"That would not do. I can remove to another room, so
that you might be able to use the suite for a couple."

"No, Max, we are not so crunched as that. I am having
the children move to rooms in the old part of the house, so that I
might use their rooms on the nursery floor for guests. They are
still young enough that they think sleeping in drafty old rooms a
grand adventure."

Roxana smiled. Julia had been bouncing up and down
when she told Roxy that she would sleep in the chamber where Queen
Anne had once slept.

"I thought I would put all the unmarried gentlemen on
the nursery floor."

"Except I shall still be here on this floor. And you
cannot put a man in Julia's room. It is too pink," said Max.

Remembering the primrose chintz curtains, the
flowered wallpaper and ruffled bedcurtains of Lady Julia's
bedchamber, Roxana silently agreed.

"Oh dear, I had planned to put Mr. Breedon
there."

"Put Lady Malmsbury in Julia's room. Put Mr. Breedon
here. He will complain if he has to traverse all those stairs
daily. Put Scully in the blue room."

The Duchess of Trent dropped her chin and ran a
finger along the dresser, looking for dust that clearly wasn't
there, judging by the smooth patina of the wood.

Roxana had the impression they were talking in a
veiled code. Was the blue room part of the master suite of rooms?
Who was Scully? "Would you like me to write this down, your
grace?"

The Duchess of Trent nodded and stalked toward the
side door.

Roxana scribbled furiously. "Lady Malmsbury in
Julia's room. Mr. Breedon in—what do you call this room?"

"Just put down my former room," said the duke.

Roxana looked up to see him staring at her as if he
could see through her dress. She looked down at the white muslin
gown, still only basted together on the side seams.

Lord knew she was trying to appear as she should. The
gown was very plain with a gathered top, tiny cap sleeves and an
empire waist covered by a length of red silk, hastily stitched into
a band this morning to cover the less-than-perfect seam between
skirt and bodice. The neckline was not low, but she had not
bothered to fill it in with a fichu.

"I copied it from a fashion plate in the duchess's
latest
La Belle Assemblée.
Is it inappropriate?" she
asked.

His eyes jerked up to her face, and her flesh heated.
She resisted the urge to cross her arms in front of her chest, a
chest that reacted with tingling and tightening.

"Perfectly appropriate, Miss Winston." The duke
leaned back against the door frame. "Might I speak plainly?"

"I should much prefer it if you do."

"Did you take my words so much to heart that you are
revamping your entire wardrobe?"

Her pulse skittered but she strived for nonchalance.
"Ah, I fear you see through me, but I shall not toss aside all my
clothing."

His gaze traveled down her body, and heat seared
through her clothes.

"How vastly disappointing, Miss Winston," he
murmured, and then left the room.

Roxana wanted to throw something. Did he think she
should redo her entire wardrobe? He had seen only four of her
dresses so far. Yet, she was aware of the heightened cadence of her
heartbeat and the weight of her muslin gown against her skin. How
odd was that?

*~*~*

Max pulled his horse to a halt atop a ridge near his
house. The vantage point gave him a view of the better part of his
estate.

Julia and Thomas crossed over the ridge and raced
down the other side. Roxana pulled her horse to a stop beside him.
He liked the way the crisp air brought a bloom to her cheeks and
the morning sun caught indigo lights in her dark hair. A legacy
from her grandmother, the condesa, perhaps. Would those dark
strands feel like silk, slide like satin, smell like secrets?

He shook his head. He spent far too much time
watching his guest instead of seeing which of the fields were in
need of attention and which should be designated to remain fallow
next season. His brother had gotten away when he had intended to
spend the morning ride educating him about the estate. Julia had
begged to go with them and invited Miss Winston.

Roxana had initially declined, and Max had sent the
children to get ready before asking her if she had brought a riding
habit. She had blushed as she shook her head no. Fanny had
immediately insisted on loaning one of hers.

"Thomas, come back," shouted Max.

Roxana discreetly tucked down one of the beaded pins
holding the waistband. Fanny's loaned riding habit was too large
for her and the style not the latest, but Roxana's gratitude had
shown in her face. "You cannot know how much I shall enjoy riding,"
she'd said to Fanny.

Miss Winston had a streak of honesty that he admired.
She had not learned or was not willing to play the polite games
that he encountered in society. She had a quietness that encouraged
confidences. During their trip to town he had almost divulged his
financial burdens to her.

Thomas brought his horse up alongside Max's.

"Can you point out the edges of the estate?" Max
asked his brother.

"I have been here with Papa," said Thomas.

"And?"

"As far as one can see to the east, the hedgerow on
the north and . . ." Thomas's voice trailed off. "Oh, the
creek."

Max rocked forward in his saddle. By the time he was
half Thomas's age he could point out the boundaries and name the
tenants on all the farms. He lifted his riding crop and pointed
west. "The creek is over there, and the two farms owe us rents. The
Tillsbury and Wilbur farms are just this side of the
hedgerows."

Thomas slumped in his saddle.

"You need to know these things, Thomas. You are my
heir."

"Papa said I should not fret about it, as I was not
likely to ever become duke, and I should not covet the title. He
said he would buy me a commission when I came of age."

Alarm jabbed Max's spine. His horse sidled nervously,
no doubt responding to his sudden cow-handedness. "Things are
different now."

Roxana looked up from her gaping waistline, which was
where Max was doing everything he could to avoid looking. If the
skirt slipped low enough, might he catch a glimpse of red
petticoat? He told himself that was the only reason for his
excessive interest in Roxana's undergarments.

"Do you know how many different breeds of sheep we
keep?" Max asked Thomas.

"I know the shepherd brings them on the lawn Tuesday
and Friday and I cannot practice cricket those days. I will need to
be good at cricket when I get to Eton."

"Those are two different flocks."

"Yes, may I give my horse its head now? Julia is so
far ahead she will say she trounced me."

"Thomas, you need to know these things. This estate
shall be yours to manage one day."

Thomas looked at the ground. "I should very much like
to be in the Horse Guards. Papa said I could."

Max winced. He supposed that as far as the military
went, guarding the royal residence was less dangerous than the
divisions his other brothers had chosen. "Go on, catch up to Julia.
Then wait for Miss Winston and me."

Max turned and realized Roxana was scrutinizing him.
Heat spread outward from his center.

"Your holdings are quite vast," she said mildly,
watching Thomas race his horse after his sister. She sounded so
unimpressed. She had not even looked while he pointed out
boundaries to Thomas. If she were angling for Max, surely she would
be interested in the extent of his estate. Perhaps her preference
was just for the friendship he offered.

"Yes," answered Max.

"It must take a great deal of time and effort to
manage all this, and you take your seat in Parliament, do you
not?"

"Yes, I take all my responsibilities seriously."

"I do not think Thomas wishes to become your man of
business. In the time I have been here, it seems to me that he much
prefers physical pursuits to the classroom."

"Most boys do."

"Did you?" She turned her blue eyes in his direction
and a heaviness settled in his lower half.

She continued to watch him and he belatedly realized
she was waiting for an answer. He tried to engage the gears in his
brain box. She had asked him a question. Did he? Did he what?
"Excuse me?"

"When you were Thomas's age, did you prefer being out
of doors to lessons?"

A memory of his brothers racing ahead while he walked
his horse alongside his father, listening to the lectures and
answering the questions that tested his knowledge, sprang into his
mind. Being out of doors did not offer escape from lessons for him,
but being the heir to this grand estate required that he gained the
knowledge necessary to manage it. "I applied myself to learning
what was required, indoors and out."

She tilted her head, a small smile lingering about
her delicious lips. Would she taste as sweet as she looked? He
shook his head, trying to erase the immoral urges crowding out his
rational thoughts. He could not think this way about her when he
was chaperoning her.

He needed to survey the estate, check the cottages
and outbuildings for needed repairs, note any trees that might need
removing, observe anything out of place in his lands.

"So shall you buy him his promised colors in the
Horse Guards?"

"Good God, no. He is my heir."

Roxana looked startled by his vehemence. Perhaps if
he had been concentrating on their conversation rather than the
smooth curve of her cheek, he'd have masked his reaction better. He
rolled his neck. As he forced himself to stare at the sky, he
acknowledged that the curve of her cheek wasn't what drew his
attention, but the curves below her neck.

"Surely, he will be displaced before he is old enough
. . . to be commissioned in the army." Her voice trailed off.

"No, Miss Winston."

Her brows knit and her slight smile disappeared.

Now was as good a time as any to disabuse her of any
notion she might have that he was available. "I lost two brothers
in combat. I intend for Thomas to remain my heir. When he
understands that I shall not marry, he will be glad of it."

"Will he?" she murmured.

Bloody well right, he would. "How could he not want
all this?" He waved his riding quirt in a half circle.

She studied him with an unmoved countenance.

Did she not understand how vast his holdings were?
His title, his income, even his hunting lodge were coveted by a
great many. How could anyone want more?

"I am sorry for your loss."