Compromised by Christmas (8 page)

"Did you ask about the gifts?" asked Miss Lambert
politely. "Last time all the ladies received beautiful carved ivory
fans. And the men ebony walking sticks. One year it was cloisonné
snuff boxes for the men and gold lockets for the women."

"I just have handkerchiefs for everyone," said Lady
Angela. "Mama said one can never have too many handkerchiefs."

"My parents said a young lady cannot give personal
gifts or she'll be thought fast." Miss Lambert grimaced. "So me
too."

"What are you giving, Miss Winston?"

"Ah, you'll just have to wait and see," she said. Oh
stars, she would have to come up with gifts for everyone. "Perhaps,
I'll give Lady Malmsbury my lace."

"Oh, do not waste it on her," said Lady Angela. "For
I would dearly love it."

"She's bamming us," said Miss Lambert. "She probably
has handkerchiefs too."

"No, I assure you I do not." Roxana didn't have
sufficient lawn to make handkerchiefs. Store bought would be too
dear. Red silk wouldn't suffice.

The gentlemen entered the room, bringing in the scent
of the outdoors, and the duchess rang for tea. The duke entered,
his cheeks reddened from the winter cold. He looked in her
direction and their eyes met. Heat snaked up through her body and
she lost count of her stitches.

"He looked our way," said Miss Lambert with a
titter.

Lady Angela looked at Roxana. "He looked her
way."

"I'm sure he is just observing that you have
arrived." Roxana nodded toward Miss Lambert.

As the duke broke free and started in their
direction, Roxana hastily scanned for Mr. Breedon. He stood near
his mother.

Roxana gathered her crocheting and stood, hoping to
get to his side, before the duke waylaid her. She heard his
gracious welcome of Miss Lambert as she had nearly reached Mr.
Breedon.

"I am off to that walk now, Mama. Do you still wish
to go?"

Lady Breedon sent her son off with a wave. "Bundle
up, it looks cold out there."

"Do you want tea, Miss Winston?" asked the duke
behind her. His voice ran down her spine like quicksilver.

No, she wanted to catch Mr. Breedon, but as he
slipped out the door she knew she'd have to snare him after his
walk. Lord Lambert approached and Max greeted him and politely
engaged him in conversation.

Roxana managed to move away and avoid Max until Fanny
suggested it was time to change for dinner, dispersing the crowd in
the drawing room. Steering clear of Max when nearly all of his
guests wanted to engage him in conversation was easy. He played the
gracious host to the hilt, politely conversing with each and every
one who approached him.

Roxana was determined not to let him distract her,
and considered how best she could encourage Mr. Breedon.

*~*~*

"Fanny is avoiding me as if I carried the plague."
Scully aimed his cue stick.

Max crossed both his hands over the top of his stick
and leaned on it, waiting for Scully to take his shot. "Mmmm."

They were in that odd part of the early evening after
tea when the ladies all disappeared to dress in all their finery
for the evening, but the gentlemen were at loose ends, not needing
hours to don their breeches and evening coats.

Scully pulled up and looked at Max. "Your mind is on
the evening ahead?"

Actually Max's mind was on Roxana. What pressures
bore on her?

"How about loaning me clothes for this evening? I had
only one change of evening clothes and I wore them last night."

"My clothes will hang on you like a scarecrow. What
did you do? Race here as soon as you got my invitation?"

Scully rolled his eyes. "Of course. I do hope the
stable hands can save my horse. I rode him near to death."

"I am sure if you survived, your horse will." What
would Roxana wear tonight? No doubt it would be remarkable.

"I am not at all sure that I do myself any favors by
keeping close my hand. Can you ask Fanny where her heart is?"

"For God's sake, Scully, you're not a school boy. Ask
her yourself."

"Ah, well, I have not succeeded in getting her alone,
and there is all the squiring about of Miss Winston."

"You have hardly been doing that."

"Of course I have, when Breedon isn't doing it for
me. Does Fanny not ride any longer? I asked her to ride out with me
and she refused."

"Of course she rides, Dev, but not while there are
guests in the house." If Roxana wasn't hanging on Breedon's arm,
Scully was ready to step up and engage her in conversation. Scully
was almost taking his duties too seriously. Max should have been
relieved that he did not need to keep Roxana under his thumb every
minute. But the whole situation with her made him curious about the
man who should be watching over his daughter. "Have you ever met
Lord Winston?"

Scully finally took his shot. The clack of balls
against each other hardly penetrated Max's brain.

"Met him at the races at Newmarket one year. He plays
rather deep. Drinks deep too."

"Does he go about in society much, for I do not
remember seeing him last season?"

"Doubt it." Scully rubbed chalk on the leather tip of
his stick. "I gather he's a bit of a Sunday man."

Which would explain Roxana's desperation to marry a
rich man. Had her father landed himself so deeply in debt that he
dodged prison? A man could not be arrested for debt on the Lord's
Day. Of course, he was likely living on expectations until he
inherited his father's viscountcy.

"I swear Fanny went around by the servant stairs so
she would not pass near the mistletoe when I was near it," Scully
said.

Max avoided being near the stuff too. A sprig would
be strung up just outside the dining room for those persistent
young women who might loiter about waiting for the gentlemen to
finish their port. One sprig hung in the corner of the ballroom,
for those bold enough to seek out its location in the midst of
company. Then another hung in a niche just to the right of the
staircase leading to the bedchambers. That was the dangerous
one.

"Your turn," said Scully.

Max took aim.

"Look, it is Breedon returning from his afternoon
constitutional," said Scully just as Max took his shot.

Used to his friend's attempts to distract him, Max
nailed the shot, the balls clicking neatly together as he'd
intended. "Is he? I need to speak with him."

"Sending him packing?" inquired Scully with an arched
eyebrow.

"Don't be absurd." Max leaned his cue stick against
the wall. "I want to sound out Breedon about his intentions toward
Roxana." Breedon should know that Max took his duty as her stand-in
guardian seriously. "Do excuse me while I catch him, unless of
course you really did not see him."

"How is it you manage to turn every disadvantage to
your advantage?" asked Scully.

"I have no disadvantages, just friends who would
offer useless distractions."

Scully followed Max out of the billiard room, toward
the entry hall and the stairs to the ground floor.

A form darted toward the niche where the servants had
removed the ornate table and Grecian urn that normally resided
there.

Scully started, "Is that—"

"Roxana." Max recognized the green dress that clung
to her figure like a glove—or a scarf—or a wet sheet. Was she
dampening her gowns? Every time he saw the way that the material
clung to her perfect form, his breath caught and desire stabbed low
in him.

Scully grabbed Max's shoulder, stopping his forward
progress.

Max wanted to shake free of Scully's hold. Was Roxana
planning for Breedon to catch her under the mistletoe?

Scully tugged him back. "She must have been watching
for him to return," he whispered.

In the dim twilight of the evening, before the wall
scones had been lit, Max felt himself sink into a blackness that he
didn't understand. "We should stop her."

"You know Breedon won't take advantage in an open
passageway. It's just a harmless kiss under the mistletoe."

Scully wrapped his arm in Max's and yanked him back.
Max could have broken free, but he knew Roxana wanted Breedon to
offer for her. Max stood his ground as Breedon reached the top of
the stairs and rounded the newel post.

Roxana stepped out.

Max could not see her expression, but Breedon's mouth
rounded in surprise.

After greeting her with a short nod, Breedon walked
past without stopping to kiss her.

Roxana's shoulders dropped, and she folded her hands
across her front.

"If Breedon doesn't mean to honor the traditions of
Christmas, I shall do the honors." Scully started forward.

Max grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. "No!"

"Stop. You're destroying my oriental."

"If that's an oriental I'll eat my hat. You cannot
tie more than one knot, Dev."

"Never made it my life's ambition to stand in front
of my looking glass, perfecting my cravat."

"A gentleman of my standing cannot neglect such a
detail." Max whispered as Roxana turned and trailed after Breedon,
her head down. "Go fix your cravat."

He gave Scully a good tug backwards just to be sure
he would make himself scarce.

Roxana noticed their presence and stood still as a
deer.

Max did not even realize what he intended to do as he
strode forward, caught Roxana by the elbows, then backed her into
the niche. Her blue eyes glistened as she looked up at him.

"Breedon is an idiot," he said as he lowered his lips
to hers.

He hadn't meant more than a small kiss, but her
disappointment incensed him. She should not have been so casually
cast aside. Yet, as his mouth touched her petal-soft lips, rational
thought escaped him. Her mouth had fallen open as he pushed her
back and that was too much temptation for him to resist.

A squeak of alarm left Roxana's mouth just before the
duke touched his lips to hers. His warm fingers slid around her
nape, his thumb stroked along her jawline and his mouth pressed
against hers. She had been prepared to submit to a kiss . . . just
not with Max.

His hold was gentle, but left her in no doubt that he
was in charge. Her pulse leapt as his lips moved against hers,
making this kiss different than any she had ever experienced
before. His tongue prodded at the seam of her lips, and he stepped
closer, his firm body brushing against hers. Tingles danced along
her spine. His masculine scent filled her with a heady
intoxication.

Her thoughts and emotions swirled in senseless
patterns until the only thing she could think about was the rough
burr of his tongue against hers and how very odd she felt, all
melting and weak. He pressed her further into the niche. She
relished the solid pressure of his chest, as if she could draw from
his strength. Prickles danced along her skin, her breasts tightened
and grew heavy.

He deepened the kiss. She opened to him, allowing him
access. His taste filled her. She had never realized that she could
feel so undone, as if she were unraveling, but at the same time,
feel completed and yet hungry for more of him.

His fingers stroked along her skin behind her ear as
if he would pet her into compliance. Then her back met the wall and
Max continued to push into her.

She welcomed the solid warmth of him. The growing
response of her body compelled her to continue to explore this
physical union of their mouths. Her knees weakened and her will to
resist was only a tiny cry in the overwhelming fervor of her
response.

She raised her hands to his chest, feeling his broad
solid strength and his quickened breathing. A low growl left his
throat. With the three walls around her and Max in front of her,
she was trapped. Fear cut through her fog of fascination. Roxana
shoved against his chest.

He abruptly ended their kiss. Lifting his head, he
looked down at her, his brown eyes dark and bottomless. For a
second it was as if he looked inside her. She shut her eyes unable
to bear the idea that if he looked too deeply, he would not like
what he saw.

Air filled her lungs in quick pants and her heart
raced. She shoved harder. He backed away, although she was still
cornered in the small space. With her body no longer molded against
his, her thoughts cleared. What was she doing?

Max reached above her head and plucked a berry from
the sprig of mistletoe. He held it out to her. "Your luck should be
in good stead this coming year, Miss Winston."

His roughened voice stole through her, touching parts
deep inside of her. The intimacy of their kiss had opened her to
him in ways she hadn't meant or expected. This was different from
friendship.

She stared at the small white fruit in his
fingers.

Surely this was not the kind of kiss she should have
permitted or encouraged. Her lips tingled. She pressed the back of
her hand against her mouth, trying to regain normal feeling. But on
a deep level she had changed, and she did not ever think she could
go back.

Max stepped back, his manner returning to that rigid
correctness that she now suspected was his way of shutting out
others.

She squirmed out of the niche—there were too many
places in this house where a man could trap a woman. Only her
disordered thoughts reminded her that she had laid this trap, but
caught the wrong man. Mr. Breedon had either not noticed the
mistletoe or had not wanted to kiss her.

Why had Max? He had forced her back under the kissing
bough when she was several feet away from the corner.

"Was that a gesture of friendship?" she asked,
dropping her hand down to her side.

"No. I . . ." Max raised his free hand and pushed it
through his wavy brown hair.

"Was it to teach me a lesson?" She suffered a
moment's regret that she had not taken the opportunity to touch his
hair, but things had happened so fast, she had not thought of what
she could do. She should not play with fire.