Compromised by Christmas (9 page)

Max still stumbled with his words. "I . . . Miss
Winston, I . . ."

His inability to find what he wanted to say suggested
he had been shaken in the same way that she had. What had they
done?

"I apologize. That was most unhandsome of me."

Hurt stabbed and cut her insides. Her emotions had
turned into delicate crystal easily shattered. "Are you apologizing
for kissing me?" Her voice crested up unnaturally.

"Not for kissing you, per se. You were under the
mistletoe."

"Not when you seized me and marched me back here."
She pointed to the niche. Her heart refused to slow its mad race.
"There."

He stared at her. Did he regret kissing her? He had
spoken before he kissed her, but she had been so surprised by his
handling that his words hadn't registered.

She folded her arms across her middle.

He pushed his fingers against his forehead. "I
apologize for breaching the bounds of propriety."

"Oh." She looked at the little cubbyhole set up for
the purpose of stealing kisses. Their exchange had been too heated.
"Perhaps I should have offered more resistance. I did not know. I
have never been--"

"You did nothing wrong." He reached out and caught
her shoulders.

She froze as his gaze dipped to her mouth and then
back up. Would he kiss her again? She could feel that welling
response, the weakening of her limbs as if she was about to turn
mindless. She sucked in a heavy breath.

He dropped his hands and took a step back. "Should
you not be dressing for dinner?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Roxana swirled, thinking she
could not make it to her room soon enough if she flew.

"Miss Winston," Max called behind her.

She did not stop. She had not known how being held in
his arms could approach wonderful heights. Yet, she could not fully
appreciate the experience. Not knowing would have been better,
because experiencing such kisses in her life was unlikely. And, oh
God, she was such a ninny to fall for the high-and-mighty duke who
would never forget himself so much as to truly compromise her and
had warned her he wasn't looking for a wife. Nor would she marry
any man, let alone a man who could control her with a touch, turn
her mindless with a kiss, make her forget her imperative plans with
a caress.

Yet worst of all was his reaction that he had drawn
up stiff with regret. Pain swirled in her stomach. He had not meant
to kiss her so freely. That had been apparent in his dismayed
expression. She could not let it lay, but had challenged him. Would
she never learn to curb her tongue?

*~*~*

Max stared at Roxana's retreating back and wondered
what fever had invaded his brain. He'd never treated an unmarried
lady to such an unbridled kiss, let alone treated any woman to such
a kiss without a gentle seduction of hand kissing, touches,
indications of his intent. He had been close to allowing his hands
to roam lower, to capture and caress her curves in a way that
conveyed an intention to bed her.

Had she sensed his slipping control when she pushed
him away?

Scully approached him with a smirk on his face.
"Shall we finish our game?"

"I forfeit."

"The game?" asked Scully with that infuriating lift
of a single eyebrow.

"What else?"

Scully grinned, but did not reply, which was probably
wise of him.

"Did Breedon . . . ?" Max gestured toward the kissing
bower.

"Walked him to his room, warned him that you were
taking your duties toward your guest seriously and expect him to be
above board in all
his
treatment of her. He is oblivious to
your waylaying Miss Winston."

Max did not know if that relieved him or not.

Scully studied him. "That is what you meant to say to
him, isn't it? Far too soon to demand to know his intentions."

Max did not think he could bear the scrutiny at the
moment. He did not understand why he failed to toe the line.
Perhaps it was because the minute he touched Roxana he had thought
of her most improper undergarments. Or that he had not slept with a
woman in months, or just that she was under his protection . . .
but not under his protection in the way that gave him the right to
take indecent liberties. What was wrong with him? He never violated
the rules of proper behavior.

He could not think of that, and he should not have
seen her so revealed and unaware.

Max raked a hand through his hair. "We should get
ready for this evening."

"Or have a drink," suggested Scully.

That sounded like a splendid idea. A drink might cool
the heat in his blood. Max strode toward the stairs.

Roxana was just a lovely girl, young woman, young
lady. Max could not even think straight. So fresh and sweet, the
imprint of her body flooded his mind.

"You are a better catch than Breedon," offered Scully
slyly.

"Do not finish that thought," warned Max in a tone
that he knew Scully would not contest. "I could not afford a wife
even if I wanted one."

Max would keep his distance this evening through
dinner. "You keep an eye on her the rest of the day, and for God's
sake do not let her be alone with me."

*~*~*

Roxana smoothed her hands down her dress and wondered
if she had made a mistake. Lady Malmsbury's dismissal of Battenburg
lace had probably influenced her decision on a dress to wear for
dinner. That and she hadn't really been thinking straight after
that kiss from Max. Or she needed to wear a dress that made her
feel powerful.

She had made the dress from table linens and sewn it
in a harlequin pattern, mostly because she had to work around the
stains and had not had enough of either tablecloth to do a complete
dress. A thin strip of gold piping ran down the seams between the
alternating diamonds of bright white and butterscotch. Instead of
gathers she had sewn gores into the waist of the skirt. While it
had a high bodice, the dress fit more closely than the loose empire
gowns most of the other women wore.

The normally circumspect footman hesitated before
opening the drawing room door. She felt like running, but the
footman was hardly frowning.

He opened the door and she turned to look at him
inquiringly before he shut the door after her small train cleared
the entry.

She had sewn on it for days, and she wondered as she
looked around if it was too innovative, too different, too admired
by Mrs. Porter and her girls. What on earth had possessed her to
rely on the advice of a pack of Paphians?

The duke turned from across the room, glanced her way
and then looked again. She saw him swallow, his cravat shifting
with the motion. His eyes moved down her from her slashed sleeves
to her midsection and seemed to linger on her hips. Roxana looked
for a place to sit, steeling herself against the idea of running
away. She would be under a table most of the rest of the evening
and she wished she was there now.

Lady Angela approached and Roxana nearly sagged with
relief.

"You continue to amaze us," said Scully, tugging her
elbow and pulling her away from the door. "You look stunning, Miss
Winston."

Miss Lambert hung behind Lady Angela and peeped over
her shoulder.

"Bit of revenge?" whispered Scully near her ear.

Relieved her limbs worked and she had not frozen in
place, Roxana ignored the murmurs around her. She cast Scully a
skeptical glance as if she didn't know he was referring to Max.

She had not even thought of Mr. Breedon. She turned
looking for him; instead she encountered Fanny's frown. The duchess
wore a modest evening gown in black silk with an overskirt of gray
net. They were dressed as different from one another as night and
day.

"You look famous," said Lady Angela. "Where did you
have your gown made?"

"Yes, did it come from France?" echoed Miss
Lambert.

Roxana sighed with relief. Improvising as she went
along, she said, "My mantuamaker is from France."

"Is she in London? Oh, my mama would never allow me
to wear a dress like that," wailed Lady Angela.

"She plans to open a shop in London, soon," answered
Roxana.

"It should help to have a figure like that,"
whispered Miss Lambert.

"Oh, no, it is the way the diamonds are positioned."
She knew that she wasn't really meant to hear Miss Lambert's
comment. Roxana started to show how the points came together toward
her waist and the white diamonds were cut narrower, which made her
midsection appear slimmest.

Scully cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Miss Lambert, you are near to my size, perhaps you
would like to try it on. If you two want to come to my room, I
could show you . . . things." She could show them how to show off
their best assets and minimize their worst features.

Miss Lambert shook her head. "I would never be
allowed to wear dresses like yours."

Remembering what Max said about unmarried misses
sticking to white muslins, Roxana queried, "Not even after you're
married?"

"What is your modiste's name?" asked Lady Angela.

Roxana went blank. She had not even thought of a
name. At that minute the drawing-room door opened and Lady
Malmsbury entered wearing a gold gown cut so low that it was a
wonder her nipples did not show. Nearly every inch of fabric
sported a bead or a spangle. With her red hair in long dangling
curls and diamonds flashing from her throat she paused in the
doorway, flipped her hair and waited for a response from the
company.

Roxana, much to her chagrin, looked to see Max's
response. He barely looked at Lady Malmsbury and then looked back
in her direction.

Roxana was appalled by how much her freezing at the
doorway imitated Lady Malmsbury's bid for attention. She hoped that
no one thought she was making "an entrance."

Then she realized she had to give Lady Angela an
answer, but when she turned the two girls had drifted away. Roxana
stared at their girlish dresses with ruffles and ribbons, one in
light yellow and the other in a pale peach.

And Max was approaching.

Scully held out a hand to stop him. "Go away, she's
mine."

"I'm taking her down to dinner," said Max
imperiously.

Just then Roxana caught Mr. Breedon's eye. He looked
stunned.

"I promised Mr. Breedon," Roxana muttered. That was
the only good thing that had come of her waylaying him near the
mistletoe.

Scully arched his brow and silent communication
passed between him and the duke. "I'll go get Fanny."

"Yes, go speak to her grace."

Max held out his arm and Roxana reluctantly took it.
A flush crept up her neck and heated her face. The kiss under the
mistletoe pirated away her thoughts. She wished she could forget
it. Mr. Breedon cast a questioning look in her direction and Roxana
shrugged.

A circle opened up around them. Max looked down at
her with a warm smile. "Remarkable dress, Roxana," he said in a low
voice. "Try not to blush."

"At least it is mostly white," she tried. "I'll stick
to the muslins from now on."

"No, you won't."

Fanny approached, with Scully following, his hands
clasped behind his back.

"You amaze me, Roxana. I wish I could wear such
beautiful things."

"You cou—"

Max placed his hand over hers, tapping the back of
her hand like a schoolmaster might gently redirect a daydreaming
student.

"You are just the
dernier cri
, but I suppose
that is what one must expect from a girl who has spent time in
Europe. You have acquired such a continental flare," said
Fanny.

Scully cocked an eyebrow.

The duke and duchess flanked her until the butler
announced dinner. Lady Angela and Miss Lambert cast hopeful glances
in the direction of their parents.

As the company filtered out of the drawing room
toward the stairs, Roxana hung back.

"I have been to Europe?"

Max shrugged. "Apparently. You did not have a season,
so you must have been somewhere. Visiting your grandparents Lord
and Lady Wingate perhaps. Or does she go by Condesa?"

"I've never met them." Nor had her father seen them
since he was quite little. But she gathered the Trents would have
her lie. Roxana tried to sort what had just happened. "So if you
and the duchess put a stamp of approval on my apparel then everyone
will accept it?"

"Exactly so." Max tilted his head back ever so
slightly and gave an infinitesimal shake of his head in a regal
sort of gesture.

In his gesture was something domineering and
imperious. Then he looked down at her, his brown eyes warming as he
assessed her dress.

"You look beautiful." His voice was low and spread
through her like melting butter.

"I never intended to look . . . fast."

Max swallowed hard again.

Mr. Breedon cast an uncertain look in her direction
before he left the room.

"Coming, you two?" asked Scully from the doorway.

Max held up one finger and swung around in front of
her. "Nothing is improper in your gown. You just have a flare for
drawing attention. As a friend, I advise you to continue wearing
the clothes you wear or the gossips will assume that we have
browbeaten you in private."

She nodded.

Max's eyelids dropped and he leaned closer. Did he
mean to kiss her again? Mistletoe wasn't above her head this time.
Her heart pounded madly, but the duke was not her prey. And Mr.
Breedon was getting away.

Roxana took a step back and said, "Who'd have thought
wearing table linens would create such a stir?"

Max coughed, and she skirted around him, then
scurried to catch Mr. Breedon, wondering how he felt about her
clothing.

*~*~*

Max tapped on the connecting door to the blue room,
with a spare dressing gown over his arm and the brandy decanter and
two glasses in his hands. He could not sleep, and Scully was always
good for a shared drink.