A Midnight Clear

by Kristi Astor

  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 she felt her body responding. 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?”

  “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. 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.”

  He nodded, unable to say anything as he remembered his brothers so full of life, racing their horses over this very hillock. Now they lay cold and still in their graves not far from here. They would never gallop, laughing, over these fields ever again. But he could keep Thomas from courting danger. He would not encourage him the way he had his brothers. He could keep him home. He would keep him safe.

  Their horses ambled forward. Max tried to regain his equanimity.

  “Would you like to run the horses?” she asked. “I am sure I have found my seat well enough to manage a good race.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve been riding, Miss Winston?”

  She shot a look at him as if unaware of how much she revealed. “Four or five years.” Then she snapped her quirt and her horse leaped forward.

  He held his horse close until he was sure she would keep her seat and then the race was on. She rode well, her movements fluidly in rhythm with her mount’s stride. With her horse carrying the lighter burden and her head start, Max’s horse nosed ahead only as they neared Thomas and Julia.

  As she reined in her mount, Roxana laughed. The sound ran through him like the chime of church bells. He stared at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes as she circled her horse around behind Julia to fix her skirt again. God, he wished the damn thing would just fall off.

  “Who is that?” asked Thomas, pointing across the stretches of field where a carriage lumbered up the drive to the house. Numerous trunks loaded down the top and no less than ten liveried outriders flanked the richly appointed coach and six.

  “Looks like the Breedons.”

  Roxana looked up and blanched. She stole a look at Max. “The one with the son of marriageable age?”

  Max’s horse wheeled. No doubt the gelding was dismayed by his jerk on the reins. “Yes, Miss Winston, Mr. Breedon is of an age to marry.” She would not want Gregory Breedon, in spite of his deep pockets and eligibility, and he was not likely to want her.

  Roxana focused on Julia. “Is there a way to enter the house so I might get into my room to change before I am seen?”

  “Oh, of course, we may go through the French doors in the library,” answered Julia.

  Apparently she did not mind him seeing her in ill-fitting, borrowed clothes.

  “Good. For I should not wish for my skirt to fall off in front of your guests.” She looked straight at Max.

  Damnation. Did she realize he’d been watching her skirt with just such an interest? “No, that wouldn’t be the thing.”

  “Does Mr. Breedon like to ride?” Roxana asked. “I see several horses being led by grooms. Or do those belong to his parents?”

  “Those are his. Mr. Breedon is quite proud of his horseflesh,” Max answered.

  Roxana swiveled toward him. She wore an expression of grim determination that he had not seen before. “I shall have to adjust the fit on this habit quickly, then.”

  Did she mean to snare Breedon? Why not? He was young, rich, not encumbered by a great deal of responsibility. Her birth was better than Gregory’s.

  Max closed his eyes. When he opened them, Roxana, Thomas and Julia had already started their horses to the ridge. “Shall we return to the house, then?” he asked the air.

  Annoyance that she had not set her sights on him tugged at him. Max dismissed it. Miss Winston was just practical. Had he not warned her off, himself? He admired her sensible nature, didn’t he? Surely only his pride was at stake in his dislike of her preference for a man she’d never met.

  Chapter Three

  With Julia’s help Roxana made it to her room unseen. She’d changed into one of her simple muslin gowns. She added a dark blue spencer and tied a blue ribbon around the topknot in her hair. She would not be able to create an entirely new wardrobe. When the holiday house party was in full swing, her richly colored gowns would have to suffice for the evenings.

  She entered the drawing room. Stealing in unnoticed was not a possibility with the footman opening the door. At home, the servants had dwindled to nonexistent before the family had moved into the cottage. Even without renters the upkeep of the hall was too much without servants.

  She nodded her thanks, swallowed hard, then glided into the room, a small smile pasted on her mouth. Now was the time for her to perform as if her very life depended upon it. Her stomach churned and her knees threatened to give out on her. So much rode on her ability to sway one of the guests into becoming her means of founding her future and the future of her family.

  The Duchess of Trent introduced her to Sir William Breedon and Lady Breedon. Roxana curtsied and made polite inquiries about their health and if their travels were pleasant. She spent a few minutes chatting with Lady Breedon about the awful state of the roads, agreeing without actually making any comment. She kept her eyes wide and nodded a lot, expressin
g a sympathy Roxana had a hard time mustering.

  Compared to the cramped journey Roxana had taken in the mail coach, Lady Breedon’s experiences with musty lap robes and a foot heater that would not stay lit sounded trifling. Although the longer Lady Breedon talked, the more Roxana suspected the source of the unpleasant trip was her traveling companions, but Lady Breedon had managed to transfer those less-than-savory feelings about husband and son to inanimate objects.

  The duke blocked her view of Mr. Breedon. Their conversation did not carry the length of the massive room.

  Finally, Lady Breedon patted Roxana’s gloved hand and told her that she was a good girl for listening to an old woman’s complaints.

  “You are hardly old, my lady.”

  “Aren’t you a dear? Let me introduce you to my son, Gregory.”

  Ah, the moment of truth. Or really the moment of untruth, corrected Roxana in her head while taking a deep breath.

  Lady Breedon led her across the wide room to her son. Mr. Breedon was short, his face a full moon with poked pale dots for eyes, a nose too small for breathing and the merest slash where a mouth should be. He closed it and stared at Roxana’s chest as she was introduced.

  She dropped her eyes as if bashful and fought back a sigh. She extended her hand and dropped her curtsy. “How do you do, sir? I have so been looking forward to your arrival.”

  Mr. Breedon looked up, mildly surprised.

  Max raised his glass to his lips in a mock toast as if to say I told you so. She didn’t dare look at him. Her sights were set and Mr. Breedon presented her the best candidate. He had a rumored ten thousand a year, but his breeding was not as nice as hers. After all, his father was only a knight, so he would not inherit a title.