by Kristi Astor
Yet, she had inferred from the Duchess of Trent’s comments that Breedon was not particularly looking for a wife, which suited her plans. Given that the first place he looked was her bosom pointed to the kind of interest she needed to encourage.
Roxana lifted her eyes to Mr. Breedon’s moon-ish face and smiled. “It is so comfortable to have one near one’s age to discourse with, don’t you agree?”
Mr. Breedon nodded, that slash, really more of a slit, of a mouth falling open.
“Pray tell how was your trip? Your mother was telling me the roads were quite uncomfortable.”
“They were indeed dreadful. I have thought the Luddites had sought to ruin them, the holes were so bad.”
Max took a drink and watched her over the rim, his eyes narrowing.
Roxana blinked, not knowing how to respond to such an outrageous suggestion. Destroying textile machinery was a far different thing than destroying the roadways. She chose to ignore it. “Travel this time of the year, when it is so chill, can be unpleasant.”
Mr. Breedon shivered. “Do not remind me.”
“I don’t believe that the Luddites have taken to destroying the roads,” said Max.
“Well, it just seemed that it was more than nature’s fury. Such jostling ought to come because someone wished to create unease. I should much prefer to blame the Luddites than God or nature.”
Roxana laughed as if he’d spoken with brilliance. “I quite agree. Villains are ever so much more fun to blame.”
Mr. Breedon made an attempt to pull in his puff-guts, and Max stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. She didn’t care. Mr. Breedon was a perfect candidate to compromise her: he was rich, a bit of a slowtop and would think himself blessed lucky to pay her off rather than be tricked into marriage. Then she would have money to open her dress shop.
Beyond that, she felt absolutely nothing but a vague pity for Mr. Breedon, unlike for the duke, for whom she felt things she would rather not feel for her intended dupe.
Now she had to persuade Mr. Breedon to compromise her, and then rely on Max to insist on compensation.
By tea time the drawing room had grown more crowded. Scully had arrived as well as two of Max’s aunts with their families. The next three or four days would see a steady influx of guests. Max had been down to the entry hall, welcoming Scully and showing him to his room, but he was more interested in seeing their first guest.
He scanned the drawing room and found Roxana standing by a window. She cast only a cursory glance in Max’s direction, but her gaze had lighted on Breedon and she took a step toward him. She had been stuck to Breedon’s side ever since his arrival. Max was tired of watching her fawn and flirt with the self-absorbed fool.
Weaving his way around the groups of furniture and guests, he caught Roxana’s arm. He wanted to pull her aside before she homed in on the man that she had apparently singled out for attachment. She jerked back, her eyes startled.
Her stiffening under his hand surprised him. He put a hand against the small of her back, pressing ever so slightly to guide her in a different direction. He was too aware of the delicious curve of her spine and his inclination to leave his hand long after it was necessary. “Allow me to introduce you to our newest guests.”
Roxana’s gaze darted over the groups of people and came back to his. For a moment time stood still as he looked down at her midnight-blue eyes. He resisted the urge to pull her closer.
“I . . . I believe I’ve met everyone,” she said.
“Then allow me to escort you in a turn about the room. There are more guests who will join us and most of them already know each other.” He pulled her hand into the crook of his elbow and leaned close to whisper, “You do not wish to appear too eager to snare Breedon in a parson’s mousetrap.”
She shrugged and walked beside him. He looked down on the straight part and the very simple loose knot of her hair. She seemed determined not to look at him as he steered her toward the far reaches of the room and the alcove that flanked the far side of the massive fireplace. Just a little nook where they could be private, without actually leaving the room.
When he had her far out of earshot of the other guests, he asked her, “What are you about, Miss Winston? You cannot be enamored of Mr. Breedon.”
Her delicately arching brows flattened, and she backed away from him, folding her arms across her breasts. “Why ever not?”
Her arms drew his attention to her neckline. Was it perhaps just a little low? In any case he would not complain, since his eyes feasted on the gentle swell of flesh. “Well, I daresay you would not be the first young lady to be enamored of his flush pockets, but it will not fly with him.”
She dropped her arms, lowered her head and stepped farther back into the corner. He wanted to keep their tones low, so he followed her into the recess.
“Pray, what concern is it of yours?” she asked.
Max searched for adequate answer. In truth, she was his concern, but she would not appreciate knowing that he was watching over her. “I had thought you might be glad of the guidance of a friend. You said you wished to know if you made any missteps.”
She gave him a startled look and pressed her lips together.
“If you appear too eager, he will think you are just another fortune hunter,” he continued.
“My family . . .” She broke off and looked at the floor. “I have to be practical and I do not have much time.”
“You have not even met all the men who have been invited for your perusal. I mean, if you are looking for a rich husband I would have thought you would settle on me, and I invited other gentlemen who are comfortable enough they would not balk at your lack of dowry.”
“But you do not intend to marry, and I should not like to be so poor a guest that I lay out traps for my host.” She fought a smile. “Besides, I thought I would not face much competition for Mr. Breedon’s affection.”
Max couldn’t argue with that, but his affection wasn’t why young ladies sought out Breedon. Most were after his wealth and Roxana apparently was too. Even if the idea of her fixing her affection on Breedon both annoyed Max and filled him with concern, he kept thinking she must have a reason that would make sense to him. Did she want nothing more than beautiful gowns and jewels? Or had her family instructed her to marry a man of good fortune? “What traps do you mean to lay?”
Her eyes flitted up and then away. An expression of alarm crossed her face. She flattened against the wall and darted to the side.
Good grief, he must have made her feel cornered. He turned and leaned against the wall and made sure his gaze did not stray below her neck. “I assure you, Miss Winston, you are perfectly safe. We are in a room full of people.”
She caught her elbows in her hands and the gesture made her neckline gape for just a second, and his promise to himself to look no lower than her chin was broken. He mentally chastised himself and then decided he had done no harm in looking.
As he raised his gaze he noticed the simple cross she wore on an old chain. Most of the young ladies in the room had strands of pearls and earbobs made of gold and precious jewels.
“I doubt you can bring any gentleman up to scratch in the few weeks of the house party.”
She looked up at him. “I have to try.” She turned as if she would rejoin the company.
He reached out and touched her arm. A flash of heat traveled up his hand and snaked down to his gut. Damn his abstinence, which was making him react with too much heat. “Why?”
“Because this is my only chance to secure a decent future for my family.”
Not for herself? How bad was her situation? She was not the first girl who would be sacrificed on the altar of family finances yet unease crept through him. How could he protect her from the travails of self-sacrifice?
He looked at the determination in her jaw, the strength of will that radiated off of her, and smiled. “I highly doubt that, Miss Winston. You strike me as the sort that would manage to avail yourself of anothe
r opportunity and another until you achieved success.”
She looked at his hand on her arm, and he resisted the urge to stroke up her sleeve, across her shoulder. Putting his hand around her nape and drawing her to him would be simple. He could feel her still, like a skittish horse, prepared to bolt, yet not quite of a mind to, yet. “Come, you like plain speaking, Miss Winston. Are you thinking of what you shall have to bear if you marry Mr. Breedon?”
Did she understand she would have to bear Gregory’s complaints and fancies of persecution as well as his children? The idea of that lout touching her curdled Max’s spleen.
She looked at him directly. “I have only this opportunity, and I have no intention of wasting it by being undecided.”
“Miss Winston, you are beautiful enough to attract a great many admirers. Surely you do not mean to settle on a suitor so quickly.”
She stared at him, a hint of uncertainty around her eyes. Was she unused to compliments? His mistresses had often complained that he was ungenerous with them.
“And Mr. Breedon was not one of the gentlemen invited because he is in want of a bride. He is invited only because Fanny is fast friends with his mother. He has slipped the noose on many occasions before.”
Roxana’s head dipped, and he stared at the white part in her dark hair. Damn, he wanted to pull her to him and whisper dozens of compliments in her ears. But he had not pulled her to a corner to seduce her. His thoughts swam. He had pulled her aside to warn her that Breedon had made it clear he wanted a woman who brought as much wealth to a union as he did. Nor would it be the first time a penniless young woman had dangled herself in front of him only to look foolish when Breedon failed to take the bait. Or worse yet, nibbled at the bait, but threw the hook back.
“See here, Mr. Breedon has said time and time again that he will marry only a woman of equal wealth. He may be flattered by your attentions, but he is not likely to marry you.” Although, Roxana’s fresh-faced beauty might be enough persuasion for even Breedon to throw over his long-held plans to further gild his pockets.
Scully peered around the corner. “A turn about the room or a tryst in a corner?”
Max pulled his hand back from Roxana’s arm and looked at his friend’s quirked eyebrow. Scully had managed that unpardonable trick of raising one brow and he tended to make use of it whenever he found opportunity. He took an exaggerated long step, sliding his tall lanky body around the corner and pushing back a shock of straight dark hair that defied all but the most liberal of beargrease applications.
Apparently Scully had forgone the application of pomade and was suffering for it, but then the idiot had arrived a full two days before his traveling carriage and valet. His clothes must have been stuffed in a valise tied to his saddle, given their sad, wrinkled state. Max introduced Roxana and Scully.
“Miss Winston,” Scully acknowledged, raising his glass to his lips as if he was offering her a toast.
“Is that tea?” asked Max, amused but wishing his friend to perdition. No wonder Scully drove Fanny to distraction.
“Of course not. Found your brandy in the library. Haven’t been here in a coon’s age, but I haven’t forgotten where things are. Malmsy is looking for you.”
Scully looked at Roxana and sidled up beside her, crooking out his arm. “Trust me, all will go better if you hang on me.”
Roxana looked at him as if he was half-crazed. But then, Scully had that effect on people.
“He has a good heart,” said Max, suppressing a smile. “And it is your own fault that you haven’t been allowed in the house forever. My father banned you.”
“Oh, good, I thought it was Fanny.”
“She said you could not come if you meant to make a fool of yourself.”
“But that is what I do best.” Scully turned toward Roxana, who was leaning away from him, although she delicately placed her fingers on his raised arm. “Ah, but then I am directed to make a fool of myself over you, Miss Winston.”
Pain flickered in Roxana’s expression. “Really?” she asked.
Scully’s white teeth flashed in his face as brilliant as a stroke of lightning. His smile was one of his best assets. Max watched Roxana to see how Scully affected her. An answering smile tugged at her lips. Max felt a wash of relief. He could always tell from their reaction the women that would fall under Scully’s charm. Roxana was amused, but not buoyed.
Scully patted her hand on his arm. “And here when I expected a dreadful task, I find a most delightful charge. I cannot think of a better way to spend my holiday than to tag after a fetching morsel like you.”
Max kicked him.
Scully looked at him, startled. Hell, Max’d startled himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d kicked anyone, perhaps when he was twelve in a cricket match. Probably Scully then too. He’d never thought to request Scully keep mum about the task given him.
Scully took another drink and reached over to set his glass on the mantelpiece. “Here she comes. I must say I am surprised to see her here.”
“Fanny did not know.”
“Ah yes, well . . .”
“What are you talking about?” asked Roxana.
“Ah, sweetness, it is time for us to take a turn about the floor,” Scully said to Roxana. “I shall be the envy of every gentleman in the room, and of course the ladies will be coveting your gown. Shall we stir the pot a bit, my most pretty Miss Winston?”
“Do not let his flattery turn your head, Roxy. His heart has long been given,” Max warned her.
She glared at Max. “All these ineligible eligible men at my disposal, whatever will I do?”
Scully laughed. “How droll. Is she always so droll, Max?”
“You would not want Scully anyway. He is poor as a church mouse and without expectations,” Max told her.
“Max, there you are!” Lady Malmsbury flew forward into his arms. “I have been looking all over for you, darling.”
Red curls tickled his nose and cloying perfume made him want to sneeze. What had he seen in her? She pressed her full breasts up against him as she kissed his cheek. Ah, he remembered. But her figure suddenly felt too fulsome.
“Ah, Lady Malmsbury, have you met our houseguest, Miss Roxana Winston?” He put his hands on Eliza’s shoulders and pushed her back, heaving in a deep gulp of breathable air.
Eliza’s reddened mouth rounded into an oh. She swiveled. Her pale-green skirts dragged over Max’s legs. Fondling her necklace—his parting gift of emeralds—she batted her darkened eyelashes at him. More than one of his shirts had been sacrificed to her penchant for artifice.
Finally, she acknowledged the introduction. Lady Malmsbury slowly looked Roxana up and down. Max winced.
Scully pulled Roxana closer to him. “Isn’t she a pretty thing, my lady?” Scully flashed his smile at Max’s ex-mistress.
But his comment reminded Max of what Roxana had said earlier. “By the by, I am only two years older than Breedon.”
“You have got it bad, son.” Scully shook his head as if Max were a lost cause.
Max bit his tongue to keep from disputing Scully’s right to call him “son.” Even if Scully managed to convince Fanny to marry him—and marriage had never been a sure thing when it came to Scully—they would have to have a long heart-to-heart about whether marrying Max’s stepmother would confer the title of stepfather upon Scully or rather would not.
And what did he mean, Max had it bad?
Lady Malmsbury leaned in close and said, “You will hate the room I am in. It is all pink ruffles and lace.”
“That is my sister’s room.”
“Oh, dear. Well, I suppose it is more private.”
“I thought you looked good in pink,” muttered Max, but no woman could look better than Roxana. His gaze followed Roxana walking away on Scully’s arm. They headed straight for Breedon. Christ, he couldn’t trust Scully with anything.
Eliza had said something about green, and Max had no idea what she’d said, but her eyes were narr
owing as she looked across the room to where Scully led Miss Winston around. And just what traps was Roxana planning to lay?
Roxana pulled her crochet hook through her lace and looked around the room. She sat beside Lady Angela DuMass, a young woman near Roxana’s age. Other women were engaged in various activities; Lady Malmsbury preened before one of the gilt-encrusted mirrors, the duke’s two elderly aunts sat across the room, playing cards, several women sat gossiping in one corner, but most of the gentlemen were absent. Max had led the men off on a masculine pursuit after nuncheon.
“That is lovely lace,” commented Lady Angela, pointing her long sharp nose at Roxana’s lap. “You do that very fast.”
“Thank you,” said Roxana.
Lady Malmsbury wandered over, glancing at Roxana’s handiwork and sniffing. “I confess I much prefer Brussels lace.”
Roxana resisted the urge to grit her teeth. “Of course, there is none prettier.” Nor more expensive. “I prefer it too.” The impulse to touch the chemisette that filled in the neckline of her green dress guided her hand to her neck. She wanted to point out that it was trimmed with expensive Mechlin lace. She lowered her hand. “I’m fond of Battenburg lace too.”
“Oh, but one uses that only for table linens,” said Lady Malmsbury.
The duchess entered the room with a couple followed by a petite young woman whose fawnlike eyes dominated her face. Fanny led the newcomers around, reacquainting everyone. They eventually made their way to where Roxana sat.
She stood and made her curtsy to Lord and Lady Lambert and their daughter. After a polite exchange Miss Lambert greeted Lady Angela with a hug. They began an excited chat, catching up on things that had happened since the close of the London season. Fanny patted Roxana’s arm before moving away.
As the older Lamberts drifted to other acquaintances, taking Lady Malmsbury with them, Roxana’s status as an outsider was painfully obvious. She moved to the side of the sofa so the two girls could continue their animated exchange. But she could not help but overhear their conversation.
