by Kristi Astor
“Mama said we must come posthaste, for if the Trents were inviting us, the duke must be considering marriage. Before, when they invited my parents, my older sisters were not invited,” said Lady Angela.
Miss Lambert appeared startled by the notion, her brown eyes growing larger. “Do you think he picked us to come?”
“The duchess invited you,” said Roxana and then wished she could bite off her tongue. She didn’t know what prompted that tiny irrational surge of jealousy to make her want to burst their bubble.
Two pairs of eyes, one of pale blue and the other of velvety brown, turned in her direction.
“After the duke came home, they decided to invite more of the younger set,” Roxana said, trying to undo the damage. Who was she to interfere with their hopes and aspirations?
“Who?” asked Lady Angela.
“Yes, who else is invited?” echoed Miss Lambert.
Roxana knew the names only from the place cards she’d written out and the room assignments. The names meant nothing to her. She searched in her mind’s eye for the last minute additions, who had not arrived yet. “The Misses Ferris, Lord Hampton and a Mr. Allensworth. Mind you I do not know if they will come.”
“Oh, no one would turn down an invitation to this Christmas party unless they were on their deathbed,” said Lady Angela.
“Yes, everyone fights for invitations. I have heard their hunts are the best and the food is to die for, and then the gifts they give . . .” said Miss Lambert. “We were so afraid they would not continue the house parties after the old duke passed.”
“Gifts?” said Roxana weakly.
“And the other sons,” said Lady Angela. “The duke has had a great deal of tragedy in recent years.”
“But he bears it so well,” said Miss Lambert.
The girls both sighed in unison. Roxana wondered if Lady Julia was more mature.
“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 began entering 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 schoolboy. 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. “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 take his seat in Parliament, for I do not remember him there?”
“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.
“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 clic
king 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 he could see Breedon’s round-faced 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 with moisture 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.
Chapter Four
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.
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 th
e 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 not marry any woman, let alone a needy, poor woman like her. 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.
