A Midnight Clear

by Kristi Astor

  Roxana could not see that marriage even to a wealthy man would be anything more than a stopgap. Her father’s gambling went unabated. A new source of income would just provide him with license to continue his reckless course. That he had the right to destroy her entire family with his behavior went beyond unjust. But a man had total control over his family’s resources, and no one could say him nay.

  She had to get the money for her dress shop, and soon. Even then she was not sure it would be enough to save her family from complete and utter ruin. She heard sounds from the ballroom. Curious who could be in there, Roxana leaned her head into the room.

  Max was in the kissing bower with the red-haired Lady Malmsbury, and their embrace was more than familiar. Lady Malmsbury had her fingers threaded in Max’s hair and she stood on her tiptoes, her back arched as she pressed her bosom into him. A stab of pain shot through Roxana’s chest. Her breath whooshed out as if she had been dealt a doubler blow. Did the duke go around kissing every woman at the house party?

  Hearing a noise behind him, Max swiveled. A figure in a white muslin dress moved away from the open doorway. Who else would be up here besides Roxana? Alarm skittered down his spine. What had she seen?

  “Max,” Eliza protested. “Kiss me.” She pushed her hips against him, swaying in a provocative rhythm.

  He grabbed her arms and ripped them away from his neck. “Excuse me.”

  He strode after Roxana.

  “Max!”

  He turned and bowed at the door. “My lady.”

  Eliza glared at him and planted her hands on her hips. “What? Are you afraid that our relationship will disturb your pursuit of Miss Winston?”

  “I am not pursuing Miss Winston,” said Max. However, since he was itching to follow her, his words rang hollow. He clasped his hands behind his back.

  Lady Malmsbury sashayed toward him, her green eyes narrowing. “No?”

  She moved close enough to put a finger on his chest and traced it over his lapel. Her voice dropped to a purr. “She is just an inexperienced girl. I know she cannot offer you the pleasures that I can.”

  His skin began to crawl.

  “Really, Max. It is clear she means to snare Breedon.”

  “You should not have come to this party, Eliza.”

  She pouted. “I was invited, darling.”

  “Not by me.”

  “Have I hampered your seduction of Miss Winston? I promise you she has no need to know of any night games we play.”

  “I am not seducing her.” Max winced.

  “She is seducing you, then,” snapped Eliza.

  “She is a perfectly modest young woman. No one is seducing anyone.” Max closed his eyes in an attempt to modulate his rising anger and lower his voice. “I will not have you speak ill of her.”

  “Then I want what I came here for,” Eliza demanded.

  “I assure you the entertainment will be exemplary,” he said, banking on the idea that Lady Malmsbury would not be bold enough to state her desire so baldly again. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have duties I must attend.”

  Was it too late to catch Roxana? He hurried toward the stairs, abandoning Eliza to find her own way. What could he do to help Roxy anyway? If she needed money he could not help her in that way. But then she had settled on Breedon, and he could help her with capturing him.

  Lady Malmsbury’s accusations of seduction swirled in his brain. Lord help him, the idea of seducing Roxana excited him far more than it should. That was one thing he could not do.

  The right thing to do was assist her in landing a rich husband. He just wished his duties lay anywhere else.

  After dinner, Roxana listlessly wandered around the drawing room while waiting until the gentlemen joined the ladies. She did not know what to make of Max. Were they friends or something more? He had called her Roxy this afternoon, but then he’d had a tryst with Lady Malmsbury.

  The drawing-room door opened and the gentlemen filed in. Before Roxana could even react, the voluptuous redhead, Lady Malmsbury, latched on to Max’s arm. Who was Lady Malmsbury to Max?

  Obviously her conduct was too warm for them to be just casual acquaintances. A sinking sensation settled in the pit of Roxy’s stomach as she thought about the way Lady Malmsbury had plastered her body against his. She was always following Max around the room with her eyes when not attached to his side. Roxana was at a disadvantage with not knowing so many of the people present and their unspoken connections.

  Max met her eyes across the room and Roxana deliberately turned her gaze away. She should not waste time ogling her host. That he knew too much about her situation undoubtedly made her breath catch in her throat. It could not be the broad breadth of his shoulders or the masculine shape of his mouth that made her feel lightheaded around him. She would stay well away from the sprigs of mistletoe around him. Clearly he was indiscriminate about taking advantage of the license to behave with more freedom.

  Mr. Scullin had glanced in Fanny’s direction, then headed toward Roxana. She was glad to see him in better-fitting clothes, a blue evening coat over a gray waistcoat. The colors suited him better than the brown he had worn this morning. Not that anyone else cared about clothing as much as she did. Following Max’s advice to continue wearing her outlandish clothing, Roxana wore her best evening gown, sewn from the red silk.

  Mr. Breedon headed directly toward the tea tray.

  “Would you like some tea, Mr. Scullin?” asked Roxana as he took his place at her side and offered his arm. She didn’t particularly want tea, but Mr. Breedon was filling a plate.

  “Call me Scully. Everyone does. And yes, I could use a spot of tea.” With her hand in his elbow he tugged her toward the tea tray.

  “I have to tell you her grace’s cook prepares the most delicious scones. I always think they will melt in my mouth.”

  “That good, mmm?” said Mr. Scullin. He looked to the tea tray containing the silver service. “I shall have to have some, then.”

  He pulled her up to where the tea tray had been placed on the low table in front of the sofa. A tea cart laden with platters of sandwiches and sweetmeats stood in the center of the floor between them and where the duchess poured tea into fine china cups and handed them to her guests.

  Roxana noted the flush to Fanny’s cheeks and her animated conversation. Scully greeted those around them, although he turned away before speaking to the Duchess of Trent. “Got enough there, Breedon?”

  Gregory Breedon turned his moon face their direction. Roxana glanced at his plate, which contained four of the thin sandwiches and so many scones, tarts and biscuits that she could see nothing of the ivy leaf pattern around the rim. His little eyes opened wide and the few scraggly hairs that passed for eyebrows lifted high up on his forehead.

  “Ah, the food here is too die for, is it not, Mr. Breedon?” Roxana pasted an indulgent smile on her mouth.

  “It is adequate,” he answered, but he looked slightly relieved.

  His moon face settled into a frown. “Would you like a plate?”

  “Please, sir.” Truth was, Roxana had eaten enough at dinner to last her until breakfast. She took the plate he shoved her direction. “You are too kind.”

  “And would you prefer coffee or tea?” asked Scully, reminding her that he still had her hand trapped under his hand, on his arm.

  She could only hold the empty plate with her one hand, not dish anything upon it.

  “Oh, I could not hold a cup and saucer, but do get whatever you wish.” Perhaps he would let her loose. Although she wanted to know why he had been charged with watching over her. Since the guests had started arriving, if Max was not at her side, Mr. Scullin was. Since the kiss it was more often Scully. Although Max seemed to watch her constantly.

  Scully looked straight at Mr. Breedon and said, “I do believe Miss Winston expressed an interest in the scones.”

  Mr. Breedon gave a short snort and set his plate down so he could dump four scones on her plate, more than she could
eat under the best of circumstances. She smiled and thanked him as if he had just slayed a dragon for her. Scully rolled his eyes. She slid her hand out from under his, and he took her elbow. “Right this way, Miss Winston, I believe there is room on this sofa for us.”

  “Mr. Breedon, would you join us?” asked Roxana.

  The three of them headed for the open sofa. Roxana sat in the middle with the gentlemen flanking her.

  “I shall fetch us tea, then,” said Scully, leaping up almost before he had finished sitting down. Roxana watched her appointed guardian move across the room. She noticed he walked with a loose-limbed stride. Scully had a contained energy that unsettled her, although it was Max who tended to make her jump.

  She knew most men were unlike her father. Most men did not lash out with violence when displeased, but that was the only explanation she had for the strange way the air felt charged when she was close to Max. As if a storm were about to break.

  Yet, as she looked up, she saw him moving toward her, Lady Malmsbury plastered against his side. Roxana’s throat caught. Although, Max looked mildly displeased, the same way he looked when his brother and sister fussed at each other. On the other hand, he looked quite ducal as he greeted his guests, stopping often to exchange pleasantries.

  She forced herself to turn to the man beside her.

  “How are you settling in, Mr. Breedon? Is your room comfortable?”

  “A bit smaller than what I’m used to,” Mr. Breedon said around a mouth of food.

  Roxana suppressed her shudder of distaste. His assigned bedchamber was twice as large as hers. “I’m sorry to hear that, but you know, these . . . older houses are just not built with modern comfort in mind.”

  “Oh, it is well enough for a guest, I suppose. Although my house is much newer. I have put many of the public rooms on the ground floor. No reason to be traipsing up and down the stairs all day long. It is not as in the olden days when one had to build a house to withstand attack.”

  “How very clever of you.”

  Mr. Breedon’s sparse eyebrows shot up. She imagined he was not often told he was intelligent.

  “My father broke his leg once; I assure you, it was quite difficult for the servants to take him up and down the stairs.” Actually it had been mostly Roxana and her mother who had to convey him up and down the stairs, until she’d finally told him to make his bed on the sofa. His fury was restrained until his leg was healed well enough to bear his weight.

  Roxana did not know that she would have continued to cater to his whims, knowing the outcome of that protracted stay of her father. Really, that moment convinced her of the need to succeed, convinced her of many things, the least of which was the certainty that she would never willingly place herself under the control of any man.

  “Your parents are not here, Miss Winston?” asked Mr. Breedon. Crumbs decorated his cheek.

  “Mama cannot get away with the younger children and Papa is still tied up with his affairs in London. The Duchess of Trent has been gracious enough to invite me to stay. She and my mother are fast friends.” Exchanging a letter once a year hardly made them bosom bows, but Roxana was taking a lot of liberties with the truth these days.

  She steeled herself for the uncomfortable questions that were sure to follow.

  “You did not have a season, Miss Winston?”

  She smiled brightly. “Not yet.”

  He frowned.

  She wondered if she could wipe off the food without belittling Mr. Breedon, or if she should just let him wander around with crumbs on his cheeks.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lady Malmsbury using her handkerchief to wipe away a reddish spot on Max’s cheek. It was where Lady Malmsbury had kissed him, and it also meant Lady Malmsbury used vermilion on her lips. Mrs. Porter and her daughters used pots and pots of the stuff.

  Since Roxana did not have a napkin, she reached for her handkerchief and turned toward Mr. Breedon. “You have a bit of food on your cheek, sir. I could get it if you would like me to.”

  Mr. Breedon stared at her blankly. Roxana leaned toward him and was well aware of when Mr. Breedon’s gaze dropped to her cleavage. Well, she had learned a few tricks from Mrs. Porter and her daughters. She gently brushed the crumbs away. His cheek was soft and smooth like a baby’s.

  “See there, all better.” Roxana straightened, knowing that her neckline reverted to its proper position. She thought she had managed the whole maneuver without being obvious, but as she turned back around and lifted a scone from her plate, Scully’s raised eyebrow and Max’s scowl greeted her. She looked down, certain that they could not have had the same view Mr. Breedon had.

  Scully leaned forward, extending a saucer with a steaming cup on it. “Your tea, Miss Winston.”

  Lady Malmsbury bumped Scully from behind, then grabbed his arm to steady herself, and the tea went sailing. The shock of scalding liquid against Roxana’s bare chest jolted her out of her seat. The now-empty cup fell to the floor, although she made an ineffective grab for it.

  “Oh, I say!” exclaimed Mr. Breedon, lurching to his feet. “What a clumsy oaf you are.”

  Scully looked blankly at the empty saucer in his hand.

  Roxana wasn’t quite sure if Mr. Breedon was talking to her or Scully, but her chest burned.

  Max jerked out of his coat, tossed it around her shoulders, and grabbed it closed just below her chin. She hunched over and tried to pull the steaming material of her bodice from her skin.

  Max tugged and she had no choice but to follow. Curious stares followed her out as they crossed the immense room and Roxana was aware of the sting of humiliation. Worse than that, as she tried to point to the Limoges china teacup on the carpet, Mr. Breedon, the unmentionable region of his unmentionables coated in clotted cream, stepped on the cup, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

  And where on earth was Max dragging her as if she were a pest a cat deposited into the middle of the company? As soon as the drawing-room door closed behind them, he barked orders to the servants. “The door, James.”

  A footman sprang forward to open the door of another room. “Fetch cool water and towels. Send for Miss Winston’s maid and tell her to bring a dressing gown for Miss Winston. Do not allow anyone other than the duchess or the maid in here.”

  He pulled her around in front of him and looked her in the eye. “Are you burned?”

  He loosened his grip and Roxana swiveled away, leaving the coat in his grasp. A large table with red balls on a recessed baize top blocked her path. Roxana realized this was a billiard room. Nearly every occupation possible owned its own separate space in this house.

  Her efforts to peel away the soaked bodice made her neckline gape, and she tugged it up. She was a little scalded, but nothing that wouldn’t heal. “I’m fine.”

  She looked down at the reddish cast to her skin. “If I could just go and change.”

  “Your maid is coming. I’ll get Fanny.”

  “Vinegar eases the sting of a burn,” said Scully from the doorway.

  “For God’s sake, get out. Miss Winston . . .”

  “Pretty sure we are the only ones who saw,” continued Scully. “Breedon is making a fuss. I am so sorry, Miss Winston. Fanny is on her way.”

  “Tell her not to bother. I am all right. I shall just go to my room and change.” Roxana wondered if Mr. Breedon would associate his own humiliation with her. Would everyone at the house party think of her as the victim of Lady Malmsbury’s clumsiness?

  “I’ll tell her,” said Scully.

  “Wait—”

  The door clicked shut.

  Max’s “wait” trailed off. “Damnation,” Max said.

  Roxana looked at her chest. The redness wasn’t going away, although the material of her bodice had cooled. She dabbed at her front with her handkerchief, which came away pink. If she rinsed the gown right away the tea might not stain it.

  “My apologies, Miss Winston.”

  She wasn’t sure if he was apologizing fo
r his language or the whole incident. “I would just like to go to my room now.”

  “You cannot. You must wait for your maid to bring you a dressing gown. I . . . am sorry for your discomfort.”

  “There is just one problem,” she said. “Well, two problems, really.” She turned around, wadding the stained handkerchief in her hand. The silk was too cheaply dyed, but that was problem number three.

  His eyes darkened and he seemed to struggle to breathe. “Miss Winston?”

  “I do not own a dressing gown and I do not have a maid,” she said.

  For a long second the rasp of Max’s breathing was the only sound. The air charged with raw energy and she felt edgy.

  “You cannot go through the house like that.”

  Roxana realized Max’s gaze was trained below her chin. “My skin is red, but it does not hurt.” Although as she spoke, a tingling spread across her chest.

  His gaze threatened to burn through her, warming the skin that had started to chill with the dampness. What on earth had him so transfixed?

  She looked down and realized the thin layers of saturated red silk were transparent. Worse than that, the material was molded against her breasts, revealing everything.

  “That is the most striking of your gowns thus far, Miss Winston,” he said with a low burr to his voice that reached right down to her toes.

  “Oh, God!” she whispered, folding her arms across her chest and spinning around to present her back to him.

  His hands settled on her shoulders and Roxana wanted to melt to the floor. Yet the feeling wasn’t all mortification. His touch affected her like the flash of hot water followed by cold. Her heart thumped erratically and her skin tingled and tightened, and the paper-thin layers of silk felt like heavy fur pelts, startling her with every shift across her skin.

  Chapter Seven

  After retiring last night, Roxana had heard lots of doors, and now she sat impatiently in her room, waiting for the sound of Mr. Breedon’s door. The midmorning sun peeked in her window. He must be a very late riser.

  She had done a fair amount of sewing this morning, but now she was at a place where she needed to try things on. She feared that the minute she removed her morning gown to try on the riding-habit skirt, Mr. Breedon would leave his room.