by Kristi Astor
Fanny had appeared sporadically throughout last evening to check on Roxana. The duchess had been dismayed to find her guest using the cold water and towels to blot the tea from her gown rather than attending to her reddened skin. Fanny’s maid had shown up and whisked away the gown after that. Then a lot of fussing and dabbing with vinegar left Roxana fearing she smelled more like a pickle than the lavender soap she’d washed with afterwards.
A door snicked and Roxana crept to her door and gently opened it an inch. Ah, finally, Mr. Breedon was up and about. Even though his back was toward her, mistaking his robust form was impossible. She quickly followed him out into the passageway. “Good morning, Mr. Breedon.”
He stopped and looked back at her impatiently.
Roxana hurried forward. “Oh, I do hope I have not missed breakfast. I am famished. Have you eaten yet, sir?”
“Not yet, Miss Winston. But we shall not have missed breakfast. We are early.”
“All’s well, then.” She moved past him as if she did not notice his extended arm. As Max said, she would gain nothing by appearing too eager. Mr. Breedon did seem put out with her.
“Are you the type of gentleman who dislikes chatter in the morning? For my father does not like us to speak before he has eaten his fill. I assure you I am quite adept at holding my tongue,” she said.
“You may talk.”
How absolutely gracious of him, thought Roxana. She kept her disgust out of her expression. “I do hope you suffered no ill effect from Lady Malmsbury and Mr. Scullin’s collision after dinner.”
Mr. Breedon closed his eyes as if the memory was painful. Perhaps Roxana should not have brought it up.
“I vow I have never been so mortified in all my life. I was quite afraid that everyone present would think that I had caused the mishap,” she said in a confiding tone.
“I doubt anyone would think that, Miss Winston.”
“As long as you do not think that, sir.” Talking in a breathless, brainless manner was making her feel lightheaded. “I had, after all, told Mr. Scullin I did not want tea.”
“Yes, why yes, you did,” said Mr. Breedon, brightening.
“I should have fetched it myself. Women should wait on men. One is only asking for disaster by reversing the natural order of things.”
Mr. Breedon nodded as if he was in complete agreement with that bit of blarney. So when they reached the breakfast room, she insisted on dishing his plate for him and setting the heaping mound of his selections in front of him. “Would you like the paper to read?”
“No, I am set,” he answered.
She frowned. “Are you sure? Because I am quite sure the plate does not hold enough food. I can get you more if you wish.”
“They are smallish plates, are they not?” said Mr. Breedon.
“Quite small.” His plate held enough food to feed her entire family breakfast. Just a few days, Roxana recited in her head. She could keep up this false front for two weeks.
Mr. Scullin entered the breakfast room. He paused, seeing the two of them sitting at the table. “Good morning, my adorable Miss Winston, Breedon.” He bowed slightly.
Mr. Breedon continued to shovel food into that slit of a mouth. He grunted a response, while Roxana returned Scully’s pleasantry.
Mr. Scullin moved forward to hunch down by Roxana’s chair. His blue eyes searched her face. “Are you all right, Miss Winston? Any ill effects from my clumsiness last night?”
“I am fine, thank you.” Roxana looked over at Mr. Breedon, who had not even inquired about her well-being. She’d have to find a way to make him think she appreciated his lack of consideration.
“Max says you have a very good seat. Would you join me in a ride before breakfast tomorrow? I will assemble an adequate party if riding would please you.”
Roxana would so much prefer to ride in the early morning briskness than to sit twiddling her thumbs in her bedroom, waiting for Mr. Breedon to join the living. She looked at Mr. Breedon, who did not stop shoveling food. “I . . . I . . .”
“Breedon, you’ll join us, won’t you? Your horses will need exercise before the hunt.”
Mr. Breedon wiped his mouth with his napkin. “My grooms will see to my mounts’ readiness, I am sure. Besides, I have brought enough horses that I can change them out during the hunt. My horseflesh is too valuable to risk damaging by too much hard riding.”
“Very well, I should love to ride tomorrow morning,” said Roxana, deciding that she could be back before Mr. Breedon stumbled out of his room. It would give her a few minutes every morning to enjoy before she settled into her pretense. And she did not want Mr. Breedon to feel as if he suffered unpleasant scenes any time she was around him. “If her grace approves, of course.”
“Leave persuading the duchess to me,” said Scully with a wink. He patted her on the shoulder as he stood, and she noticed he looked at her chest as if to verify with his own eyes that she was uninjured. Not that he could see the worst of the redness that was in the crease between her breasts, and her white muslin morning gown was cut considerably higher than the gown of last night.
Heat rose in Roxana’s face. How much had Scully seen of the way the thin silk clung to her breasts, revealing everything? Mrs. Porter had told her that men would always look at a woman’s bosoms if offered a chance. Roxana did not know that she believed that until Max had stared at her almost as if he could not look away. She had known the silk was thin, but had not realized how thin until that moment she looked down to see where the duke’s gaze was focused.
Inexplicably her flush spread to other places on her body, lower, across her belly and lower still. She stared at her plate, seeking composure.
“Miss Winston?”
She looked up at Mr. Breedon’s moon face.
Uncertainty hung in his expression. “Are you all right? You do not have to ride if you do not wish.”
She smiled and glanced back to where Scully had moved to the tray of pastries and was selecting his breakfast. “No. You will think me terribly vain, but I have a huge desire to wear my riding habit in company.”
“Your clothes are very pretty.” Mr. Breedon’s cheeks pinked. “And you are too.”
Roxana was unprepared for the compliments she kept getting on her looks. By far the worst offender was Scully, but the most sincere seemed to be Mr. Breedon with his simplistic comment. “I am not used to being told so, but thank you. Are you sure you would not join us riding?”
“I might consider it, if I wake early.”
“I hope you do,” said Roxana brightly, and it was not quite as much of a strain as her earlier forced cheer.
Other guests drifted into the room and made their way to the sideboard. Scully talked to one of the gentlemen in the far corner. A few of the women asked Roxana if she had suffered a very grave injury. She reassured them she had not.
Mr. Breedon leaned closer to her and said, “I was afraid to ask if you suffered any injury last night, because I did not want to be crude. Because of where . . . where . . .” His pink drifted closer to purple.
He did not want to mention her chest for fear of seeming indelicate? “I suffered only a very slight burn. I assure you the Duchess of Trent’s servants plied me with more poultices and cold towels than were warranted.”
“I did not know what to do when Trent whisked you out of the room,” whispered Mr. Breedon.
“I think he is just very used to controlling any situation.” Roxana shrugged. Would the duke be part of the riding party that Scully made up? And her anger at being yanked around had melted when she realized her gown was transparent. Max had an odd unsettling effect on her that was not quite fear, but close enough to it; she’d do better to avoid him.
She put her fingers on Mr. Breedon’s sleeve. “In truth, I should much rather not speak of it, and I appreciated your forbearance in not speaking of the incident earlier. Although I understand you would have felt remiss not inquiring, since others have brought up the subject.”
“Just so,” said Mr. Breedon, who had followed her every word with a sincere nod of his head.
One of the other ladies of the party sat her plate down at the morning table. Mr. Breedon pushed back his half-full plate.
Had Roxana given him too much food? As she watched Mr. Breedon, Lady Malmsbury brushed by Roxana’s chair, catching her hip on the back. Roxana turned to see two white globes of poached eggs sliding across Lady Malmsbury’s plate.
Roxana envisioned yellow yolk dripping down her front, just as Mr. Breedon reached up and tipped the plate so the eggs slid onto the tablecloth instead of her front.
“Careful,” Mr. Breedon said.
“You moved your chair,” said Lady Malmsbury.
Roxana stared at the yellow and white mess on the pale green tablecloth. Had she? “I’m terribly sorry.”
“I say, Lady Malmsbury, you are extraordinarily clumsy around Miss Winston.” Scully moved across the room. With an edge of warning, he said, “Perhaps you should keep clear of her.”
What had she ever done to incur the wrath of Lady Malmsbury? She stared at the lovely red-haired woman and noticed that in the morning light, the woman’s hair had the brassy hint of a henna wash.
“Oh dear, you are not hurt are you, Miss Winston? I am so dreadfully appalled. Of course you did not realize I was behind you when you moved your chair back. I shall have to pay better attention.”
The occupants of the room looked between the two of them, almost as if unsure which woman was at fault for the accidents.
“Well, get a servant, do.” Mr. Breedon tossed his napkin over the mess on the table.
Roxana decided that was a task she could manage, and she fled for the door. In the passageway a hand at her shoulder stopped her. Roxana turned, expecting Scully, half hoping for Max, and found Mr. Breedon pulling back his hand. “You shan’t cry, shall you?”
Roxana folded her arms across her middle. She was used to being attacked with little or no provocation. Lady Malmsbury’s tricks were hardly of consequence. Roxana was good at dodging unwarranted attacks. She’d keep at arm’s length from Lady Malmsbury in the future. “Thank you, no.”
Mr. Breedon pulled his hands behind his back and rocked up on his toes, and then cleared his throat. “Well, because if you were of a mind to, I thought you might want to make use of my shoulder.”
Roxana stared at him.
“Of course, I understand if you do not want to. And I just meant it as a friendly sort of offer. I . . .” He took a step back.
Roxana swallowed her fear of getting too close physically to any man and stepped forward, leaning her head against his broad shoulder. Very slowly, as if he were aware of her past, he put his arm about her shoulder and patted her arm.
She reached up and placed her hand against his shoulder and found him more solid than she had expected. Solid and comforting like an old quilt. And she did not want to like him, because tricking him would be so much more difficult if she liked him.
Fanny jerked as her bedroom door opened. She turned, expecting Julia or Thomas; instead Scully stood looking around her new bedchamber.
“Ah, a pretty little room for a pretty little woman.”
She was faded, not pretty, and “little” was not a word she’d use to describe herself. “Dev, what are you doing here?”
“It is so hard to catch you alone,” he said, drifting to the far side of the room and picking up a Dresden china figurine sitting on her nightstand. “Do you like your little chamber?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You should not be in here.”
“Yes, well, I am on an errand for Miss Winston.” He set the expensive figurine down and touched the gold filigree box sitting next to her bed. Her heart beat harder knowing her wedding ring was in that box.
Fanny glanced at the closed door. Devlin was alone with her in her bedroom, but he made no move to take advantage of the situation. He had put the bed between them, and while her room was not as large as the one he stayed in, it was by no means small.
Shaking like a leaf she turned around and returned to her task. “I suppose it will do no good for me to insist you leave my room.”
“Well, you should have to put more verve into it than that.”
“What is it you want or Miss Winston wants?” Fanny sighed. Everyone was on a mission for Miss Winston, it seemed. Julia had practiced the piano for her, Thomas had finally learned a difficult passage in French so he could recite it for her and Max had put Fanny on her own task.
“Miss Winston asks if she might ride with me in the mornings,” said Dev casually. “I assured her that I would persuade you to approve.”
Such a spike of jealousy stabbed at her heart, Fanny wished she’d never invited the girl into her home. She closed her eyes, wondering if Max’s attention to the girl, her children’s attention or Dev’s attention bothered her the most. Silly question. “I am not at all sure that is a good idea, Dev.”
“Do you not trust me, love?”
“I of all people know you are not to be trusted.” Fanny’s voice trembled.
“You need not have any concerns. I have no interest in Miss Winston. Besides, she has already invited Mr. Breedon to accompany us and we will of course have a groom as escort.”
Fanny winced, hearing the clink of the porcelain box.
“Fanny?”
She turned slowly. He held her ring up between his thumb and forefinger.
“Why did you take off your wedding ring?”
She stared at him, searching for the right response. The foolish hope of a middle-aged woman. She finally shrugged. “I am no longer married, am I?”
His grin flashed across his face, and she spun away. How much had she revealed? Her heart pounded. “Fine, then, take Miss Winston riding. Go on, then.”
She heard her ring clink and the sound of his movement across the room. His hands landed on her shoulders.
“Go, please,” she whispered. “I am not married.”
“Fanny—”
She spun out of his grasp, concerned that she could not resist him if he applied the least amount of pressure. But she could not risk pregnancy without a husband to provide cover for her sin.
“Please, I beg of you, leave me be.”
Max stared as Miss Winston leaned against Mr. Breedon. His shoulders tightened and a dull ache spread to the base of his skull. She was making fast work of enticing Mr. Breedon, except the embrace the two shared spoke more of friendship than a stolen cuddle.
“Joining us for church this morning, Breedon?”
The two sprang apart as if guilty of an illicit encounter. Miss Winston was again unchaperoned. Max sighed. He would have to watch over her more closely.
“Certainly, certainly,” said Breedon.
If he couldn’t keep an eye on Roxana, the next best thing was to keep Breedon occupied.
“How about the pheasant hunting tomorrow afternoon?”
“Uh, no,” said Breedon. “I, uh, don’t like killing things much.” He backed away.
Max should not have interfered unless the pair risked passion overtaking their senses. Not terribly likely in Breedon’s case. And surely Roxana could not find Gregory overwhelmingly persuasive.
Roxana shifted. Shaking his head, Breedon walked away.
If she could fix Breedon’s attentions and be happy married to him, who was Max to interfere?
“Do not allow him to treat you with too much familiarity,” Max cautioned.
“He offered comfort, no more.” Roxana turned in the direction Breedon departed.
“So all appears to be going well in your laying of traps.”
“No,” said Roxana.
He stopped and looked at her. Hope bubbled through his struggle to do the right thing and assist her in securing a decent marriage. “No?”
Her blue eyes narrowed as she studied him and Max again felt that absurd rise of heat. Such delightfully deep a blue, like a clear moonlit sky at midnight. Did she know how striking she was
?
“If I might have a word with you, Miss Winston.”
“Certainly, your grace.” She swiveled around and her blue eyes hurtled glacial daggers in his direction. “Shall we use the billiard room?”
Max choked. He closed his eyes, warding off the images of Roxana in her plastered-on dress. Her breasts had been perfection, full and cherry tipped. No good. His body flooded with heat. His hand itched to caress her surprisingly lush curves. His mouth watered as he thought of touching his lips to those sweet berry nipples. He could not be alone with her in his hardening condition. “If you would accompany me upstairs.”
“Is there a problem?”
He took a step toward her, and Roxana took a quick step backward.
The moment grew heavy with tension. Was she aware of his arousal? She had just been in Breedon’s arms, yet Max wanted to grab her to him and let her know just how she made his blood run hot. As if he could mark her as his. Which was about as ridiculous a thought as he could entertain.
He should be relieved her pursuit of Gregory appeared to be going well. Max had no place in his life for Roxana, and her problems would only compound his.
Max gestured toward the stairs.
“Lady Malmsbury does not like me, you know.” Roxana paused for a second at the base of the stairs.
“I am sure that last night’s incident was just an accident.”
“The eggs too?”
“What eggs?”
“Lady Malmsbury’s eggs that Mr. Breedon saved me from wearing.” Roxana waved a hand as if it was of no import.
But it was of great import if Mr. Breedon had gained Roxana’s gratitude by rescuing her from Eliza’s bad behavior. And was Max’s attraction to Miss Winston the cause of Eliza’s spite?
“Fanny’s maid said your skin was only a little reddened.” Max swallowed hard as he thought about the expanse of flesh to which he referred. “Are you in any discomfort?”
“I am fine.”
