by Kristi Astor
He put his hand to the small of her back to guide her toward Fanny’s room, but he knew as soon as he touched Roxana that it was a mistake. He was the one in discomfort as he resisted the impulse to rub his fingers in coaxing circles.
He tapped on Fanny’s sitting-room door.
“My lady went to greet arriving guests, your grace,” said Fanny’s maid. “She said to give you this. It is everything you requested.” She handed Max a pouch of sorts. “I put your dress back in your room, Miss.”
The maid curtsied and then shut the door, leaving them alone in the empty passageway. He slid the pouch into his coat pocket and the pocket bulged out.
Max hesitated, then he guided Roxana down the passageway. He had meant to discuss things with her in private with Fanny present, but he could not take her into a room alone. At the far end a slender table stood flanked by two unlit girandoles. Hopefully none of the other guests would intrude on their conversation.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“The end of the hall. We shall just be a moment.”
His touch at the base of her spine made Roxana shudder. She stepped a little faster so he would remove his hand and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. Was it proper to be alone with him?
He turned at the far end of the passageway and leaned against the little table. “I spoke with Fanny this morning about assigning one of the maids to act as your abigail.”
“That’s not necessary,” said Roxana. “I am used to making do without one.”
The mirror above the table reflected the back of his broad shoulders at her, while she could not help but notice his form from the front. She wanted to look her fill. Was that how he felt last night as he looked at her transparent dress? Seeing both sides of him overwhelmed her. Her breath felt short and her knees wobbled as if no longer capable of supporting her.
“Miss Winston, the official festivities will begin the day after tomorrow with the hunt, followed by the choosing of the Lord of Misrule at the ball, and shall be nonstop. You will need to change your gown three or four times a day. Then there is fixing your hair and everything else.”
Roxana’s hand shot to her simple topknot as if by its own volition. His brown eyes followed her hand, and she withdrew it self-consciously. Roxana bit down the resentment that she needed assistance.
A more rational part of her brain noted that she should just accept his offer. Other women of her station had lady’s maids. Just because she had resigned herself to a working-class future did not require that she should not live as expected now.
“My sister will need an abigail in a year or two; you will be helping us by trying one of the maids to see if she can handle the increased responsibilities.”
“Ah, you would turn it into a favor I do for you.” Roxana turned away. His attention made her feel odd, as if he was touching her, although he stood more than an arm’s length from her.
“If that would help you swallow the idea, Miss Winston.”
“Very well.” She was not in a position to refuse. Why was Max telling her this? He was not like the duchess, who accepted her polite demurs when asked if she needed anything. “I shall be ever indebted to you.”
“Miss Winston, if I might speak plainly?” he said gently.
Bracing herself, she turned back around and nodded.
Max pushed away from the table and pulled the pouch from his pocket. The bundle was a chamois cloth tied with a ribbon.
“It occurs to me that if you mean to land a rich husband, you should not look as if you need one.”
Mortification flowed through her, making her joints lock.
“I asked Fanny to go through the family jewels and select a few items appropriate for a young woman to wear. She agreed it was a good idea.” He untied the ribbon and set the tie on the table, then peeled back the edges of the cloth. Gold glinted out among other shiny baubles.
Roxana swiveled away and ducked her head. She had thought she had done a credible job of fitting in. But he had seen her mended gloves, knew she had arrived without a maid or a riding habit, and had guessed that she was the architect of her gowns. “Am I so obviously destitute, then?”
“Yes,” he moved around in front of her. His brown eyes radiated concern. “I only mean to assist you, Miss Winston. Julia was dancing around me this morning quite proud of her new gown.”
So was he helping her because she made Julia happy? His nearness made breathing hard.
He turned her back to him and then slid a single strand of pearls around her neck and fastened it at her nape. Shivers poured through her as she touched the gems, just above her neckline. But it might have been a strand of knotted hemp, because it was the brush of his warm fingers along her collarbone that made her skin heat and tingle and her stomach tighten.
All of the jewelry Mrs. Porter proudly displayed, along with the tales of the protector who had bestowed it upon her, raced through Roxana’s head. “I cannot accept them.”
“It is only a loan, Miss Winston. It is not as if Fanny will need them while you are here. The family has a great deal of jewelry that is currently not being used by anyone. If I had more than one sister, it might be a different story.”
Or if he had a wife. These jewels would eventually become the province of his wife. If he married. How could she have even thought for one second that he was offering her carte blanche?
His hand against her shoulder did strange things to her insides. That was why. Gently he pushed her toward the table and the decorative looking glass on the wall. She saw her eyes, wide and dark, and tried to ease the fear from her expression. His face moved above her shoulder, and he held a teardrop pearl earring up to her ear. His thumb grazed against her earlobe and a shudder rippled through her.
Their eyes met and held in the glass. She could turn her head and her lips would brush his cheek, he stood so close. Or if he turned too . . .
Roxana wanted to close her eyes and lean back into him. As if aware he stood too close, he stiffened and stepped back.
“You are too kind, but I cannot wear these.”
Every time she touched them she would think of him. Stars above, she could not forget why she was here and what she needed to do.
“Why has your father not provided better for you than to cast you among strangers?”
Roxana’s hand curled around the pearls. Mentioning her father was as good a reminder as any. She closed her eyes. Pictures swam before them. Falling to her knees in the drive, her hands scraping against the rough gravel. The thought that she needed to protect her hands from injury had sustained her as the stinging whacks fell across her back.
“Roxy, are you all right? You’ve gone quite pale.”
Roxana strode away, her gloved fingers unable to undo the necklace’s catch. “I do not think this is a good idea.”
“Hold steady.” Max followed her down the passageway until he caught her shoulders and then undid the pearls. He put them in the chamois cloth. “It is not a good idea for us to be alone together overlong. But do take the jewelry, Roxy.”
“I cannot think this is proper,” she said.
“I did not expect you to object. No one ever questions the propriety of my actions. I assure you, no one will recognize them as Trent pieces.” He looked down into the pouch. “I can see a few of these were my mother’s pieces. They haven’t been worn since her death.”
Surely he would not use his mother’s jewelry to foster a seduction. Perhaps her own folly led her to misinterpret his gesture. “I do not understand why you are helping me, when you do not approve of my goals.”
“Do not allow false pride to stand in the way of your ambitions.” Max retrieved the ribbon from the table and returned to where she stood in the middle of the passage. He reached out for her hand, pulling it up and setting the chamois cloth in it. “Would wearing them not help you achieve your ends? It costs me nothing.”
From the weight of it, she could tell the contents were more than the pearls. Max reached for her other h
and that hung stupidly at her side and brought it up to hold the makeshift bag. His hands were big enough to hold the bundle in one hand, but her hands were not. He wrapped the bit of ribbon around the cloth and tied a bow. She studied his fingers as they deftly handled the narrow strip.
“I want you to use them. All beautiful women should have proper adornment.” His hands closed around hers and the gentle warmth of them burned through the back of her gloved hands. “I do not know why the mention of your father upsets you, nor why you feel your course is so urgent.” He smiled encouragingly. “I would hope that you could help me understand your plight.”
Roxana wanted to tug her hands back, but she hesitated because she could not pull back without looking as if she was snatching the jewelry to her. If he understood her plight, would it become a bargaining chip to persuade her with, or was his inquiry only kindness?
“Is your family’s situation so dire that you must sacrifice your own happiness to marry a wealthy man?”
Roxana stared at him, unwilling to lie to him, and yet knowing she could not tell him the truth. Yes, her family situation was dire, but nothing upon nothing would convince her to marry. She’d rather be a man’s mistress first. She never wanted to allow a man so much control, so many rights, not even when he made her heart pound, and her knees weak, and was too, too kind to her when he hated what she was doing.
But clearly Max was a man who wanted his own way. He cajoled and flattered and reasoned until the path he thought best was followed. Would he ever resort to the measures her father used to demand his family’s compliance? Roxana suspected Max had never been so challenged. A duke was toadied to in a way that a baron could only dream about.
“I am sure Fanny could be persuaded to sponsor you in a season,” Max said. “You do not need to settle so quickly.”
“Yes, I am sure you could convince her to chaperone me through a London season, but I should not like to be so demanding a guest, and I do not think her heart would be in it.” Besides, marriage was not Roxana’s goal, and a season would not offer the opportunities to be compromised that a house party offered. “I will not protest any longer, because I can see it shall be useless. Thank you.”
She pulled her hands away and moved toward her bedchamber door, the bundle clutched in her hands. And if Max had looked a little taken aback, then it served him right for making her think he was offering to set her up as his mistress. Then Roxana had to acknowledge that perhaps her own desires had warped her understanding.
Chapter Eight
Max’s horse nickered and resisted the standstill after running so long. Looking around at the gathering guests, Max saw that many of their horses were flagging, their heads down, blowing hard out of their nostrils and their hides wet with sweat. The grooms would have a difficult evening, caring for all the horses. A chill breeze blew out of the north, ruddying the cheeks of the already rosy cheeks of the riders.
The hounds bayed as the kennel master and whipper-ins yanked them back on newly attached leads, the kill left for the equestrian pursuers. Mud and decaying leaves clung to many of the riders, the result of a recent run through a creek.
As Max dismounted, he mentally counted the riders, wondering if any had dropped out or been hurt in the last hour of hard riding. His boots squished against the spongy ground near the boggy stretch of reeds where the fox cowered, the red of his brush clear through the thin stalks. Max disliked this part.
The fox had given a good run, but now it trembled, beaten, its sides heaving with fatigue. Max would have preferred to let the fox live another day; the beast had provided a good hunt. He’d kept the chase alive for three days, leading them over hill and dale. Mostly their quarry had kept to Trent lands and hadn’t dragged the riders through forest until the end, when nearing exhaustion.
“There you are, fellow,” Max cooed softly. “Almost done now.”
Scully and Thomas as well as a few of the other hunters closed from either side, the servants taking positions on an outer ring to cut off any avenue of escape. Not that the fox had the energy left to run any longer. Besides, dusk crept through the trees, the shadows long and low.
Max reached for the fox with his gloved left hand. The animal wasn’t done yet, as he snapped at Max, but it was too late. Max caught the brush of his tail, yanked him up and slit his throat almost before Scully could assist him in the kill.
Max held high the limp animal to the triumphant cheers of the hunters and the near hysterical baying of the hounds. Max gave the order to one of the servants to run back to the house and let Fanny know that the hunt party would be back within the hour. They were far enough away that he was not sure she would hear the horns.
Thomas skipped forward to receive the smears of fox blood on his cheeks.
The Misses Ferris urged their horses in to receive their mark, more because Max was bestowing it than because it was truly their first hunt. Max scanned for Roxana.
“Miss Winston.” He lifted the bloody carcass. “Your first participation in the kill?”
She stared at him, her eyes glassy and accusatory. The brilliant red flush of her winter-chilled cheeks drained before his eyes. She shook her head and wheeled her mount around. For such a pragmatic woman, she had surprisingly soft sides.
Max continued forward, offering the blood to the eager clamoring of the other hunters. Many of the women who had fallen back near the end now joined the circle around him.
“Go after her, Dev,” he whispered to Scully.
Scully backed away and out of the crowd, but he returned a few seconds later. “Breedon has got her.”
Max thrust the fox’s body in Thomas’s direction, and the boy struggled to hold the animal aloft to the cheers around him.
Max peeled off his bloody gloves, tossing them in the direction of a groom.
“Has she never hunted before?” asked Scully. “Did she not know what to expect?”
Max had killed animals dozens of times. Killing the fox was expected and more humane than letting the dogs rip the poor beast to shreds. He’d never questioned the necessity of it. The cold stung his bare hands as he mounted his horse again.
Roxana’s wary expression and the way that she shied away from him made him feel just a bit savage.
No doubt Breedon, with his aversion for hunting—aversion for anything physical—and his slothful movements, made her feel that he would never so much as hurt a fly.
Roxana wasn’t sure why the killing of the fox had bothered her so. Perhaps because Max had gone about it with an ease and a matter-of-factness that reminded her of the way her father’s hand would fly across her mother’s cheek if his dinner was late or his slippers did not appear as promptly as he wished. As if the recipient of the cruelty deserved the treatment.
When they lived in Winston Hall it had been easier to avoid her father, but after they moved to the cottage, they were too on top of each other and the rages were harder to sidestep.
The poor fox had done nothing more than lead them on merry chase over hill and dale. It hardly seemed fair to slaughter the poor animal when he could run no more.
“Miss Winston, ho, wait for me,” called Mr. Breedon behind her.
She pulled her ambling horse to a halt and waited for him to catch her.
Mr. Breedon pulled alongside her and bent forward to stroke the neck of his horse, cooing to his steed. The horse tossed its head.
Roxana brushed below her eyes and turned. “My, it is turning cold, is it not?”
Mr. Breedon noticed her gesture. “The end is hard to watch.”
“I suppose I am quite silly, but I wanted the poor fox to get away.”
Mr. Breedon smiled. “Why, Miss Winston, you have such a tender heart.”
No, she did not, but such brusque violence by Max unaccountably affected her. She shuddered. Had she thought that Max could be only kind, that he was incapable of the violence that those of his sex relished?
She was being a ninny. The all-night sewing stints must have made
her overtired. First had been her mad rush to construct her fashionable new riding habit. Then she cut apart her new pelisse to make scarves for the men. She started sewing drawstring reticules for all the women. Hopefully, by Christmas she would have respectable gifts for everyone.
The evenings had been quiet, games of charades or cap verses and cards. Evenings were the best time to make up to Mr. Breedon. But the hunt kept her in his presence, even if it did not allow for a tête-à-tête. So she had participated, even though riding a horse for so many hours when she was unused to it had made her sore and tired.
Mr. Breedon’s horse sidled toward her and pinned Roxana’s legs between the two horses. He reached across the distance and plucked a bit of dead leaf from her shoulder. She felt as much as the leaf. If Max had done that she would have experienced his touch deep in her womb—which was insane. But she tried to substitute in her head the reaction she had with Max.
“You have quite a good seat,” said Mr. Breedon.
“I enjoy riding. I have been admiring your mounts all day long. You keep quite impressive horseflesh, Mr. Breedon.”
Mr. Breedon looked down. “I like to ride too. I just prefer riding at home where I know all the paths.”
“And walking when away from home?”
“Just so. Riding occasionally bothers my knee. It has seized up on me. I find it mortifying to be laid up in bed when visiting.”
“Yes, one would hate to miss the festivities.”
Mr. Breedon, for all his girth, actually exercised quite a bit. She knew things about him that she suspected he had not shared with others. In fact, she was starting to feel quite bad about her plans to trick him, but then she needed to prod him along the path. He did not act as though he even wanted to compromise her.
“Miss Winston, might I ask you a question of a delicate nature?”
Mr. Breedon’s horse still brushed her leg. She slowed her mount so her legs might brush Mr. Breedon. “Certainly.”
“Is there an arrangement between you and the duke?”
Arrangement? Roxana’s horse neighed and backed away, so the planned gentle touch of their extremities became a bone-jarring crash. So much for her use of subtle physical enticements. “No, why would you think that?”
