by Kristi Astor
Roxana pushed at Breedon’s shoulders and a feeling Max would otherwise call relief surged through him.
“Mr. Breedon, Miss Winston,” he called, still a hundred yards away. “I do believe the weather is turning quite nasty.”
Breedon did not release Roxana as Max had expected. Instead he clumsily patted her and looked around her. His round face glowed with excitement. “Miss Winston has grown quite cold.”
Not the usual reaction of a woman being kissed. Perhaps Max could garner joy from that. He needed joy to temper the black wish in his soul to offer to meet Mr. Breedon at dawn. Not that he had ever seen Gregory roll out of bed before noon. “I daresay it would be best to return inside, then,” said Max.
As he neared them, he saw that the redness of Roxana’s cheeks had faded to a pale waxy white. She shivered. “Y-y-yesss,” she said, backing away from Breedon.
Max yanked loose the buttons on his greatcoat and shrugged out of it, draping it about Roxana’s shoulders. He wrapped the muffler she had given him around her face up to her eyes.
“Oh, I say,” said Breedon.
Roxana did not say anything. Max steered her up the slope and over the park, directly toward the house. The footpaths were covered anyway. “Cannot have one of the guests frozen,” said Max.
The wind kicked up around them and Max felt the bite of it through his day coat. His overcoat dragged through the snowy ground as Roxana stumbled forward. What kind of footwear was she wearing?
He knew she was warmer when she protested half the way to the house that he should take his coat back. Mr. Breedon trudged along behind them, looking disgruntled.
“I will be fine, Miss Winston. My clothes are warmer than yours.”
Finally he whisked her up the stairs and into the front hall. “Fire in the library?” he asked the footman taking his hat and gloves.
“Yes, your grace.”
“Stoke it up and send for Miss Winston’s maid.” Max trundled Roxana toward the room, paying little heed to her muffled protests.
Roxana drew off the scarf and uncovered her mouth. “Thank you, Mr. Breedon,” she said at the doorway. “I enjoyed myself so much.”
Gregory mumbled something and headed for the stairs. His face was a picture of surprise, disappointment and excitement all rolled together.
“He lets you turn into an icicle and you are thanking him?” muttered Max. With his hands on her shoulders, he wove her between the leather chairs, sofas and reading tables of the room. Her cloak felt ridiculously thin, and, he could see from the darker splotches of blue, quite damp. Stopping a few feet from the fireplace he turned her and reached for the ties under her chin. After casting aside the muffler, he undid the cloak and then her bonnet, then tossed the items toward a chair.
He stepped to the side, allowing the footman who had followed them into the room access to the fire. The man silently added wood until the small flames snapped and crackled and roared up the chimney with a rush of a large blaze.
Max reached for her hands and stripped off the gloves that clung to her hands with dampness. Her wince made him gentle his movements.
The footman scooped up her cloak and bonnet—a silly little thing that hardly provided protection from the weather, but by the same token did not impede a gentleman’s kiss with its tiny brim. “Anything else, your grace?”
“Just send her maid, thank you.”
The footman bowed, then closed the door. Max should have told him to leave it open.
Max took her bared hands between his. They felt like ice. He rubbed his hands over hers, trying to bring blood back into them. “For God’s sake, do you mean to freeze to death just to be with him?”
“It was the dampness, I think. I had not realized it would snow. And I did not dress properly for the bad weather.”
“No, you did not.” Max pushed her palms toward the fire.
“I really had not intended to be outside for more than a few minutes.”
“But you could not bypass an opportunity to waylay Breedon?” Max shoved a footstool to within a few feet of the fire. “Sit.”
She sat on it, her blue eyes following him. “I have been colder before.”
He was relieved to see color returning to her face, although she held out her ashen gray hands toward the fire. He knelt down and lifted the edge of her skirt.
“Max!” She drew her feet back under the white muslin of her gown.
“Take off your shoes.”
As he suspected, she was not wearing boots, but thin-soled slippers meant for indoors.
Impatient at her silent refusal, he reached under her skirt and slid off her shoes, then reached up to strip down her damp stockings. He swallowed hard as he realized he was undressing her. Her toes were red and adorable, cold but not showing signs of frostbite. Her foot cradled in his hand, he could not bring himself to let go.
“I hope you enjoyed his attentions,” Max said.
He looked up at her face and her hair was mussed from his hasty removal of her bonnet, and her blue eyes luminous in her face. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly kissed. Only not by him.
She shook her head but said, “He was only trying to warm me.”
“Roxy, you cannot go about inviting men to kiss you.”
“I have only ever invited one man to such liberties.”
And that wasn’t him. But as he looked at her and continued to hold her foot in his hand, he wanted to be the only man she thought about no matter who kissed her.
He lowered his eyes to her collarbone, right before him. The muslin of her day gown dipped only an inch below the indentation at the center of her throat, yet the sight was obscenely intoxicating, especially since a necklace with a sapphire pendant hung there. He had a vague memory of grabbing for the charm as his mother leaned over him.
Before he knew what he was doing, he touched the pendant. Roxana’s chest rose beneath his fingertips. “I’m glad you’ve worn these.”
His fingers slid along the edge of the chain and sparks flew down his fingers, down his arm and spread through his body, like a rich brandy.
He should give Roxana a drink, he thought. That was the right thing to do, but her breast was just below the heel of his hand, and she was breathing so deeply that she just might close the gap between his hand and her flesh. Yet as he thought of curling his hand around her curves, his fingers slid lower on the soft bare skin below her delicate collarbone.
Her lips parted and beckoned him. She had such a soft, welcoming mouth. So sweet, and the space between them was evaporating. His hand pushed closer as if he would make sure one deep heave of her chest would bring them in contact. Her breath wafted across his lips and he could no longer think beyond how he wanted to touch her, hold her, make love to her.
Chapter Ten
“Do not ever do that again,” said Fanny as she glared at Scully.
Scully looked up from the newspaper and realized the drawing room was empty except for the two of them. After the late ball last night, the day had been desultory, with most of the company lounging around. They must have disappeared to dress for dinner. Until this moment Fanny had been distant, as if their kiss had never happened.
“Do what?” he asked calmly.
Anger at least showed a bit of passion on Fanny’s part.
“Do what you did last night.” She paced away from him.
“What was that, love?” asked Scully as if he’d done nothing of consequence.
Fanny stopped, swirled around and stared at him, blinking as if uncertain if her kiss was so easily forgotten or that he did not understand the implications of kissing a widow so thoroughly or so publicly. Then again, he did not want Fanny ringing a peal over his head.
Scully stood and outstretched his arms.
Fanny resumed her pacing. “You cannot go around doing such things in company. Everyone now thinks that I am your paramour.”
“So it is my failure to be your lover in truth that offends?”
“No!�
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“Oh, so I should kiss you only in private, love?” There had been a moment under the mistletoe when she sagged against him. If she would just let him in.
“No,” she whispered.
“Ah, are you saying, I should never kiss you again?”
“Yes.” Her shoulders slumped, but relief ran clear in her voice.
“I cannot contemplate such a desolate future—” He took a long step toward her. “—and deny myself so heady a pleasure. I am afraid I cannot grant your request.”
She turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “It was not a request.”
He took a determined stride toward her. Fanny’s anger crumpled into an expression of alarm. As he neared her, she squealed and ran toward the door. He caught her before she had gone four steps. Laughter bubbled under his breath, but he held back. Fanny was not yet in a state to appreciate the humor of the situation.
He caught her around the waist, and she struggled to free herself, but not with true conviction. She shoved at his arm across her stomach, but did not spin out of his grasp. He did not hold her so tightly that she could not break free if she really was of a mind to. He put his other hand on her shoulder, stroking lightly.
“Come, my pretty Fanny. You would not deny me your sweet kisses. I should pine away and expire without them.”
“You destroy my dignity.” She stopped struggling.
Scully pulled her tighter against him. He could hardly kiss her when her back was turned to him. “By making a public display of my affection for you?”
She stilled. “Dev, please, I beg of you, do not toy with me.”
Scully dropped his arms. “I have never, not now or in the past, toyed with you.”
After a moment’s hesitation she stepped away, then slowly turned. “I am a duchess. I must behave accordingly.”
“You have been listening too much to Max.” He stepped forward. “Come, love, do not pretend that I was the only one to feel anything last night.”
She ducked her head. “I cannot bear being hurt again, Dev.”
He tucked both his hands around her jaw and lifted her face up. “I would do nothing to hurt you, love.”
“But—”
“Shhhh. It was not I that hurt you, but our situation. You are free to follow the dictates of your heart now. You are no longer married to an old man.”
“I loved him,” she protested.
Scully could not hold back his wince. “Yes, but do you feel nothing for your poor Scully anymore?”
Her eyes shut, and she shook her head ever so slightly. Had he waited all these years for nothing? The looks they’d exchanged across crowded ballrooms and theaters were just acknowledgment of a guilty secret on her part. It was as if an ax had been tossed into his chest.
He leaned forward to brush his lips across hers, just once. The petal softness of her mouth burned into his brain and scorched him with need.
He pulled away before his anguish bled through. It never did for a man to make complaints of pain, and he never did unless they were false. It never did to take more than was offered, and Fanny offered him nothing. He walked to the window and stared out at the falling snow.
“Scully?”
He raised a finger to the frost on the glass. “Ah, I am doomed to ever wait for you. Alas, I had such high hopes when I was installed in your old bedchamber.”
“I need to change for dinner.”
He swiveled around. “Might I offer assistance?”
She backed toward the door. “No.” The look of horror that crossed her face wiped out his hopes.
“You know where to find me if you change your mind,” he said lightly, as if he wasn’t bleeding inside.
Max’s fingers against Roxana’s skin made her tremble. His palm was just a hairsbreadth from her breast. He knew how close he was to touching her; she had watched his eyes drop to her heaving breast. Caught in this mesmerizing web of fascination, she did not know what she wanted him to do. Part of her wanted that intimate touch, but she feared it too.
All she knew was that her blood rushed through her veins, making her fingers tingle and heating her more powerfully than the fire. His mouth was nearly upon hers, and the door clicked behind them.
Max released her bare foot and stood, their near kiss aborted. Roxana sucked in air as if it had been in short supply. Max had not even kissed her, yet she felt as if he’d nearly ravished her. She felt on the edge of wonderful.
“You sent for me, your grace?” The girl who had been assigned as Roxana’s maid bobbed a curtsy.
“Your mistress needs fresh stockings and slippers, if you would be so good as to fetch them and a shawl for her.” Max picked up the stockings he had removed and draped them against the fire screen. Steam rose from the material. “Leave the door open,” he said, leaning his arms against the mantelpiece.
As soon as the maid left, Max moved across the room. Roxana stared into the fire, wondering what had just happened, or not happened. Had Max intended to kiss her, or was he just employing a trick to warm her?
He returned with a deep-bowled glass. “Here, drink this brandy. It will help.”
“Do you mean to ply me with spirits?” she asked, taking the glass of reddish brown liquid.
He met her eyes then. His expression was that of a man suffering regrets. Roxana lowered her gaze to her drink, but she did not see that. She saw Max.
His hair was damp and disordered from the outdoors; his skin was a pale gold. He stood tall, his strength visible in the breadth of his shoulders. In one sense he made her feel small and fragile, in another sense she knew he could impose his will on her with physical force—but would he?
Roxana took a hesitant sip. The liquid burned down her throat, yet it was not unpleasant. Thoughts of her father’s excessive drinking swirled in Roxana’s head. Strong spirits could unleash his temper without warning.
She drew her toes back underneath her gown and held out the glass. “Thank you; I do not want this.”
“Do you dislike it?”
She shook her head.
“Drink it, then. It will warm you,” Max coaxed.
“I am warm enough.” Roxana leaned forward and set the glass on the floor. She wrapped her arms under her legs.
Max tossed himself into the chair that he had robbed of the footstool. The leather creaked and the fire snapped in front of her. Any chill she might have felt was long gone, except the chill in her heart.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Max leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, and he twisted a ring on his pinkie.
“How well do you like Breedon?” he asked.
“I like him a lot.” Actually that was no longer a lie. She recognized Gregory expected to be coddled and his comfort was of paramount importance to him, but unlike her father he would never beat a woman if she did meet his needs, realistic or unrealistic.
“Smashing.” Max leaned forward, picked up her glass and drained the liquid.
Roxana could almost imagine the taste of the brandy on Max’s lips. Gregory was nearly a perfect man for her: kind, averse to violence, and he did not drink, but Max made her pulse leap.
The heat from the fire scorched through her, Roxana could feel her skin turning red from her proximity to the flames. She wanted to scoot the stool back, but that would put her within touching distance of Max.
“Are you getting warmer?” he asked.
“I am quite warm.” The heat of the fire made her skin hot.
“Alexander loved snow. He raved about the snow in New England, that there were drifts taller than a man’s head.”
Was Max attempting to tell her about his brothers since she had asked at the graveside? Her heart went out to him. “I imagine that if we have this snow at home, my sisters and brother are having snow fights.”
“My brothers always had me at a disadvantage. They would pair against me.”
“Did they trounce you?” she asked.
“Never. I could not allow it.”
Max’s voice changed, became tighter, less warm. “I can speak with him, if you will.”
“And what would you say?” Roxana spun around on the footstool.
“Since he has demonstrated overt familiarity, I would ask his intentions.”
Roxana watched as Max plucked at his sleeve, removing lint that wasn’t there. Was he avoiding meeting her eyes?
“To what purpose?”
“Roxy, you are here without a parent or guardian and the responsibility for your welfare falls to me. I would know that he is treating you honorably, and tell him to desist if he has nefarious motives or will object to your circumstances. I can insist that he does the right thing.”
Roxana looked down at her stinging hands. Just as her mother had said, the damage to the reputation of an unprotected young woman staying in his house would prompt Max’s insistence upon an honorable course.
But she would need Max to save his talking for later, after she had been compromised. And she did not need the added fear of Max’s reprisals in Gregory’s mind if her plan was to work. “I should rather you did not.” She lifted her head.
Max gave her a wry smile. “Do you not trust me to remain neutral in my conversations with Breedon?”
She shrugged and looked again at her hands. She should not have risked her hands. They would be her livelihood, but time was running out for snaring Mr. Breedon in her trap. “I believe you would strive to do the right thing, but I cannot think that Mr. Breedon is yet prepared to make an offer.”
Max picked up the brandy glass and stared into the few drops remaining in the bottom. Max tipped the glass and drained the last of the liquid. Then he stood. “Very well, I shall restrain myself. If you are well, Miss Winston, there are guests I need to attend.”
