by Kristi Astor
She made a move to shrug him off.
“Don’t, Fanny.” He leaned over to brush his lips against the nape of her neck. “For God’s sake, don’t send me away again.”
He felt her shudder. Sliding his hands down her arms he nuzzled her neck. She tilted her head, giving him access to the strip of skin between the high neck of her gown and her mobcap.
Impatient, he stripped off the headdress. She broke contact, but he could see from her wide blue eyes and her quickened breathing, his kisses affected her. She backed away. He followed until his chest brushed hers. He had a great deal he meant to say, but her mouth beckoned him.
“I mean to have you again, you know,” he said as he leaned toward her. “I don’t care how long it takes to persuade you.”
“But—”
He cut off her protest with a kiss. Oh, God, he loved the feel of her mouth, the taste of her, the lush feel of her curves pressed against him.
She shoved against him. “I am too old for this.”
“Fanny, if you feel too old then do something young and rash like go for a sleigh ride with me. I promise you will not feel old when we are done.”
She stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
He plunked her cap back on her head, settling it just so over her curls. “Promise me, if you will not go for a sleigh ride today, that you will agree to go for one after your guests are gone, or if the snow has melted, for a wild carriage drive or a mad gallop on horseback. I need to hear you laugh again.”
She ducked around him. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”
“I want to delude myself with the idea that I could make you happy, Fanny.”
Her hand on the doorknob, she paused. He was using the words of a formal declaration. Surely, she could give him a hint of her mind.
“I think I did once.”
She slowly turned around, “Dev?”
Shouts and screams from outside made them turn to the windows. Dev felt like screaming, he was so close to breaking through with her.
Roxana felt the sleigh tip and tried to lean against the uphill side, but Mr. Breedon had too many stone on her for her weight to be an effective counterbalance. She did not have more than a couple of seconds to react before she cartwheeled over Mr. Breedon.
As her weight landed against him, he let out an oomph. Her first inclination was to giggle. Her hands flayed in search of a handhold to grab. She caught Mr. Breedon’s coat. Then the stark thought that one of them could be hurt flashed in her mind.
For a second she thought everything was all right, before she realized the horse continued dragging the overturned sleigh. The carved headrest bumped her head, skimming over her. Mr. Breedon’s bulk took the brunt of the sleigh’s impact. She tried to push up the heavy wood before it injured him. Then the sleigh ripped away from her hands and Max scooped her up into his arms. He cradled her against his chest, one arm beneath her knees, as if she were a small child instead of a grown woman.
His clamp on her was tight and her feet dangled above the ground. That he could pick her up as if she weighed no more than a pillow startled her.
His brown eyes were stark with panic. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.” Roxana swiveled. “Mr. Breedon!”
Gregory lay on the snow, crunched up in a ball. Was he hurt? He groaned and rolled to his back.
Max tightened his grip on her, restricting her movements. Panic tightened her throat. She hated to be restrained, and Mr. Breedon could be injured.
Roxana struggled and shoved against Max’s chest. “Let me down.”
For a second a mulish look crossed his face and he glanced up the drive as if he would carry her away to the house. The thought of him removing her slippers and socks forcefully flushed heat through her body. A primitive look on his face made her feel as if he meant to carry her off, as if rescuing her conferred rights of conquest on him.
As soon as he let her down, she ran toward Gregory. She dropped down to her knees, beside Mr. Breedon. “Sir, sir, are you all right?”
Thomas came up beside her and said, “I am so sorry, Roxy, sir.”
Mr. Breedon groaned. “I am killed.”
However, he moved every one of his limbs slowly, as if certain one of them would not function properly.
“Where are you hurt?” asked Roxana.
“I am trying to see,” said Gregory peevishly.
Roxana studied his face, looking for hints of pain. His moon face was smooth as ever, his eyes closed but not clenched shut. His breathing was easy and not a single wrinkle that would signify a wince was present.
Max gave a hard look at the man lying in the snow, then tracked after the horse. The animal stood head down, sides heaving, less than fifty feet away. Apparently pulling the upended sleigh required too much effort.
Roxana patted Gregory’s shoulder. She supposed he meant to milk this for as much sympathy as everyone could muster. As little as she liked his ploy she leaned over him, cooing softly as she would to one of her younger siblings after they had taken a tumble.
“Do you need a litter?” asked Max.
“They are trying to kill me,” muttered Gregory under his breath.
“Oh, I am sure not. It was just an accident.” One that could have been avoided if Mr. Breedon had turned the sleigh right instead of left. Not that it had been his fault. Everyone’s natural instinct was to yield to the left when meeting another vehicle. “We will get you back to the house and give you”—she would have offered her youngest brother or sister a candy or pudding—“hot soup and tea and you will feel better.”
Thomas’s lower lip quivered. Roxana put her hand on his shoulder. “Just an accident with no harm done.”
Other couples and several of Max’s servants had run toward them and arrived at the scene of the accident. Roxana looked up and saw Julia holding the reins of the upright sleigh.
“I need my moth—a physician.”
“Can you sit, sir?” asked Lord Frampton.
“Here, put this under his head,” said Lady Angela, holding out her fox-fur muff.
Roxana urged Mr. Breedon to put his head in her lap and used the muff for good measure. Continuing to pat his shoulder, she raised her head. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Max’s expression of disgust. He erased the expression before she could be sure of what she had seen.
The grooms and a few of the men righted the tipped sleigh. Max signaled a couple of the men to lift Mr. Breedon into his sleigh. As they settled him, padding the blankets all around him, he moaned and then stared at Max.
“How could you let that infant drive?”
Max watched as the company milled about the drawing room. The night before Christmas, and he was not in the spirit of the season. He blamed it on the idea that his family was no longer intact. Fanny had resorted to building new traditions, insisting he cut down an evergreen and bring it inside, following the Hanoverian custom of a Christmas tree, recently established at court.
In his opinion the tree had been felled far too easily. Scully had told him to quit beating the snow off so hard, before he broke all the branches.
Scully pulled up beside him, a glass of wassail in his hand. “Quit scowling.”
Roxana, Fanny and Lady Breedon were all flitting around Mr. Breedon, where he sat with his foot propped on a stool and a blanket draped around him. Nearly everyone commiserated with Mr. Breedon. Roxana straightened his pillows at least a dozen times.
“He doesn’t get so much attention often.” Scully lifted his glass and took a drink. When he lowered the glass, his eyebrow was arched.
“Stop.” Max turned his back on the domestic scene. If Breedon had more than a bruise or two he’d burn the Thames. Roxana knew it too. She had met Max’s eyes with an eyeroll.
“I suppose he should have enough consideration to have needed to take to his bed so that you might have a clear field.”
Max looked up and caught Lady Malmsbury watching him. She flipped her re
d hair and crossed over to sit beside Mr. Breedon.
“Miss Winston, I don’t believe we’ve heard you play the piano. Surely you would like the opportunity to demonstrate your skills,” Lady Malmsbury said in a loud voice.
“Malmsy should take to the stage. She projects so well,” whispered Scully.
“But she doesn’t like her assigned role.”
“Ah, well, what woman does not want to be your leading lady?” asked Scully.
“The ones that want to be yours,” said Max, looking back at Roxana. When he managed to drag his gaze away, some circumstance always drew it back to her.
She had shaken her head. “I am sure you do not wish to hear my play, it is very mediocre at best.”
“Yes, do let us hear you play,” echoed Lady Breedon.
Roxana stood slowly and walked across the large room toward the piano. Max met her halfway there. “Allow me to turn your music for you.”
It was the move of a gracious host, since the man she was attached to could not move out of his chair.
Roxana looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. She seated herself on the bench, and as she lifted her hands to the ivory keys, he could see them tremble. “I am sorely out of practice,” she whispered.
“I shall be vastly relieved to learn you have flaws,” whispered Max, hoping to make her relax.
“You know I have flaws,” whispered Roxana fiercely.
She was a schemer and perhaps too direct, yet capable of maintaining a polite fiction with Breedon. “Nothing worth noting. Now, what would you like to play?”
He looked over at Lady Malmsbury, who was looking a bit like a cat that swallowed a canary. What was she up to?
“Something monstrously simple.” Roxana shuffled through the sheet music.
Max put his hand on her shoulder. She stopped moving all together. He was aware of both the feminine curve of her shoulder beneath his hand and her tension.
“I don’t know any of these,” whispered Roxana.
“Play anything.”
She took a deep breath and started in on a piece he had heard Julia practicing. Roxana’s touch on the keys was tentative, but she seemed to gain confidence as she played. She left out a few notes, and other than hitting one wrong note and once two keys together, she played marginally better than horrid.
Max kept his hand on her shoulder the whole time. Her playing would not impress anyone, but he could feel her trembling. Her composure and ability to manage a performance under pressure impressed him. He could not have known her tension if he had only looked at the expression on her face. She managed a cool serenity. Yet he stood steadfastly by her side, refusing to desert her while she struggled to perform.
“Well done, Miss Winston,” he said when she finished.
She gave him a tightlipped nod and stood. She did not protest in a way that prompted him to extend false compliments.
Lady Malmsbury drifted closer. “Oh, do play another.”
“It would not be nice of me to inflict my poor performance on the others in the room,” Roxana said with a curtsy. “I have neglected playing in recent years.”
“Perhaps you should play for us, Lady Malmsbury,” said Max. “I am sure you can manage to woo us all.”
Why had Roxana not played in recent years? Max took her elbow and pulled her away from the piano.
“I see you are anxious to put a great deal of distance between me and that instrument.”
“Perhaps you would do better with a harp,” Max said, tucking her hand into his arm and heading for the empty corner of the room.
Roxana blanched. “No. I fear my talent is with my needle.”
“Yes, I know.” Max swung her into the alcove. “Are you all right?”
“That is the question du jour, is it not?” Roxana wore a haunted expression as she looked over Max’s shoulder toward Mr. Breedon.
“He is not injured.”
“Yes, I know, but he . . .” She bit her lip.
As Max stared at her cherry lips, he realized he wanted to kiss her. He wanted more than to kiss her. He wanted to protect her from Lady Malmsbury’s attacks. He wanted to shelter her from her family’s poverty. He wanted to prevent her from marrying a man who loved himself better than he could ever love her. And he had could have done all that if he did not need to keep Thomas as his heir.
He rubbed his hand against his forehead. His thoughts swirled in a disordered mess. Roxana did exhibit affection for Breedon, and Gregory was rich enough to solve many of her problems. Max knew he should step aside, let Breedon have her. It was the right thing to do. He just wished it did not bother him so.
“I must get back,” she whispered. “Before his mama convinces him that I could never entertain him of an evening.”
“Never worry, Miss Winston, I am quite sure he is tone deaf.”
“Then I am well suited.” Roxana smiled, but she feared it appeared more as a grimace.
She drifted back over to Gregory’s side. Would he comment on her lack of skill? Thank goodness she had helped Julia with her piano practice the other day. Julia had been frustrated with her ability, and Roxana had sat down to help her. They both ended up giggling over Roxana’s poor skill, which had given Julia more confidence in her own playing.
Even now, Lady Malmsbury’s hands glided over the ivory keys, playing an aria that showcased her superior skills and belittled Roxana’s inferior ones.
“Can I get you more tea, Mr. Breedon?” she asked.
“No, no, I have had enough.” He held out his teacup toward her. “I believe I shall retire.”
Roxana felt panic rise in her throat. Sleighing with Gregory had turned into a disaster. He had been cold and distant with her ever since their accident. She had fussed over him the same as if he were her little brother—four or five years ago. “I am disappointed,” she murmured.
“Well, I cannot participate in the dancing later. And since you suffered no injury you will wish to dance.”
“I shall not enjoy it above half if you are not here. I am sure I suffered no injury because of your thoughtful shielding of me as the sleigh overturned.”
Gregory frowned, then brightened.
“I feel ever so guilty that you were hurt on my account.” Roxana resisted rolling her eyes. She knew Max was watching her. “Do you need assistance? Shall I have the duchess send for the footmen?”
“No, I think I can manage on my own.” He made a great production of struggling to his feet.
How could she get him to compromise her if he did not spend any time with her? Could she use the excuse of concern for his well-being to check on him later?
He hobbled toward the door. Roxana walked beside him. “Here, do lean on me, sir.” She held out her arm. “It distresses me to see you in pain.”
“Well, never fear, I have discussed it with my parents and we will leave tomorrow.”
Alarm shot through Roxana. “But the roads will be impassible.”
“Well, we shall have to go slowly anyway and the grooms will just have to walk alongside the horses. I cannot abide staying when my safety is in jeopardy.”
She stared at him, her future crumbling like dust around her feet.
“Even if I make it only as far as the nearest posting inn, I shall be more relieved.”
Roxana turned toward Lady Breedon, who looked away. Were his parents encouraging his plan to leave for fear she was getting her claws too deep into him?
She looked around, her eyes blurring. “I will miss you,” she whispered.
Roxana turned and stared at the dozens of burning candles on the Christmas tree. Her family would be lucky to have one candle burning this night. Little gifts dangled from the tree and were piled under it. At home there would be only the meager gifts she left for them. She missed her family and the idea that she would have to return to them empty-handed tasted like sawdust in her mouth.
She couldn’t let them down. She would have to seduce Mr. Breedon. Stealing into his room tonight was the only wa
y.
Max stared into the low embers of the fire, swirling the brandy in his glass. Scully had declined his invitation to drink with him and could not see that Max was only sipping, as he should.
Back in his old room he could pretend his brothers were still alive, that they would come racketing in, boisterous and unrestrained. Fanny would laugh, and his father would grant them that indulgent smile that was never turned in Max’s direction when he behaved in a less-than-decorous manner. And instead of acting as if their antics were insufferable, Max would grab them to him in tight hugs and never let go.
Yet it was not really his brothers that occupied his thoughts. Roxana had appeared crestfallen when Breedon told her he was leaving. She had put on a brave front for the duration of the evening, but Max could tell she’d had the wind knocked out of her sails.
Max unfastened the catch of his dressing gown; the radiant heat of the fire more than kept him warm. He propped his feet on the footstool in front of him and slunk low in the high-backed chair. He should be relaxed, but he was edgy and restless instead. In front of him on the mantel was one of the gifts he’d bought for Roxana.
That she had failed to bring Breedon up to scratch in a little over a week was no surprise, but she should have had the twelve days of Christmas to ply her charms.
The door clicked behind him. Had Scully decided to join him after all?
When the interloper did not speak, Max looked around the side of his chair and saw a white nightgown and a female form scurrying toward his bed. She tossed back the covers and scrambled in, pulling up the bedding and turning her back as if this were her bed.
His first thought was that Lady Malmsbury had discovered his new room, but as he looked he realized the trespasser in his bed had dark hair.
Emotions rolled through him with a tidal wave of force. Overwhelming him was the fast coursing of his blood. The pooling and pulsing in his lower regions reminded him what to do with a desirable woman in his bed. He stood and tossed back the rest of the brandy and shed the dressing gown.
“Roxana, what are you doing?”