by Kristi Astor
He leaned his forehead against hers. “I am sure we should have many discussions, but I really would like to make love to you now.”
But that was not to be, as a screech split the night. Fanny jumped and Dev winced.
“Did you hear that?” she asked.
He groaned. “Leave it be.”
But a primal scream followed, long and loud and unignorable.
What did Lady Malmsbury plan on doing? Max wondered. Standing there and screaming all night? Eliza picked up a book and launched it at him.
Max deflected the book. Roxana struggled against the covers he had yanked over her head.
Two naked women in his room, every man’s dream and Max’s worst nightmare.
Lady Malmsbury had appeared in his room, opened her filmy lacy robe and said, “You cannot ignore this.”
Actually Max probably could have ignored her; he wanted Roxana more than anything he’d ever wanted in the world.
Color and the seductive expression drained from Eliza’s face as she saw he was not alone in the bed. Her eyes widened and then narrowed as her face contorted with rage.
“For God’s sake, do you mean to bring the whole household upon us?” he hissed.
“Who is it? What whore do you have in your bed?” Lady Malmsbury stood, bare chest heaving, unmindful of her lack of covering.
“Just a maid,” answered Max. It wasn’t exactly a lie if he used the word to mean maiden.
Lady Malmsbury picked up his brandy glass and hurtled it. He ducked and the glass smashed on the wall behind his bed. Then she charged toward him, claws bared.
“For God’s sake, Eliza, do you mean to be found intruding in my bedroom when I have another woman in my bed?” He wondered what was the point in trying reason when he had a madwoman on his hands. “What will your husband say?”
He grabbed her wrists before she could do damage, and he was not entirely certain she was not going for Roxana, who had pushed the covers down and then pulled them back over her head.
“I hate you!” she screamed, then sobbed. She bucked and twisted, whipping her head around. Her red hair stung his eye as it lashed across his face. She reached for his washstand and grabbed his folded razor, although how she meant to use it while he still held her wrists he did not know.
His door clicked open and Scully stood there, his eyebrow cocked. “Exactly how many women do you have in here?”
“One too many,” grunted Max, holding his stinging eye closed. He slammed Eliza against the wall, trying to make her lose the blade.
“No need to wink, old boy.”
Fanny peeked over Scully’s shoulder and blanched at Max’s state of undress, the wrestling match or perhaps Lady Malmsbury’s best imitation of a wild woman from the Amazon and clapped a hand over her eyes.
“Quite a conundrum you have here,” said Scully.
Max slammed Eliza’s wrist against the writing desk and succeeded only in knocking a stack of papers to the floor.
“Do help me, and for God’s sake we need to get her out of here,” Max said in an as evenly modulated a tone as possible. Lady Malmsbury had the worst timing in the world.
Or he supposed it could have been more ghastly. Two more minutes and he would not have been in any state to defend himself.
“Scully!” hissed Fanny, pushing him into the room, removing her voluptuous dressing gown and shoving it toward him. “Do something.”
“Ah, what fetching nightclothes, dear. Are you quite certain you wish me to do something here? There is an awful big audience. I am thinking of your dignity.”
Fanny snorted.
Max continued wrestling with Lady Malmsbury and he could see Roxana squirming under the bedcovers. Please let her be pulling on her nightgown. “Scully!” he whispered with as much force as he could. “She has my ra—”
Eliza screamed with frustration. Max refused to let her go, fearing she’d slash him anyway. He wrapped his leg around hers, forcing her toward the floor. They bumped into the washstand and he knocked his razor out of her hand. He lifted and swung her away.
Fanny reached in, grabbed the doorknob and closed the door while remaining out in the passageway.
“Perhaps you would like to use this dressing gown, Malmsy. But I have no objection to you not,” said Scully. He approached, holding the blue robe open. He cocked an eyebrow and looked his fill, then tossed the dressing gown over her head. “There is a side door that the servants use.”
“And a stairway,” added Max, getting a better handle on his grip of Eliza. That took care of one woman, but what about Roxana? What was wrong with him?
Max let go of Eliza’a arm, and she stripped the dressing gown off her head and lurched for the razor.
With lightning speed, Scully caught her free wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. “I say, that is not in the Christmas spirit, Malmsy.”
She yelped.
But Max was beyond caring if she was in pain. Max folded her other arm up behind her back. Scully added his grip around her wrist.
She screamed. Max clapped a hand over her mouth.
The murmur of voices outside the room alerted Max to further crisis. He’d meant for Roxana to scream to raise the hue and cry. He did not want it sounding as if he was murdering a woman.
Together they propelled Malmsy to the servant’s door.
“Might be best to gag her, before we let her go,” said Scully.
Max only grunted as he opened the door. “If she wants the entire household to see her like this, by all means let her scream.”
He abandoned his hold, seeing that Scully had her controlled. Malmsy struggled and Scully pushed up her arms behind her back. She yelped and went still. Dodging around the pair of them Max opened the door to the narrow and dark wooden staircase leading up to the attics. From there she could find her way to her floor and bedroom.
Scully shoved her in and quickly whipped the door closed, taking care to close it softly only at the last minute. Then he leaned against it as Malmsy pounded on it. “She’s like a rabid dog. You might want to get dressed, son. Sounds like a bit of a crowd gathering. I’ll guard the stair door.”
Max nodded, swirled around and ran back into his room and grabbed his dressing gown, pausing only to retie the ties on his small-clothes before they fell off. “Roxana, come with me,” he whispered.
She had pulled her nightgown back on and knelt on the bed. He bit back the surge of disappointment. Compromised was one thing; her reputation entirely ruined and everyone in the house knowing was another. Why the hell did he think he needed to be caught, when he would do the right thing no matter what?
He stooped to grab Fanny’s dressing gown from the floor and wrapped it around Roxy’s shoulders and shoved her toward the servants’ door. A matching door opened into her room too. He took her elbow and guided her through the narrow passageway.
Scully nodded and mouthed “Miss Winston” as if it were normal to be running women through the servants’ doors.
Max opened her door and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “You had a nightmare.”
Pressing a kiss to her neck, he wanted to hold her. He did not have time. She stared up at him, her blue eyes wide and not quite focused. Heat stabbed low in his gut. He had no time to lose, and he gently pressed her into her room. He consoled himself with the thought that there would be plenty of nights in the future.
He ran back through his room and threw open his door. Along the passageway doors opened and heads popped out. People milled around him in various states of undress, their faces masks of curiosity and anxiety.
“I heard breaking glass. Did you hear breaking glass?” said Lady Angela.
“Oh, I’m sure not,” said Fanny.
“I only heard a woman screaming,” said Sir William Breedon.
“I say, Trent, do you have a woman in your room?” Sir William asked.
Fanny cast a desperate look at him. “What is going on, Max?”
“I think the screaming was comi
ng from Miss Winston’s room,” he said.
Fanny stared at him as if he were half crazy. He strode quickly to Roxana’s door and pounded on it. “Miss Winston, are you all right?”
Roxana opened the door, looking dazed. Her hair was tangled and mussed, and she clutched Fanny’s dressing gown to her neck. He wanted to kiss her and hold her and reassure her that everything was all right. Instead he repeated, “Are you all right, Miss Winston?”
She stared at him.
“Did you hear the screaming?” asked Fanny gently, moving between Max and Roxana.
She swallowed hard. She lied all the time; surely this one little falsehood was not beyond her.
“I had a nightmare,” she said woodenly.
“Did you scream?” asked Fanny.
Roxana broke her gaze away from Max as if it required monstrous effort.
“I dreamed that Lady Malmsbury was trying to kill the duke.” She shot Max an angry glare. “Or he was trying to kill her. I could not be sure.” Then she closed the door.
Max winced.
The chatter around him turned to Lady Malmsbury’s welfare, as if Roxana’s dream indicated harm befalling Lady Malmsbury.
“What is behind this drape?” asked Mr. Breedon, who had managed to walk out of his room without assistance.
“What is?” echoed Lady Angela, reaching for the drape.
“Just the servants’ stair,” said Max.
“I say we need to have a look-see in your room,” said Sir William.
Better his room than discovering Scully guarding the servants’ stair. Max gestured that way. But Lady Angela was busy pulling back the drape.
Roxana stared at the door. Why had Max put her back in her own room, when he had been so adamant about being caught earlier? Or was Lady Malmsbury’s intrusion enough? Roxana wasn’t even sure Lady Malmsbury had known whom she was.
Had he rethought his decision to marry her? No problem there. She did not want to be married, but, oh stars, she had not expected to feel so wonderful. And then be reminded so cruelly of the male species’s propensity for violence. He had tossed and slammed Lady Malmsbury as if she were a rag doll. He had forced her to her knees at one point. Roxana remembered too many times the same sort of display between her parents.
Was all that necessary? Once Max held Lady Malmsbury by the wrists, surely he did not need to toss her all over the room. His superior physical strength should have been sufficient restraint until Lady Malmsbury’s anger played itself out. But he had seemed determined to force his will on her when she did not immediately comply with his request to stop screaming. Roxana stuffed a fist in her mouth to hold back the sob that threatened to break out.
She crossed her room and sat on the bed. She heard the activity in the hall, but stared at the wall. She closed her eyes, not knowing if she had failed in her mission or succeeded. In any case, she needed to leave soon. She crossed to the wardrobe and removed her clothes.
She had not expected to get so swept away. No matter how wonderful she felt she could not live with the idea that if she crossed Max he would explode in the same physical violence her father used to cow her mother. For a few minutes she had thought maybe she could just give in and marry him, but her dreams of a life plying her needle had sustained her too long. Emotions threatened the sensible plan that had sustained her for years.
Roxana ignored the tapping on her door. The door opened. Roxana did not know whether to expect Max. She found herself shaking.
“You better get dressed and come down to the drawing room. I’ve sent for your maid to attend you.” Roxana turned and saw the duchess standing by her door, looking as regal as one could in a fussy, furbelowed nightgown. With a wince, Roxana wondered why women who had full figures thought that ribbons and bows would do anything beyond call attention to the fact.
Then she knew she was only setting her thoughts on fashion and gowns because that was much more comfortable than thinking about what would happen with Max.
“You might wear something modest, Miss Winston.”
“Yes, your grace,” said Roxana.
Fanny crossed her arms and looked at her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course, I’m fine.” But she was anything but fine. She was shaking and the knot in her stomach made her woozy with illness.
Leaning against his bedpost, Max tried to get control of his wayward body. He had been so close to sinking into Roxana, to releasing his heart and soul to her, to that physical act that would bind him to her and her to him in a union more sacred than marriage.
He would have thought that the interruption would have lessened his desire, but now he just plain ached for her and had had time to recognize that this act that he had engaged in many times before had transcended just the bodily pleasure. Good God, had he fallen in love with her?
Instead of the anguish of fearing for Thomas’s future, he felt relief, relief that he could feel so deeply about a woman, relief that he could relax around her and did not need to be ducal every second, and relief that he would no longer feel so alone. He would work something out for Thomas, refuse to give him the money to buy a commission, find a way to purchase a property for him. The only thing Max wanted was Roxana.
His door opened, then clicked shut.
“What on earth were you thinking?” asked Scully.
“I told her I would marry her,” Max said, pushing away from the bedpost. With luck, enough of the night would be left to have her return to his bed or go to hers.
Scully had his arms folded and leaned back against the door. “It is not like you to allow your peccadilloes to become such a public spectacle. You have upset Fanny.”
“I had no way of knowing that Lady Malmsbury would—where did you go, anyway?”
“Malmsy was sobbing rather loudly on the stairs, so I escorted her to her room. I also told her that I expected her to leave at first light or I would go to the sheriff’s and lay down a complaint against her for attempting to kill you.”
Max shrugged. The worst punishment she would face would be a fine and the public humiliation of explaining why she was in his bedroom in the middle of the night. When the crowd intent on learning her welfare reached her room they found her pretending sleep in her bed.
“I told her to keep her silence or I would carry my tale to her husband.”
“I ended my affair with her months ago because of her jealousy. I told her I would no longer call upon her.” Max explained. “I cannot imagine that I was the least bit unclear, and I have not offered her any encouragement here. I have only strived to not be rude.”
Scully made a toss with one hand. “Malmsy is married and her own woman. What on earth were you doing with Miss Winston, son?”
“I was seducing her, of course.” Max let the “son” go. “Lady Malmsbury’s interruption was ill-timed.”
“I have no sympathy; the timing was ill for me too. Bloody hell, I don’t know whether to call you out or thrash you. I suspect I would do both, but it is unlike you to behave so badly.” Scully stared at him, his blue eyes for once quite serious. “You have nearly destroyed her. Why would you have her in your bed?”
Max straightened, unwilling to be taken to task even though he knew he had taken the wrong path. He should have escorted Roxana back to her room, kissed her good night and sat her down in the morning and explained he was willing to reconsider his stance on marriage.
“We are talking about my future wife, Dev. I think that is enough.”
“Yes, we are talking about your future wife. Fanny is fetching her. Get dressed, and we’ll witness your formal application for her hand down in the drawing room.”
Max had no objection to making the whole thing official, even though to do so in the middle of the night had the ring of unsavory scandal about it. “I’ll announce it to everyone over dinner.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said Scully. “She has been chasing Breedon about for the last week. You’ll wait until everyone leaves, then post the ba
nns.”
He wanted her his wife before six weeks had passed. “I won’t risk a seven-month baby as heir.”
“Is there a chance of that?” asked Scully sharply.
“No.” They had been interrupted.
“Then you keep your hands off of her,” said Scully.
Scully’s silent rage penetrated his brain. “Why are you so angry?”
Scully shook his head and opened the door. “Come down to the drawing room when you are dressed.”
Max felt his heart leap at the idea of claiming Roxana as his own.
Chapter Fourteen
Devlin poured himself a brandy as he waited.
Roxana sat with her hands twisting in her lap and her gaze down. She did not look like a woman happy with the outcome of this evening’s events. She should be; Max was so much better a catch than Breedon.
Max had not shown up yet, and Fanny had gone to get dressed. Miss Winston wore a green velvet gown with Juliet sleeves and a rather more-opaque-than-normal fichu filling in the neckline. Her hair was arranged severely in a smooth topknot. The cascading curls were all tucked in and restrained. And the dazed look of a night creature mesmerized by a lantern’s light was replaced by a look of worry. How had she ended up in Max’s bed?
Scully wondered if Fanny had asked about her well-being. He knew from his sisters’ tales that initiation into the bedroom rites was not always so easy for women. When he returned from settling Lady Malmsbury into her bedroom and whispered in Fanny’s ear that Miss Winston had been in Max’s bed, Fanny had stared at him.
“I cannot believe it,” she repeated again and again.
Scully could hardly believe it either. He’d never known Max to disregard propriety. He sipped his brandy and had a bad taste in his mouth, not that anything was off with Max’s brandy.
The door opened and Max walked into the room. There was a spring in his step and an expression of happiness that Scully had not seen on Max’s face in years. Not since before the news of his brothers’ deaths had reached him.
