Compromised by Christmas (26 page)

The ring dangled beside her face, pinched in his
thumb and forefinger. It was undoubtedly the most precious thing
Scully owned. While his grandmother had been a countess, Scully was
a younger son of an earl with several brothers and nephews between
him and the line of succession. If Fanny took it from him, he would
regret the loss of a bauble so valuable.

"I cannot think it should matter." She turned and
held out her hand. "I want the ring."

"Fanny?" He stepped forward, a smile breaking across
his face as he lifted her left hand. "I had thought you would need
more convincing."

She snatched her hand back, suddenly thinking she had
made a grave miscalculation. The disappointment she expected on
Scully's face was not there. "I will consent to a private
engagement, nothing more."

His smile faltered. "If that is all you can agree to
right now, then I will be glad of it."

His dark hair dropped across his forehead as he
reached down for her hand, lifted it and slid the ring on her
finger. "With this ring, I plight my troth," he said solemnly,
unlike her carefree Scully.

He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it, turned
it over and kissed her palm. Then he reached to cup her face.

She spun away and tugged at the ring, which refused
to leave with the ease it had slid on her finger. "I did not think
you were serious. You are never serious."

"Men never jest with proposals, Fanny." He caught her
hips, her more-than-ample hips.

She twisted and backed away from him.

"I love you," he said quite firmly. "I have loved you
for fifteen years."

He would not love her when he realized she was not
the same woman she was ten years ago. Why had he said fifteen?

He closed the gap between them. Fanny spun around
again and found herself confronted with the wall of her bedroom.
The toile de Jouy wallpaper greeted her. She slapped her hands
against the wall, which seemed to approach with dizzying speed.

"Interesting position, Fanny. But I am game." He
pressed his erection against the curves of her derrière and slid
his hands around her waist. "Although I have to wonder if you will
complain about your dignity later. Mind you, I shan't care if you
laugh a little."

Did he really want her? The evidence of his body
would suggest so, but she clenched her eyes shut, waiting, fearing
his interest would fade when he felt what deficiencies a
middling-age woman's corset could conceal. He had to have felt the
extra padding around her midsection.

Instead he shifted, rubbing against her in such a
suggestive—lewd—manner. Her breathing quickened and her blood
thickened. Heavens, could she not restrain her response? How could
she be aroused by such coarse bawdiness?

He slid his hand up and cupped her breast. "Quite
clever of you to realize that you would do well to avoid touching
me, my hunger for you is so near out of control."

She heard the catch in his voice with disbelief. And
as he'd distracted her with fondling her breast—which quite shocked
her—he pulled her hips back tighter against his. Then his hand
dropped quite blatantly to cup around her woman's mound. In spite
of the shocking manner of his seduction, if one could call it that,
tingles raced along her spine, under his hands, in her woman's
core.

"Oh, Fanny, this might work quite nicely, but in
front of your looking glass, so I might watch your pretty
face."

She squawked. The idea of his watching her reflection
as they made love appalled and titillated her. What a horrid person
she was to want him after such crude suggestions.

His hands smoothed over her curves, then he backed
away.

Heavens, she felt a fool. The burn of humiliation
stung her cheeks. The betrayal of her body was clear.

"I think I should want to kiss you awhile first,
Fanny. I do not think I would rush this moment. I have looked
forward to it so long. I would have you disrobe and kiss every inch
of your fair flesh and feast my eyes upon your loveliness." He
stroked her hair. "I want your sweet honey hair across my pillow,
your—"

"Stop it, Dev." She pulled her hands down and tugged
on the ring. With every word he reminded her of how dowdy she had
become. "You can leave now. Your games are done."

His hand closed around hers, stopping the removal of
his ring. With his other hand he produced the deck of cards. "These
are for games, love. What I do with you is real. If you would
prefer we play games, I will deal the cards."

He flipped over the ace of hearts. How had he managed
to change the top card from the knave to the ace?

"I would beg that we play for kisses, my pretty
Fanny."

"So much for your lack of control," she said
bitterly.

"I have never lacked for control, love. It took me
three years to seduce you before. If it takes me as long again, I
shall relish every moment."

"Your math is sadly lacking, Dev." She turned and
leaned against the wall. She again tugged at the ring. Damn the
humidity that made her knuckles swell so that a ring that fit was
near impossible to remove. Her hands had not become grotesque, the
swelling noticeable only to her with certain rings that no longer
fit. How long before they would become gnarled and ugly?

"It was ten years ago, not fifteen, and . . ." She
had fallen into his arms with so little provocation and prompting
on his part she was ashamed. He had not campaigned for her
seduction for three years. He was Max's friend from Eton, often
underfoot, always begging her to join them at cards or riding,
archery, picnics, facilitating the friendship she had finally
formed with her stepson, who had been too self-sufficient to accept
her as a mother when she arrived at the age of eighteen. Being
maternal his nine-year-old and seven-year-old brothers was much
easier than forging a relationship with a rigidly correct
eleven-year-old Max.

When Dev had been here every school break, and months
at a time after he and Max finished school, Dev had made her laugh,
reminded her she was still young, although her husband's years were
wearing heavy on their marriage.

He touched a finger to her cheek. "And?"

She stared at him, wondering if she had misconstrued
the past, if she had not recognized when his offers of friendship
had changed to more than a harmless flirtation. And God forgive
her, her husband had allowed it and interfered only after she
begged him to ban Dev from the house. Tears burned at her eyes.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, gently,
persuasively. "Your lips are a taste of heaven." He touched his
finger to the bow of her lower lip. "So soft and sweet. Always the
ones I've wanted, even if only for conversation."

She closed her eyes. "So you would offer marriage for
companionship?"

"For that, but for everything that comes with
marriage. Most of all I dream of having you in my arms every
night."

She could not give him everything he should expect in
a wife. Her age may preclude children. And she was tired of all the
time involved in managing a large household, and with Julia's debut
in a few years that was likely to get worse. She opened her eyes
and found Scully's intense blue gaze and a cocked eyebrow.

"What am I missing, Fanny? What constrains you? Why
are we not in yonder bed, finding heaven?"

"I'm fat."

He laughed. "You cannot expect that I am disappointed
that there is more of you to love."

She pushed him away.

He caught his arm in her elbow and swung her around.
"Ah, Fanny, love, I am well aware of the lushness of your womanly
figure—I look upon it every day with lust in my heart."

"Do not jest so."

"Lust in my loins, then. That should be obvious to
you. I have changed in ten years too. I think I may have a little
paunch." He made an effort to stick out his flat stomach.

"You have not changed."

"I have so. No one ever calls my shoulders puny
now."

She took a hard look at him. The changes in him had
been gradual, but he was no longer the boy of one and twenty who
had cajoled his way into her bed. He was a man who had made it to
the ripe old age of thirty-one without marriage or even the hint of
particular notice to any young woman. Why, when he could have any
fresh-faced young misses such as Miss Winston or Lady Angela, would
he want her?

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!" Eliza 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 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. Roxana
squirmed 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."