Compromised by Christmas (6 page)

He nodded, unable to say anything as he remembered
his brothers so full of life, racing their horses over this very
hillock. Now they lay cold and still in their graves not far from
here. They would never gallop, laughing, over these fields ever
again. But he could keep Thomas from courting danger. He would not
encourage him the way he had his brothers. He could keep him home.
He would keep him safe.

Their horses ambled forward. Max tried to regain his
equanimity.

"Would you like to run the horses?" she asked. "I am
sure I have found my seat well enough to manage a good race."

"How long has it been since you've been riding, Miss
Winston?"

She shot a look at him as if unaware of how much she
revealed. "Four or five years." Then she snapped her quirt and her
horse leaped forward.

He held his horse close until he was sure she would
keep her seat and then the race was on. She rode well, her
movements fluidly in rhythm with her mount's stride. With her horse
carrying the lighter burden and her head start, Max's horse nosed
ahead only as they neared Thomas and Julia.

As she reined in her mount, Roxana laughed. The sound
ran through him like the chime of church bells. He stared at her
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes as she circled her horse around
behind Julia to fix her skirt again. God, he wished the damn thing
would just fall off.

"Who is that?" asked Thomas, pointing across the
stretches of field where a carriage lumbered up the drive to the
house. Numerous trunks loaded down the top and no less than ten
liveried outriders flanked the richly appointed coach and six.

"Looks like the Breedons."

Roxana looked up and blanched. She stole a look at
Max. "The one with the son of marriageable age?"

Max's horse wheeled. No doubt the gelding was
dismayed by his jerk on the reins. "Yes, Miss Winston, Mr. Breedon
is of an age to marry." She would not want Gregory Breedon, in
spite of his deep pockets and eligibility, and he was not likely to
want her.

Roxana focused on Julia. "Is there a way to enter the
house so I might get into my room to change before I am seen?"

"Oh, of course, we may go through the French doors in
the library," answered Julia.

Apparently she did not mind him seeing her in
ill-fitting, borrowed clothes.

"Good. For I should not wish for my skirt to fall off
in front of your guests." She looked straight at Max.

Damnation. Did she realize he'd been watching her
skirt with just such an interest? "No, that wouldn't be the
thing."

"Does Mr. Breedon like to ride?" Roxana asked. "I see
several horses being led by grooms. Or do those belong to his
parents?"

"Those are his. Mr. Breedon is quite proud of his
horseflesh," Max answered.

Roxana swiveled toward him. She wore an expression of
grim determination that he had not seen before. "I shall have to
adjust the fit on this habit quickly, then."

Did she mean to snare Breedon? Why not? He was young,
rich, not encumbered by a great deal of responsibility. Her birth
was better than Gregory's.

Max closed his eyes. When he opened them, Roxana,
Thomas and Julia had already started their horses to the ridge.
"Shall we return to the house, then?" he asked the air.

Annoyance that she had not set her sights on him
tugged at him. Max dismissed it. Miss Winston was just practical.
Had he not warned her off, himself? He admired her sensible nature,
didn't he? Surely only his pride was at stake in his dislike of her
preference for a man she'd never met.

With Julia's help Roxana made it to her room unseen.
She changed into one of her simple muslin gowns, added a dark blue
spencer and tied a blue ribbon around the e topknot in her hair.
She would not be able to create an entirely new wardrobe. When the
holiday house party was in full swing, her richly colored gowns
would have to suffice for the evenings.

She entered the drawing room. Stealing in unnoticed
was not a possibility with the footman opening the door. At home,
the servants had dwindled to nonexistent before the family had
moved into the cottage. Even without renters the upkeep of the hall
was too much without servants.

She nodded her thanks, swallowed hard, then glided
into the room, a small smile pasted on her mouth. Now was the time
for her to perform as if her very life depended upon it. Her
stomach churned and her knees threatened to give out on her. So
much rode on her ability to sway one of the guests into becoming
her means of founding her future and the future of her family.

The Duchess of Trent introduced her to Sir William
Breedon and Lady Breedon. Roxana curtsied and made polite inquiries
about their health and if their travels were pleasant. She spent a
few minutes chatting with Lady Breedon about the awful state of the
roads, agreeing without actually making any comment. She kept her
eyes wide and nodded a lot, expressing a sympathy Roxana had a hard
time mustering.

Compared to the cramped journey Roxana had taken in
the mail coach, Lady Breedon's experiences with musty lap robes and
a foot heater that would not stay lit sounded trifling. Although
the longer Lady Breedon talked, the more Roxana suspected the
source of the unpleasant trip was her traveling companions, but
Lady Breedon had managed to transfer those less-than-savory
feelings about husband and son to inanimate objects.

The duke blocked her view of Mr. Breedon. Their
conversation did not carry the length of the massive room.

Finally, Lady Breedon patted Roxana's gloved hand and
told her she was a good girl for listening to an old woman's
complaints.

"You are hardly old, my lady."

"Aren't you a dear? Let me introduce you to my son,
Gregory."

Ah, the moment of truth. Or really the moment of
untruth, corrected Roxana in her head while taking a deep
breath.

Lady Breedon led her across the wide room to her son.
Mr. Breedon was short, his face a full moon with poked pale dots
for eyes, a nose too small for breathing and the merest slash where
a mouth should be. He closed it and stared at Roxana's chest as she
was introduced.

She dropped her eyes as if bashful and fought a sigh.
She extended her hand and dropped her curtsy. "How do you do, sir?
I have so been looking forward to your arrival."

Mr. Breedon looked up, mildly surprised.

Max raised his glass to his lips in a mock toast as
if to say
I told you so.
She didn't dare look at him. Her
sights were set and Mr. Breedon presented her the best candidate.
He had a rumored ten thousand a year, but his breeding was not as
nice as hers. After all, his father was only a knight, so he would
not inherit a title.

Yet, she had inferred from the Duchess of Trent's
comments that Breedon was not particularly looking for a wife,
which suited her plans. Given that the first place he looked was
her bosom pointed to the kind of interest she needed to
encourage.

Roxana lifted her eyes to Mr. Breedon's moonish face
and smiled. "It is so comfortable to have one near one's age to
discourse with, don't you agree?"

Mr. Breedon nodded, that slash, really more of a
slit, of a mouth falling open.

"Pray tell how was your trip? Your mother was telling
me the roads were quite uncomfortable."

"They were indeed dreadful. I have thought the
Luddites had sought to ruin them, the holes were so bad."

Max took a drink and watched her over the rim, his
eyes narrowing.

Roxana blinked, not knowing how to respond to such an
outrageous suggestion. Destroying textile machinery was a far
different thing than destroying the roadways. She chose to ignore
it. "Travel this time of the year, when it is so chill, can be
unpleasant."

Mr. Breedon shivered. "Do not remind me."

"I don't believe that the Luddites have taken to
destroying the roads," said Max.

"Well, it just seemed that it was more than nature's
fury. Such jostling ought to come because someone wished to create
unease. I should much prefer to blame the Luddites than God or
nature."

Roxana laughed as if he'd spoken with brilliance. "I
quite agree. Villains are ever so much more fun to blame."

Mr. Breedon made an attempt to pull in his puff-guts,
and Max stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. She didn't care.
Mr. Breedon was a perfect candidate to compromise her: he was rich,
a bit of a slowtop and would think himself blessed lucky to pay her
off rather than be tricked into marriage. Then she would have money
to open her dress shop.

Beyond that, she felt absolutely nothing but a vague
pity for Mr. Breedon, unlike for the duke, for whom she felt things
she would rather not feel for her intended dupe.

Now she had to persuade Mr. Breedon to compromise
her, and then rely on Max to insist on compensation.

*~*~*

Max kept a polite expression pasted on his face
throughout the day. It wouldn't do for anyone to see a duke out of
sorts. He knew his role and played it well. Annoyance wasn't in his
script.

By tea time the drawing room had grown more crowded.
Scully had arrived as well as two of Max's aunts with their
families. The next three or four days would see a steady influx of
guests. Max had been down to the entry hall, welcoming Scully and
showing him to his room, but he was more interested in seeing their
first guest.

He scanned the drawing room and located Roxana
standing by a window. She cast only a cursory glance in his
direction, but her gaze had lighted on Breedon and she took a step
toward him. Max's shoulders grew heavy, but he didn’t allow his
posture to change. She had been stuck to Breedon's side ever since
his arrival. He was tired of watching her fawn and flirt with the
self-absorbed fool.

Weaving his way around the groups of furniture and
guests, he caught Roxana's arm. He wanted to pull her aside before
she homed in on the man that she had apparently singled out for
attachment. She jerked back, her eyes startled.

Her stiffening under his hand surprised him. He put a
hand against the small of her back, pressing ever so slightly to
guide her in a different direction. He was too aware of the
delicious curve of her spine and his inclination to leave his hand
long after it was necessary. "Allow me to introduce you to our
newest guests."

Roxana's gaze darted over the groups of people and
came back to his. For a moment time stood still as he looked down
at her midnight-blue eyes. He resisted the urge to pull her
closer.

"I . . . I believe I've met everyone," she said.

"Then allow me to escort you in a turn about the
room. There are more guests who will join us and most of them
already know each other." He pulled her hand into the crook of his
elbow and leaned close to whisper, "You do not wish to appear too
eager to snare Breedon in a parson's mousetrap."

She shrugged and walked beside him. He looked down on
the straight part and the very simple loose knot of her hair. It
looked as if it would sinfully tumble down if one pin were removed,
not that he would ever find out. She seemed determined not to look
at him as he steered her toward the far reaches of the room and the
alcove that flanked the far side of the massive fireplace. Just a
little nook where they could be private, without actually leaving
the room.

When he had her far out of earshot of the other
guests, he asked her, "What are you about, Miss Winston? You cannot
be enamored of Mr. Breedon."

Her delicately arching brows flattened, and she
backed away from him, folding her arms across her breasts. "Why
ever not?"

Her arms drew his attention to her neckline. Was it
perhaps just a little low? In any case he would not complain, since
his eyes feasted on the gentle swell of flesh. "Well, I daresay you
would not be the first young lady to be enamored of his flush
pockets, but it will not fly with him."

She dropped her arms, lowered her head and stepped
farther back into the corner. He wanted to keep their tones low, so
he followed her into the recess.

"Pray, what concern is it of yours?" she asked.

Max searched for adequate answer. In truth, she was
his concern, but she would not appreciate knowing that he was
watching over her. "I had thought you might be glad of the guidance
of a friend. You said you wished to know if you made any
missteps."

She gave him a startled look and pressed her lips
together.

"If you appear too eager, he will think you are just
another fortune hunter," he continued.

"My family . . ." She broke off and looked at the
floor. "I have to be practical and I do not have much time."

"You have not even met all the men who have been
invited for your perusal. I mean, if you are looking for a rich
husband I would have thought you would settle on me." Max couldn't
believe he'd said that. It wasn't as if he
wanted
her to ply
her charms on him. And it couldn't be that he had grown so used to
young women fawning over him, that he expected it from all women of
a marriage age. He continued, as if he hadn't said anything
so...uncouth, "I invited other gentlemen who are comfortable enough
they would not balk at your lack of dowry."

"But you do not intend to marry, and I should not
like to be so poor a guest that I lay out traps for my host." She
fought a smile. "Besides, I thought I would not face much
competition for Mr. Breedon's affection."

Max couldn't argue with that, but his affection
wasn't why young ladies sought out Breedon. Most were after his
wealth and Roxana apparently was too. Even if the idea of her
fixing her affection on Breedon both annoyed Max and filled him
with concern, he kept thinking she must have a reason that would
make sense to him. Did she want nothing more than beautiful gowns
and jewels? Or had her family instructed her to marry a man of good
fortune? "What traps do you mean to lay?"