Chapter Four
A squeak of alarm left Roxana’s mouth just before the duke touched his lips to hers. His warm fingers slid around her nape, his thumb stroked along her jawline and his mouth pressed against hers. She had been prepared to submit to a kiss . . . just not with Max.
His hold was gentle, but left her in no doubt that he was in charge. Her pulse leapt as his lips moved against hers, making this kiss different than any she had ever experienced before. His tongue prodded at the seam of her lips, and he stepped closer, his firm body brushing against hers. Tingles danced along her spine. His masculine scent filled her with a heady intoxication.
Her thoughts and emotions swirled in senseless patterns until the only thing she could think about was the rough burr of his tongue against hers and how very odd she felt, all melting and weak. He pressed her further into the niche. She relished the solid pressure of his chest, as if she could draw from his strength. Prickles danced along her skin, her breasts tightened and grew heavy.
He deepened the kiss. She opened to him, allowing him access. His taste filled her. She had never realized that she could feel so undone, as if she were unraveling, but at the same time, feel completed and yet hungry for more of him.
His fingers stroked along her skin behind her ear as if he would pet her into compliance. Then her back met the wall and Max continued to push into her.
She welcomed the solid warmth of him. The growing response of her body compelled her to continue to explore this physical union of their mouths. Her knees weakened and her will to resist was only a tiny cry in the overwhelming fervor of her response.
She raised her hands to his chest, feeling his broad solid strength and his quickened breathing. A low growl left his throat. With the three walls around her and Max in front of her, she was trapped. Fear cut through her fog of fascination. Roxana shoved against his chest.
He abruptly ended their kiss. Lifting his head, he looked down at her, his brown eyes dark and bottomless. For a second it was as if he looked inside her. She shut her eyes, unable to bear the idea that if he looked too deeply, he would not like what he saw.
Air filled her lungs in quick pants and her heart raced. She shoved harder. He backed away, although she was still cornered in the small space. With her body no longer molded against his, her thoughts cleared. What was she doing?
Max reached above her head and plucked a berry from the sprig of mistletoe. He held it out to her. “Your luck should be in good stead this coming year, Miss Winston.”
His roughened voice stole through her, touching parts deep inside of her. The intimacy of their kiss had opened her to him in ways she hadn’t meant or expected. This was different from friendship.
She stared at the small white fruit in his fingers.
Surely this was not the kind of kiss she should have permitted or encouraged. Her lips tingled. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to regain normal feeling. But on a deep level she had changed, and she did not ever think she could go back.
Max stepped back, his manner returning to that rigid correctness that she now suspected was his way of shutting out others.
She squirmed out of the niche—there were too many places in this house where a man could trap a woman. Only her disordered thoughts reminded her that she had laid this trap, but caught the wrong man. Mr. Breedon had either not noticed the mistletoe or had not wanted to kiss her.
Why had Max? He had forced her back under the kissing bough when she was several feet away from the corner.
“Was that a gesture of friendship?” she asked, dropping her hand down to her side.
“No. I . . .” Max raised his free hand and pushed it through his wavy brown hair.
“Was it to teach me a lesson?” She suffered a moment’s regret that she had not taken the opportunity to touch his hair, but things had happened so fast, she had not thought of what she could do. She should not play with fire.
Max still stumbled with his words. “I . . . Miss Winston, I . . .”
His inability to find what he wanted to say suggested he had been shaken in the same way that she had. What had they done?
“I apologize. That was most unhandsome of me.”
Hurt stabbed and cut her insides. Her emotions had turned into delicate crystal easily shattered. “Are you apologizing for kissing me?” Her voice crested up unnaturally.
“Not for kissing you, per se. You were under the mistletoe.”
“Not when you seized me and marched me back here.” She pointed to the niche. Her heart refused to slow its mad race. “There.”
He stared at her. Did he regret kissing her? He had spoken before he kissed her, but she had been so surprised by his handling that his words hadn’t registered.
She folded her arms across her middle.
He pushed his fingers against his forehead. “I apologize for breaching the bounds of propriety.”
“Oh.” She looked at the little cubbyhole set up for the purpose of stealing kisses. Their exchange had been too heated. “Perhaps I should have offered more resistance. I did not know. I have never been—”
“You did nothing wrong.” He reached out and caught her shoulders.
She froze as his gaze dipped to her mouth and then back up. Would he kiss her again? She could feel that welling response, the weakening of her limbs as if she was about to turn mindless. She sucked in a heavy breath.
He dropped his hands and took a step back. “Should you not be dressing for dinner?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Roxana swirled, thinking she could not make it to her room soon enough if she flew.
“Miss Winston,” Max called behind her.
She did not stop. She had not known how being held in his arms could approach wonderful heights. Yet, she could not fully appreciate the experience. Not knowing would have been better, because experiencing such kisses in her life was unlikely. And, oh God, she was such a ninny to fall for the high-and-mighty duke who would not marry any woman, let alone a needy, poor woman like her. Nor would she marry any man, let alone a man who could control her with a touch, turn her mindless with a kiss, make her forget her imperative plans with a caress.
Yet worst of all was his reaction, that he had drawn up stiff with regret. Pain swirled in her stomach. He had not meant to kiss her so freely. That had been apparent in his dismayed expression. She could not let it lay, but had challenged him. Would she never learn to curb her tongue?
Max stared at Roxana’s retreating back and wondered what fever had invaded his brain. He’d never treated an unmarried lady to such an unbridled kiss, let alone treated any woman to such a kiss without a gentle seduction of hand kissing, touches, indications of his intent. He had been close to allowing his hands to roam lower, to capture and caress her curves in a way that conveyed an intention to bed her.
Had she sensed his slipping control when she pushed him away?
Scully approached him with a smirk on his face. “Shall we finish our game?”
“I forfeit.”
“The game?” asked Scully with that infuriating lift of a single eyebrow.
“What else?”
Scully grinned, but did not reply, which was probably wise of him.
“Did Breedon . . . ?” Max gestured toward the kissing bower.
“Walked him to his room, warned him that you were taking your duties toward your guest seriously and expect him to be above board in all his treatment of her. He is oblivious to your waylaying Miss Winston.”
Max did not know if that relieved him or not.
Scully studied him. “That is what you meant to say to him, isn’t it? Far too soon to demand to know his intentions.”
Max did not think he could bear the scrutiny at the moment. He did not understand why he failed to toe the line. Perhaps it was because the minute he touched Roxana he had thought of her most improper undergarments. Or that he had not slept with a woman in months, or just that she was under his protection . . . but not under his protection in the way that gave him the right to take indecent liberties. What was wrong with him? He never violated the rules of proper behavior.
He could not think of that, and he should not have seen her so revealed and unaware.
Max raked a hand through his hair. “We should get ready for this evening.”
“Or have a drink,” suggested Scully.
That sounded like a splendid idea. A drink might cool the heat in his blood. Max strode toward the stairs.
Roxana was just a lovely girl, young woman, young lady. Max could not even think straight. So fresh and sweet, the imprint of her body flooded his mind.
“You are a better catch than Breedon,” offered Scully slyly.
“Do not finish that thought,” warned Max in a tone that he knew Scully would not contest. “I could not afford a wife even if I wanted one.”
Max would keep his distance this evening through dinner. “You keep an eye on her the rest of the day, and for God’s sake do not let her be alone with me.”
Roxana smoothed her hands down her dress and wondered if she had made a mistake. Lady Malmsbury’s dismissal of Battenburg lace had probably influenced her decision on a dress to wear for dinner. That and she hadn’t really been thinking straight after that kiss from Max. Or she needed to wear a dress that made her feel powerful.
She had made the dress from table linens and sewn it in a harlequin pattern, mostly because she had to work around the stains and had not had enough of either tablecloth to do a complete dress. A thin strip of gold piping ran down the seams between the alternating diamonds of bright white and butterscotch. Instead of gathers she had sewn gores into the waist of the skirt. While it had a high bodice, the dress fit more closely than the loose empire gowns most of the other women wore.
The normally circumspect footman hesitated before opening the drawing room door. She felt like running, but the footman was hardly frowning.
He opened the door and she turned to look at him inquiringly before he shut the door after her small train cleared the entry.
She had sewn on it for days, and she wondered as she looked around if it was too innovative, too different, too admired by Mrs. Porter and her girls. What on earth had possessed her to rely on the advice of a pack of Paphians?
The duke turned from across the room, glanced her way and then looked again. She saw him swallow, his cravat shifting with the motion. His eyes moved down her from her slashed sleeves to her midsection and seemed to linger on her hips. Roxana looked for a place to sit, steeling herself against the idea of running away. She would be under a table most of the rest of the evening and she wished she was there now.
Lady Angela approached and Roxana nearly sagged with relief.
“You continue to amaze us,” said Scully, tugging her elbow and pulling her away from the door. “You look stunning, Miss Winston.”
Miss Lambert hung behind Lady Angela and peeped over her shoulder.
“Bit of revenge?” whispered Scully near her ear.
Relieved her limbs worked and she had not frozen in place, Roxana heard the murmurs around her. She cast Scully a skeptical glance as if she didn’t know he was referring to Max.
She had not even thought of Mr. Breedon. She turned looking for him; instead she encountered Fanny’s frown. The duchess wore a modest evening gown in black silk with an overskirt of gray net. They were dressed as different from one another as night and day.
“You look famous,” said Lady Angela. “Where did you have your gown made?”
“Yes, did it come from France?” echoed Miss Lambert.
Roxana sighed with relief. Improvising as she went along, she said, “My mantuamaker is from France.”
“Is she in London? Oh, my mama would never allow me to wear a dress like that,” wailed Lady Angela.
“She plans to open a shop in London, soon,” answered Roxana.
“It should help to have a figure like that,” whispered Miss Lambert.
“Oh, no, it is the way the diamonds are positioned.” She knew that she wasn’t really meant to hear Miss Lambert’s comment. Roxana started to show how the points came together toward her waist and the white diamonds were cut narrower, which made her midsection appear slimmest.
Scully cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Miss Lambert, you are near to my size, perhaps you would like to try it on. If you two want to come to my room, I could show you . . . things.” She could show them how to show off their best assets and minimize their worst features.
Miss Lambert shook her head. “I would never be allowed to wear dresses like yours.”
Remembering what Max said about unmarried misses sticking to white muslins, Roxana queried, “Not even after you’re married?”
“What is your modiste’s name?” asked Lady Angela.
Roxana went blank. She had not even thought of a name. At that minute the drawing-room door opened and Lady Malmsbury entered wearing a gold gown cut so low that it was a wonder her nipples did not show. Nearly every inch of fabric sported a bead or a spangle. With her red hair in long dangling curls and diamonds flashing from her throat she paused in the doorway, flipped her hair and waited for a response from the company.
Roxana, much to her chagrin, looked to see Max’s response. He barely looked at Lady Malmsbury and then looked back in her direction.
Roxana was appalled by how much her freezing at the doorway imitated Lady Malmsbury’s bid for attention. She hoped that no one thought she was making “an entrance.”
Then she realized she had to give Lady Angela an answer, but when she turned the two girls had drifted away. Roxana stared at their girlish dresses with ruffles and ribbons, one in light yellow and the other in a pale peach.
And Max was approaching.
Scully held out a hand to stop him. “Go away, she’s mine.”
“I’m taking her down to dinner,” said Max imperiously.
Just then Roxana caught Mr. Breedon’s eye. He looked stunned.
“I promised Mr. Breedon,” Roxana muttered. That was the only good thing that had come of her waylaying him near the mistletoe.
Scully arched his brow and silent communication passed between him and the duke. “I’ll go get Fanny.”
“Yes, go speak to her grace.”
Max held out his arm and Roxana reluctantly took it. A flush crept up her neck and heated her face. She remembered the kiss under the mistletoe. She wished she could forget it. Mr. Breedon cast a questioning look in her direction and Roxana shrugged.
A circle seemed to have opened up around them. Max looked down at her with a warm smile. “Remarkable dress, Roxana,” he said in a low voice. “Try not to blush.”
“At least it is mostly white,” she tried. “I’ll stick to the muslins from now on.”
“No, you won’t.”
Fanny approached, with Scully following, his hands clasped behind his back.
“You amaze me, Roxana. I wish I could wear such beautiful things.”
“You cou—”
Max placed his hand over hers, tapping the back of her hand like a schoolmaster might gently redirect a daydreaming student.
“You are just the dernier cri, but I suppose that is what one must expect from a girl who has spent time in Europe. You have acquired such a continental flare,” said Fanny.
Scully cocked an eyebrow.
The duke and duchess flanked her until the butler announced dinner. Lady Angela and Miss Lambert cast hopeful glances in the direction of their parents.
As the company filtered out of the drawing room toward the stairs, Roxana hung back.
“I have been to Europe?”
Max shrugged. “Apparently. You did not have a season, so you must have been somewhere.”
“So if you and the duchess put a stamp of approval on my apparel then everyone will accept it?”
“Exactly so.” Max tilted his head back ever so slightly and gave an infinitesimal shake of his head in a regal sort of gesture.
In his gesture was something domineering and imperious. Then he looked down at her, his brown eyes warming as he assessed her dress.
“You look beautiful.” His voice was low and spread through her like melting butter cream.
“I never intended to look . . . fast.”
Max swallowed hard again.
Mr. Breedon cast an uncertain look in her direction before he left the room.
“Coming, you two?” asked Scully from the doorway.
Max held up one finger and swung around in front of her. “Nothing is improper in your gown. You just have a flare for drawing attention. As a friend, I advise you to continue wearing the clothes you wear or the gossips will assume that we have browbeaten you in private.”
She nodded.
Max’s eyelids dropped and he leaned closer. Did he mean to kiss her again? Mistletoe wasn’t above her head this time. Her heart pounded madly, but the duke was not her prey. And Mr. Breedon was getting away.
Roxana took a step back and said, “Who’d have thought wearing table linens would create such a stir?”
Max coughed, and she skirted around him, then scurried to catch Mr. Breedon, wondering how he felt about her clothing.
Max tapped on the connecting door to the blue room, with a spare dressing gown over his arm and the brandy decanter and two glasses in his hands. He could not sleep, and Scully was always good for a shared drink.
Scully jerked open the door, then stared at Max. His blue eyes narrowed. “You are not whom I wanted to see.” He shook his head, the dark shock of hair flopping across his forehead. Scully shoved it back and muttered, “I knew something was wrong when I realized I was in Fanny’s former room.”
“Please, avail yourself of my valet until yours arrives.” Max held out the dressing gown, then realized what Scully had said. “How do you know this room was once Fanny’s?”
Scully shook his head. “Come have a nightcap with me.” Max lifted the decanter.
“I drink too much as it is,” said Scully, but he shed his coat and waistcoat, then grabbed the dressing gown. He jerked the knots of his cravat free. The clothing went sailing back into the blue room, landing on the floor.
Max had removed his outer evening clothes long ago and switched to long unmentionables rather than his evening breeches. He scrutinized his friend. “Were you planning to go out? It is well after midnight.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea of which door to tap on now. Putting me here was cruel of Fanny. I suffered grandiose notions of easy seduction, only to find I am sharing a suite with you.”
“Sorry to disappoint, old boy.” But it was that kind of night.
“Never mind. My course has never been easy.”
“Fanny did not put you here, I did. I preferred your company to Lady Malmsbury’s.” Max pointed. “Fanny’s room is two doors down. Mind you, not the next door, for that is Fanny’s dressing room and her maid is sleeping in there. You will scare the dickens out of her if you tap on that door.”
“God love you, son.”
“You call me son one more time, I shall throw you out on your ear so Fanny won’t have to. If you knock on her door, I expect you will offer marriage. Otherwise, don’t knock.”
Scully paused in his flaying attempts to get the dressing gown on over his shirt. “You’re testy.”
“Me? Never.” Max turned back into his room and set the glasses down on the table between the two easy chairs facing the fire and poured brandy into them. He just needed a drink. And he needed to know that Scully would do the right thing.
“It is Miss Winston, is it not? Hell, just marry her—you do not need a woman to bring a dowry to the estate.”
“I’m not marrying. I want Thomas as my heir.”
“I’m not sure Thomas wants to be your heir.”
“Want to or not, he is.” Max did not know why everyone was so resistant to the facts of the matter. Once Thomas fully appreciated all that he would have, he would want the title and all that came with it.
“Besides, I’ve scarcely known her a week.” Max stared into the liquid in his glass, then tossed it back in one gulp. “Should I ever marry, I’d need a heiress.”
“Bad form, Max. Brandy should be warmed before you gulp it.”
“I know how to drink, Dev. Just because Miss Winston’s presence has affected me, does not mean I should marry her.”
“Ah, her presence or her enthusiasm?” asked Scully with a knowing tone in his voice. “For she seemed quite as engaged in that kiss as you were.”
“Do not speak ill of Miss Winston. She did offer resistance.” Thank the Lord, she had finally come to her senses, because Max wasn’t entirely sure that he would have. He didn’t even want to think about his near repeat in the drawing room. He slammed back another drink. In all his years, he had never come so close to losing control.
“That was hardly speaking ill. Quite a beautiful chit. She makes best use of her charms, does she not?”
“Scully!”
“Ah, do you mean to call me out? Defend her honor? She has caught you in her web, and I do not even think she was trying to snare you. You really should marry her. She would stand up to your superiority.”
Max ground his teeth and ignored Scully’s irreverence. They had known each other too long to be truly offended, but Max was skating closer to the edge of the precipice. “No, I should not.”
“Yes, you should. You are enamored of her. Happens quick like that at times, happened that way for me.”
“You were fifteen, and I am not enamored of her.” Max did not need to pretend with Scully. What Max felt for Roxana Winston was pure and simple lust, while his friend had been enamored of his stepmother since Eton days.
“And I have been steadfast in my affections ever since,” returned Scully, rolling his brandy glass between his hands.
“Hardly so.”
Scully made an odd noise and threw himself into one of the high-backed chairs. Max looked at him. Scully seemed as fretful as Max felt. Was he having second thoughts now that Fanny was free? Unrequited love for a married woman was one thing, unrequited love for a widow was an entirely different matter. In a way, Scully’s professed love for Fanny had kept his heart free during his numerous entanglements over the years.
Trouble was, Max cared about both of them. He poured out a third glass of brandy and tried not to allow the memory of that kiss to crowd his mind. Of course, realizing that he had managed about ten seconds’ respite from the memory of Roxana’s perfect form pressed against his body made heat rise in his blood.
He shifted in his chair.
He had barely managed any other thought as he played the gracious host throughout the remainder of the evening.
“You shall to have to marry one of these days. You have responsibilities,” said Scully. “I, as a younger son, bear no such need. I do not need to reproduce. My property is too modest to split among heirs.”
Max closed his eyes. “I won’t have Thomas going into the military. If Fanny or my mother had brought lands to marriage as dower property I could give them to him, but neither did.”
His father should have considered what would happen to his heirs before he married women that brought small portions to the marriage and then allowed them to spend so recklessly. For it was not all Fanny’s spending that brought about the current state of affairs. Many of the loans predated her marriage. His two brothers left debts to discharge too.
The weight of Scully’s stare bore on him.
“My father’s debts are monstrous. Everything is entailed, you know. I cannot sell any property to settle his loans, nor can I split off any lands to provide for Thomas.”
“So you can marry only a woman who brings considerable dower property to the table?” Scully balanced his glass on his forehead and stared at it cross-eyed. “You are the only one who knows of my affection for Fanny, you know.”
Max looked at Scully. “Why is that?”
“I did not want you offended if I was successful in my pursuit of your father’s wife.”
“Were you ever successful?” asked Max.
Scully twisted his head, catching the glass as it fell off his forehead with nary a spill. “I may have been a lark to her, an indulgence for her vanity. She has made no secret of her preference for maturity and stability. Has she asked about me once, since your father’s death?”
Max looked into his glass. No, Fanny had not asked after Scully, but he had always thought she reacted when he spoke Scully’s name. He knew she was lonely and vulnerable, but did she truly mean to avoid Scully? Would she be happy only with a husband who encouraged reckless spending? “It has been only a little while.”
“It has been eighteen months,” said Scully. The door clicked open and both men swiveled in their chairs to see Lady Malmsbury draw up short in the doorway.
“Oh dear, I seem to have lost my way,” she said as she glared at Scully.