Chapter Eight
Max’s horse nickered and resisted the standstill after running so long. Looking around at the gathering guests, Max saw that many of their horses were flagging, their heads down, blowing hard out of their nostrils and their hides wet with sweat. The grooms would have a difficult evening, caring for all the horses. A chill breeze blew out of the north, ruddying the cheeks of the already rosy cheeks of the riders.
The hounds bayed as the kennel master and whipper-ins yanked them back on newly attached leads, the kill left for the equestrian pursuers. Mud and decaying leaves clung to many of the riders, the result of a recent run through a creek.
As Max dismounted, he mentally counted the riders, wondering if any had dropped out or been hurt in the last hour of hard riding. His boots squished against the spongy ground near the boggy stretch of reeds where the fox cowered, the red of his brush clear through the thin stalks. Max disliked this part.
The fox had given a good run, but now it trembled, beaten, its sides heaving with fatigue. Max would have preferred to let the fox live another day; the beast had provided a good hunt. He’d kept the chase alive for three days, leading them over hill and dale. Mostly their quarry had kept to Trent lands and hadn’t dragged the riders through forest until the end, when nearing exhaustion.
“There you are, fellow,” Max cooed softly. “Almost done now.”
Scully and Thomas as well as a few of the other hunters closed from either side, the servants taking positions on an outer ring to cut off any avenue of escape. Not that the fox had the energy left to run any longer. Besides, dusk crept through the trees, the shadows long and low.
Max reached for the fox with his gloved left hand. The animal wasn’t done yet, as he snapped at Max, but it was too late. Max caught the brush of his tail, yanked him up and slit his throat almost before Scully could assist him in the kill.
Max held high the limp animal to the triumphant cheers of the hunters and the near hysterical baying of the hounds. Max gave the order to one of the servants to run back to the house and let Fanny know that the hunt party would be back within the hour. They were far enough away that he was not sure she would hear the horns.
Thomas skipped forward to receive the smears of fox blood on his cheeks.
The Misses Ferris urged their horses in to receive their mark, more because Max was bestowing it than because it was truly their first hunt. Max scanned for Roxana.
“Miss Winston.” He lifted the bloody carcass. “Your first participation in the kill?”
She stared at him, her eyes glassy and accusatory. The brilliant red flush of her winter-chilled cheeks drained before his eyes. She shook her head and wheeled her mount around. For such a pragmatic woman, she had surprisingly soft sides.
Max continued forward, offering the blood to the eager clamoring of the other hunters. Many of the women who had fallen back near the end now joined the circle around him.
“Go after her, Dev,” he whispered to Scully.
Scully backed away and out of the crowd, but he returned a few seconds later. “Breedon has got her.”
Max thrust the fox’s body in Thomas’s direction, and the boy struggled to hold the animal aloft to the cheers around him.
Max peeled off his bloody gloves, tossing them in the direction of a groom.
“Has she never hunted before?” asked Scully. “Did she not know what to expect?”
Max had killed animals dozens of times. Killing the fox was expected and more humane than letting the dogs rip the poor beast to shreds. He’d never questioned the necessity of it. The cold stung his bare hands as he mounted his horse again.
Roxana’s wary expression and the way that she shied away from him made him feel just a bit savage.
No doubt Breedon, with his aversion for hunting—aversion for anything physical—and his slothful movements, made her feel that he would never so much as hurt a fly.
Roxana wasn’t sure why the killing of the fox had bothered her so. Perhaps because Max had gone about it with an ease and a matter-of-factness that reminded her of the way her father’s hand would fly across her mother’s cheek if his dinner was late or his slippers did not appear as promptly as he wished. As if the recipient of the cruelty deserved the treatment.
When they lived in Winston Hall it had been easier to avoid her father, but after they moved to the cottage, they were too on top of each other and the rages were harder to sidestep.
The poor fox had done nothing more than lead them on merry chase over hill and dale. It hardly seemed fair to slaughter the poor animal when he could run no more.
“Miss Winston, ho, wait for me,” called Mr. Breedon behind her.
She pulled her ambling horse to a halt and waited for him to catch her.
Mr. Breedon pulled alongside her and bent forward to stroke the neck of his horse, cooing to his steed. The horse tossed its head.
Roxana brushed below her eyes and turned. “My, it is turning cold, is it not?”
Mr. Breedon noticed her gesture. “The end is hard to watch.”
“I suppose I am quite silly, but I wanted the poor fox to get away.”
Mr. Breedon smiled. “Why, Miss Winston, you have such a tender heart.”
No, she did not, but such brusque violence by Max unaccountably affected her. She shuddered. Had she thought that Max could be only kind, that he was incapable of the violence that those of his sex relished?
She was being a ninny. The all-night sewing stints must have made her overtired. First had been her mad rush to construct her fashionable new riding habit. Then she cut apart her new pelisse to make scarves for the men. She started sewing drawstring reticules for all the women. Hopefully, by Christmas she would have respectable gifts for everyone.
The evenings had been quiet, games of charades or cap verses and cards. Evenings were the best time to make up to Mr. Breedon. But the hunt kept her in his presence, even if it did not allow for a tête-à-tête. So she had participated, even though riding a horse for so many hours when she was unused to it had made her sore and tired.
Mr. Breedon’s horse sidled toward her and pinned Roxana’s legs between the two horses. He reached across the distance and plucked a bit of dead leaf from her shoulder. She felt as much as the leaf. If Max had done that she would have experienced his touch deep in her womb—which was insane. But she tried to substitute in her head the reaction she had with Max.
“You have quite a good seat,” said Mr. Breedon.
“I enjoy riding. I have been admiring your mounts all day long. You keep quite impressive horseflesh, Mr. Breedon.”
Mr. Breedon looked down. “I like to ride too. I just prefer riding at home where I know all the paths.”
“And walking when away from home?”
“Just so. Riding occasionally bothers my knee. It has seized up on me. I find it mortifying to be laid up in bed when visiting.”
“Yes, one would hate to miss the festivities.”
Mr. Breedon, for all his girth, actually exercised quite a bit. She knew things about him that she suspected he had not shared with others. In fact, she was starting to feel quite bad about her plans to trick him, but then she needed to prod him along the path. He did not act as though he even wanted to compromise her.
“Miss Winston, might I ask you a question of a delicate nature?”
Mr. Breedon’s horse still brushed her leg. She slowed her mount so her legs might brush Mr. Breedon. “Certainly.”
“Is there an arrangement between you and the duke?”
Arrangement? Roxana’s horse neighed and backed away, so the planned gentle touch of their extremities became a bone-jarring crash. So much for her use of subtle physical enticements. “No, why would you think that?”
“The others are speculating, and Lady Malmsbury. . .” Breedon cleared his throat. “Just did not want to be poaching.”
Were the others gossiping about her and Max? Surely they did not think her his mistress. “What kind of arrangement?”
“Well, since his father’s passing, there are those that say he is looking for a bride.”
Roxana sucked in a calming drink of cold winter air. “No, I have it on good authority he is not looking for marriage.”
Mr. Breedon looked down at his hands. “Oh.”
Panic rose in Roxana’s throat. She had allowed her natural sharpness to show through her sweet-as-sugar pretense. “Not that I care about that.”
Mr. Breedon looked off across the field. “No, of course not.” He urged his horse forward.
Stars above, he probably thought she had cast out lures for Max and failed before she began angling after Mr. Breedon.
“Gregory—I beg your pardon—Mr. Breedon, I find the Duke of Trent too sure of himself.”
Mr. Breedon looked back at her as if wanting to be reassured. Would he comment on her accidental use of his first name?
“I do not think whomever he chooses as a wife shall be very comfortable. He is a very forceful man, is he not?”
“I had not thought him forceful.”
“I do not wish to be critical of our host,” said Roxana. Had she set her cause back too far? Panic clutched at her throat. She was much better at her role when her emotions were not running high. “I am sure there are those that would think his strength of character one of his best assets, but I find him intolerant of dissenting opinions.”
“No. He is quite tolerant of diverse opinions. He entertains all of the gentlemen after dinner by making sure all different ideas are honored.”
Roxana bit down on her tongue. She could not argue with Mr. Breedon, and certainly not about Max. “I am sure you must know him better than I do. I have, after all, only just met him. I only know that I feel much more comfortable in your presence than in his.”
“Yes, well, he watches you a lot,” said Mr. Breedon.
Heat curled under her skin, but Roxana tried to dismiss it. “I am sure it is that he takes his temporary guardianship of me quite seriously.”
Did Max watch her? Their eyes seemed to meet often across the room, as if he always was aware of where she was. When he watched over her did he feel that same odd fluttering as she did?
“There, love, the fox is killed and it is too bad we cannot eat him,” said Scully as Fanny went around the massive dining-room table, checking that the place settings were in proper precedence.
“We have plenty to eat without resorting to eating vermin,” answered Fanny, while switching two place cards.
Scully went behind her and switched Miss Winston’s card to the place beside his seat and away from Breedon, who was farther down the table. He wandered around looking over the china and silver and made sure that Malmsy was on the opposite side of the table and far enough away that she’d have to launch a gravy boat to decorate Roxana with food.
“Thomas enjoyed his first hunt,” Scully said, knowing Fanny would be worried about her son but would not ask directly about Thomas’s well-being.
Fanny stopped for a second and then resumed her chore.
“I rode with him and let him regale me with all the tales of the fences he took.”
Fanny turned her blue eyes toward him and then closed them. She gripped the back of a chair. “I should not have let him go.”
“Never fear, Max or I had him within our sights every day.” They had traded off between keeping an eye on Thomas and keeping an eye on Miss Winston. “I never would have let him take a fence that he could not clear.”
Scully moved to her side.
“You should be upstairs in the drawing room,” said Fanny. “I’m sure that more of the younger set are gathered up there.”
“I would rather be here with you.”
“Yes, well, you are making a nuisance of yourself.”
“Shall I go play with the children in the nursery?” asked Scully. “For you seem determined to treat me like a little boy.”
“Perhaps you should not. My children talk of nothing but you or Miss Winston.” Fanny strode away.
Scully paused, wondering if he had erred in ingratiating himself with Julia and Thomas. Not that he was overplaying his role, but just treating them as a friendly uncle would. And did he hear an edge to Fanny’s voice when she mentioned Miss Winston’s name?
Fanny came to a complete stop when she saw the two place cards he had switched. Her gaze rose to meet his, and he did not mistake the hurt in them.
“I’m not a boy or an unformed youth who does not know my mind.” As Devlin said the words he wrestled with the idea that he was not sure of what he wanted. He had ridden here fast, thinking he knew, but Max had raised the stakes and Fanny shied away from him at every turn.
A servant entered the room to light the tapers on the silver candelabrum gracing the table every five feet. Fanny exited the room without saying another word. What had happened to the woman who had delighted in his company, smiled at his cajoling and laughed at his compliments?
Was she just a distant memory he had idolized in his youth, or was the Fanny he knew and loved still hiding under her stiff widow’s reserve?
He looked down the long polished rosewood table. The largest table in his home could seat no more than two dozen, but this table was set for more than twice that number. Did Fanny hate the idea of losing all this splendor? Was that the reason for her animosity toward Roxana and her resistance to him?
Roxana curtsied to her partner and then joined the polite titter of applause. A small orchestra played on a raised dais and local gentry had been invited to fill out the company in the ballroom.
Too many times she had looked across the floor and encountered Max’s gaze.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Winston,” said Scully as she returned to the Duchess of Trent’s side. “You are looking heavenly.”
Whenever Fanny’s hostess duties kept her busy, Scully seemed to have taken it upon himself to make sure Roxana never stood alone.
“Heavenly? More like devilishly wicked,” said Lady Malmsbury nearby.
Roxana looked up, but the words were not addressed to her; Lady Malmsbury was speaking to Lady Breedon.
“Have you ever seen such clothing on a woman of quality? Miss Winston dresses like a Cyprian.”
My stars, she did not need Mr. Breedon’s mama thinking she was beyond the pale. Lady Breedon’s color rose, and she refused to meet Roxana’s gaze. Lady Malmsbury had no such qualms. Her green eyes shot venom in Roxana’s direction.
“Hell has no fury, eh, Malmsy?” called Scully.
Lady Malmsbury turned her back to them, her long red curls bouncing with the vehemence of her cut direct.
Roxana tugged Scully along. Much as she would like to confront Lady Malmsbury, nothing would be gained and much could be lost. She could not repay the Trents’ hospitality by creating an unpleasant scene.
Roxana looked down at the gathered swags of red silk across her chest and shoulders. The whole dress consisted of layer after layer of swooping skirts, each layer shorter and shorter, until the top layer hung just below her hips. Or perhaps it was the matching long gloves, the gathers on the forearms mirroring the drape of her dress. Every other woman in the ballroom wore long white gloves.
“Do not pay her any mind. She is just jealous and in a bad mood,” Scully said. “Your gown is simply stunning, and you are beyond compare in it.”
“Don’t. I do not quite fit in, do I?” whispered Roxana.
“If you don’t fit in because you stand above the others, there is no fault to you in that.”
“You are too kind,” said Roxana.
Scully had taken over their direction and Roxana stopped walking as she realized he was leading them to the group where Max stood surrounded by a bevy of young women.
Roxana tugged at one of her gloves.
Max backed away from the group and headed toward them. “Miss Winston, Dev.”
“Malmsy is on the warpath,” warned Scully in a low undertone. “Fanny is precious close to where I want her.”
Max nodded and extended his arm to Roxana. “Might I have this dance, Miss Winston?”
Fanny watched Scully approach with a determined stride. She looked around for an escape, but the only clear path was toward the mistletoe hanging in the corner of the room, a corner that had been conspicuously avoided thus far.
“Might I have this dance, your grace?” Scully stepped so close her skirts brushed against his legs.
She took a step back. “I have to see to things.”
“No, you don’t. Everything is running smoothly, as usual.”
Fanny wasn’t sure if she enjoyed these house parties anymore. She had at first enjoyed the increased stature she gained by hosting one of the most exclusive of holiday parties, but in recent years she found her concerns about her guests’ pleasure trumping her own enjoyment. A disaster always took place, but by dint of her ability to contain it, rarely did all her guests catch wind of whatever catastrophe befell each party.
One year a certain unmarried lady, not known to be with child, had nearly given birth on the ballroom floor. Another year, three gentlemen and one lady had a horrid accident during the hunt, which resulted in two broken limbs, a broken crown and a lost front tooth. Another year, Scully had been the disaster that had haunted her ever since. Fanny was beginning to jump at her own shadow, waiting for whatever would go wrong this year.
Of course there had been the spilling of hot tea on Roxana, but with the wisdom of her years, Fanny knew that did not rise to the level of her annual disaster. More than anything she feared a repeat with Scully.
Fanny sought out her guest in the crowd and saw Roxana taking her place in a set forming with Max. She also saw the daggers-drawn glare of Lady Malmsbury. An older woman needed to learn to step aside when a man started the hunt for a bride.
Although Max had denied his need to take a wife, she knew her words had not fallen on deaf ears. Max always did the right thing. She just hoped he was not deciding so soon after realizing he needed to marry. He did not seem to single out Roxana for special attention, he just looked at her differently. Truth was, Fanny far preferred Max with Miss Winston than Scully with her.
While Fanny glanced over the company and fretted, Scully stepped closer. She tried even harder to concentrate on her stepson and his settling down. Of course that put her in an untenable position.
Scully was so close she could feel the heat off of his body. For one second she felt herself leaning toward him. She took another step back.
“Forget about me?” Scully asked with a quirked eyebrow and another step closer.
“For goodness sake, how could I forget about you? You—”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“—are nearly standing on my toes.” Fanny stepped back again.
“I have never trod on your toes, dearest.”
“Shhh!” She put out a hand to stop him from moving closer.
His lightning grin flashed, and Fanny felt that momentary blindness that always hit her when Scully smiled at her. Of all of Max’s friends for her to fall for, Scully had to be the worst. Yet he never failed to make her heart flutter. He pressed his chest against her palm and she took another step backwards. “Scully.”
His blue eyes were amused, laughing at her, laughing at a too-old woman he could toy with and fluster. God, she was too old to be rattled by a rake like him. But the feel of his chest against her palm passed a current of energy through her.
“Another step, Fanny. Did I tell you that you are looking radiant? Remarkably beautiful. Ravishing, actually.”
“Stop,” she whispered, dropping her head and trying to put space between them, before the whole room was looking at them, before he could see her eager interest. But even if he wanted to resume their dalliance from long ago, Fanny could foresee no good outcome and many horrid ones.
“Yes, we can stop now, love,” he said.
His loose use of endearments tore at her.
He pushed her hand up to his shoulder. “Look up, Fanny. There is much magic in the mistletoe this year.”
Fanny frantically looked to her right and left, realizing Scully had backed her into the kissing corner. She tried to dart around him, but she could hardly do it without looking like a ninny, not a duchess of twenty years. “You—”
“Yes, me,” said Scully as he gathered her to him.
Max took one look at Roxana and caught his breath. She was stunning in her scarlet gossamer silk gown. The very sheerness promised sin. Yet try as he might he could see nothing, but he could fill in details from the memory burned in his mind.
He had kept his distance, not trusting the weakness of his control around Roxana. When had he ever had trouble staying within the bounds of propriety? Max could not remember finding doing the right thing so difficult. And Scully would not let him forget it.
Roxana’s light placement of her fingertips on his sleeve made a shudder pass down his spine. Where was Breedon when he needed him?
“How are you tonight, Miss Winston?” he asked as they assumed their position in the set forming for the next dance.
“I am quite well, thank you.”
“Are you enjoying the ball?” he asked politely.
Roxana looked around the room as if the thought of enjoyment had never crossed her mind. “Everyone is dressed so beautifully. I have never seen so many remarkable ballgowns all together. I am enjoying myself,” she said, almost as if surprised to realize it.
The sparkle in her eyes indicated that she told the truth. Why was she always surprised to find pleasure? With a house party designed around indulgences, she should have expected to enjoy herself. But then, Roxana had come with a mission.
“Ah, then you would enjoy the opera.”
“The opera?” she said. “Do you think so? For music is not my forte. My sister Katherine loves music. I think she would enjoy the opera so much more than I.”
“Ah, well, not everyone attends the opera for the performance. It is the place to display all one’s best finery.”
Roxana smiled. “Then I would enjoy it.”
“Then you must allow me to extend an invitation to my box, next season.”
Her expression fell. Then she masked her disappointment with a soft smile. “I do not believe I will have the opportunity to accept your most generous offer, but thank you just the same.”
She looked across the room, where Breedon stood with his mother, and Roxana’s eyes narrowed.
“Do you not expect to be in London next season?” whispered Max. “Mr. Breedon will be there, you know. My offer would of course include him.”
Roxana’s blue eyes clouded. A furrow pinched her brows together. “Well, I hope to be in London, then.”
The pattern of the dance took them apart and Max asked himself what he was doing. Setting up a smooth path to seduction later, after she was married?
And why was Roxana no longer confiding in him? Their steps brought them back together again and her manner was so much more serious than before.
“You have outdone yourself tonight,” he said. “You are beyond a doubt the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“I should have worn white gloves.” Roxana glanced down at her scarlet gown and then looked over to where Lady Angela and the Misses Ferris stood in their pale pastel gowns. They were like faded flowers and Roxana, a rose in bloom.
Now he knew he had lost his mind.
Perhaps the inappropriate maturity of her dress made him want to overstep the lines of propriety. Her appearance gave more than a hint of sinful pleasure. Yet she bore herself so regally. At the same time she was kind and responsive to his sister and brother. She would make a husband immensely proud.
His thoughts swirled as he and Roxana came together in the dance again and he took her hand. Heat flashed up his arm and pooled low in his gut. She was beautiful, and when he was with her he felt less alone, less cognizant of the loss of his family.
With her pragmatic nature, she was used to employing economy through her sewing. Her alluring new riding habit looked suspiciously like his old bedspread. Perhaps she would even make a good wife to a man drowning in inherited debt. How mired in dun territory was her father?
“You are very quiet this evening, your grace,” she said.
“I need to speak to you in private,” he said. A sensation somewhere between relief and desperation rolled through him. “When do you plan to return home?”
She frowned at him as if faintly puzzled. Then she looked around furtively, as if trapped. “When everyone else does, I suppose. After the twelfth night?”
“I will escort you there after all the other guests have left.”
Roxana’s blue eyes rounded in alarm. “I assure you that will not be necessary.”
Max could not leap into a courtship after all his protestations. And what about Thomas, he asked himself? “I want to meet your parents,” he said firmly.
Roxana shook her head. “Shall we just see what comes of things?”
Was she hoping that Breedon would come up to scratch before then? Could she actually prefer that puppy? The idea of being second best rankled. Yet, holding her, dancing with her, contemplating asking Roxana to marry him, felt deliciously right.