Compromised by Christmas (31 page)

"Don't move," she whispered.

Of course he moved, just slightly in and out, one
stroke.

Her heavy breathing hiccupped.

Another stroke, before he lost all the firmness, then
another, and he suspected he had no need of a recovery period.

Fanny moaned and twisted and then her body filled
with new tension, and she clutched at him as he moved with a slow
easy glide. He kissed her slowly, deeply and she began to strain
against him. He stroked her full breasts, tugging at her tightening
nipples. Her moans, sighs and expression guided his kisses and
caresses until he could feel her loss of control.

Then, as she shuddered and whimpered, he heard the
words he'd been longing for. "I love you."

They brought with them such a rush of emotion he
shuddered into a new peak.

As their bodies thrummed and pulsed and their panting
slowed to sighs, he lay on top of her, relishing the cooling of his
skin, the warm damp places he was still connected to her.

Fanny whispered, "Really, do not move. Or I shall
have to kill you."

"I could not move. Marry me, Fanny." He leaned up on
his elbows, careful to keep his lower body motionless. "Marry me,
tomorrow."

She stared up at him, her blue eyes blinking.

"No secrets between us now, love. Is it that I am not
rich enough to buy you curtains and cabinets and paintings and
sculptures?"

She shook her head.

"That I don't have a title?" he asked, pulling her
hand up and kissing her palm.

"What, then?"

"I am too old; I might not be able to give you
children."

"You might be carrying my baby now. Fanny, I don't
care. I have no title to pass on. My estate is small. A lot of
children would bankrupt me. I shall have Thomas and Julia and
dozens of nieces and nephews who would treat me as their favorite
uncle if I do not have children. If I have you, there will be
enough people in my life to love."

"I cannot abandon Max," she whispered. Tears filled
her eyes. "He is so alone, and I am sworn not to tell him. His
brothers made me promise."

"We would never abandon Max. He is my closest friend.
But he will marry Roxana. I am sure of it."

"If he does marry her, then I will marry you," she
whispered. "If you still want me to."

Devlin groaned, but it was a better answer than what
he had before. "Or if I do get you with child, Fanny. I must insist
and Max would expect it."

Now Devlin wanted to plant a child in her womb.

November 1805

After the seamstresses left for the day, Roxana
straightened the workroom and picked up a garment to finish sewing.
She stretched the tired muscles in her shoulders.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle?"

Roxana turned to look at the woman she had hired to
provide a face to the world for her shop. Although the front woman
claimed to be a member of the French nobility, Roxana guessed she
had probably been a lady's maid in France before fleeing from the
terror. Her manner toward their patrons was properly deferential
without the haughtiness Roxana might have expected from a woman
born to be served. But they had both made a silent pact to not ask
about each other about their pasts.

"Is everything locked up below?" asked Roxana.

The other woman, known as Madame Roussard, nodded.
"Do you think it ez possible you will be able to pay wages this
week? Some of the girls have talk of leaving."

"If anyone pays us." Roxana shrugged. "I have plans
to show you, if you would like a cup of tea."

If she went by the number of orders she received,
Roxana was doing all right. If she went by the amount of money
she'd actually collected, she was failing. Miserably. She had not
been prepared for her clients' disregard of her tickets. Then half
of society disappeared from London after the season, leaving their
accounts unsettled.

With the social season months away, Roxana had
decided to concentrate on capturing the business of the ladies of
the evening. Mrs. Porter and her girls had always paid promptly.
Apparently they possessed a better appreciation for a working
woman's need for solvency.

Roxana pulled the ever-present kettle off her stove
and poured hot water into her teapot and carefully measured in tea.
She could not offer milk or sugar, but Madame Roussard would not
complain. Her stoic acceptance of the hardships made Roxana feel
worse.

After they settled into two chairs dragged over from
the work area, Roxana opened her sketchbook.

Madame Roussard put a hand to her chest and said,
"
Mon Deus
, these are, how you say, risqué."

"Yes, well," Roxana rubbed her face. "I need to do
something."

Madame Roussard reached over and put her hand over
Roxana's. "These are for you?"

"No. Oh, no!"

Madame Roussard's dark eyes for once shined with
hope. She had seen too much and her eyes were normally flat. She
turned away, then took a sip of her tea.

"You must think things are very bad indeed," said
Roxana startled by the idea that Madame Roussard thought Roxana
might be contemplating supplementing their income with money gained
from harlotry.

"There was that gentleman—"

Roxana made a chopping motion. She did not want to
talk about Max, think about Max. If only she could quit yearning
for Max.

Madame Roussard was under strict orders to not reveal
Roxana's name to anyone, and especially not to any man, but Roxana
feared her father learning her whereabouts more than she feared Max
finding her.

That he had come looking for her had not surprised
her. That he had visited her family and offered to take them in
had. Between that and his searches for her, she felt a sick sense
of guilt and a wish that she could include him in her life. She had
so little connection to her family and none to anyone she could
call friend. A wave of longing so strong it made her sway slammed
over her. Oh God, she missed Max, but he would never understand her
choices.

Madame Roussard stood and went down the stairs and a
few minutes later returned with the ledger book. As they looked
over the figures, Roxana knew that drawing in new clientele would
not be enough to save her business. If she did not send home money
to her family every month, she might have been eking by. If she did
not have to pay Madame Roussard to provide a face to the world, she
might be able to pay the seamstresses. If Max had not given her the
money, she would not have come this far.

"Ah, it is time you let me go,
n'est-ce
pas?"

"No. I won't do that."

Madame Roussard had been more than a manager; she had
guided Roxana in decisions that running a business required. She
had insisted on the seamstresses when Roxana could not sew fast
enough to keep up with orders. She had steered Roxana through the
pitfalls facing a young woman alone in London. She had become the
closest thing Roxana had to a friend. Yet a wide gulf of experience
and years separated them.

"We only have need to survive until the season, non?"
Madame Roussard shifted in her chair. "I leave France with nothing
or I give money to you." She looked down at the sketches of the
revealing dresses.

Madame Roussard suddenly looked as old as Roxana
felt. What would happen to her if the shop closed? Not only was
Roxana's family dependent on her, but also Madame Roussard had
often hinted that Roxana had saved her from a life of prostitution.
A middle-aged French émigré with few marketable skills, no friends
and a questionable past could expect little in the way of
employment opportunities.

"I'll find a way to make this work," Roxana vowed,
even if that meant she had to apply to Max. God knew how much she
already owed him. But before that she would see if she could induce
her first clients to return to the fold. If Mrs. Porter and her
girls were back in business, perhaps they would commission new
gowns.

*~*~*

Max shook off the cold as he entered his home, but
nothing thawed the frost from his soul.

"Brandy?" asked Scully from the library door. "Take
off the chill."

"Don't you have a home?" asked Max, not at all
surprised to find Scully in the Trent library. But he took the
proffered glass just the same.

"You did not bring back Miss Winston?" asked Scully,
standing to the side of the roaring fire.

Max stared into the glass of reddish brown liquid. He
remembered bringing Roxana in here to warm her, handing her the
glass of brandy and nearly having his way with her in front of the
fire. At first he had been relieved that he had not taken her
virginity, but now he only regretted it.

"She's not there." Max had just returned from his
fourth trip to Roxana's home.

"She's not at her home?" The smile faded off Scully's
face and, as happened more than not lately, it was replaced by a
look of concern, almost pity. Max downed the brandy in one gulp. He
hoped it would remove the burr of pain, but he knew it would
not.

At least Scully had given over telling him he did not
know how to drink properly. Only the rising cost of French brandy
kept Max from bathing in the stuff.

"Where is she?" asked Scully cautiously.

"Somewhere in London." He had only told them he went
to visit the Winstons, but Max could no longer keep the secret.

Scully looked blank. "Where in London?"

Max threw his glass at the hearthstones. The sound of
shattering crystal gave him only a small measure of satisfaction
before shame at his childish tantrum smothered the relief that he
got from any release of anger. "I don't know."

"That is why you have been to town so much," said
Scully as if a puzzle had finally been solved.

Max had been to London dozens of times. It was if the
last eleven months were a blur of traveling and searching for her
and not knowing how she would respond if he found her. "I cannot
find her. She never went home, and she sends her family money on a
regular basis."

"Then there is a return address on her money letters,
is there not?"

"The Lombard Street post office." Max had wasted
hours there hoping he would catch her inquiring after her mail, but
the letters were exchanged infrequently and with no regularity.

"Oh." Scully sat down in the nearest chair, a sick
look on his face.

"She's not with her father. Nor was he easy to run to
earth."

"Does he know she is missing?"

"I take it he has not been informed in so many
words." Max did not know what to make of Lord Winston. The man had
been quite animated talking about his schemes to win back his
fortune. Max's gentle suggestion that he might be best served by
repairing his estate was met with a blank look.

"I have recently learned their tenants were a certain
abbess and her girls. I hope that they did not give Roxana a
misguided perception of that life."

"She would not have chosen to become a whore," said
Scully quietly.

Max just didn't know anymore. Was the idea of
marriage to him so repugnant? How could she come apart so
blissfully in his arms, and then repudiate everything that had gone
between them?

"She already sent money home before I left the first
time. Did she think that I would not honor my offer to marry her if
she sent word to me?"

Scully swallowed and waited for him to continue.

Max stood and paced the room. "I thought mayhap she
tried her hand at dressmaking, but I have been to every mantuamaker
in London. I have begun looking in brothels. What else could she be
doing but working on her back? How else could she have sent money
home so soon?"

"I gave her money," said Scully, so low that Max was
not sure he had heard him correctly.

"You did what?"

"I gave her a monkey. She was upset. I thought it
would calm her." Scully walked to the brandy decanter. "Then she
started talking about it as a loan and assumed you had given it to
her. I didn't think it would hurt for her to think you had given in
to her request. I had no idea she would disappear."

"You gave her five hundred pounds?"

"If one is very frugal, one could live quite a while
on five hundred pounds."

Max stared at the fire. "Perhaps you would have done
better to just shoot me."

Scully turned slowly and looked anguished. Max felt
remorse; he had no right to destroy his friend's happiness just
because he was miserable.

That she had not left completely destitute offered a
dram of relief, but where was she hiding? "It seems she would
choose anything rather than marry me. I am off to find this Mrs.
Porter first light."

*~*~*

"Mademoiselle, there ez a gentleman below. He will
not leave until he speaks to you."

From where she was using the last of the fading light
from the setting sun, Roxana looked up from the worktable. She
stitched a ruche on the bodice of a garment ordered by one of Mrs.
Porter's girls. In the end the working girls had driven a hard
bargain, but Roxana had agreed to their price if they promised to
pay promptly.

Roxana's first thought was that she wanted to finish
the piece before the light was completely gone, but she put down
the garment. She often dealt with suppliers and weavers, taking on
the ordering of fabric, pins and needles, while Madame Roussard
dealt with the clientele. "What gentleman?"

Madame Roussard looked round-eyed. "He say, he ez a
duke,
mon chere.
And he say he knows you are here."

Roxana's hands shook, and she could not identify her
emotions. Anticipation curled around a feeling suspiciously close
to happiness.

She stood and removed the smock that covered her
plain green gown and moved closer to her living area. "Send him up,
then."

Max entered the attic and Roxana felt lightheaded. As
he cleared the last step, he stooped, missing the sloping roof. His
hat in his hand, he walked forward until he could stand upright.
Neither she nor any of the women working for her ever needed to
bend to clear the eaves. He seemed large and imposing in her female
sanctuary.