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Authors: Katy Madison
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his thumb every
minute. But the whole situation with her made him curious about the
man who should be watching over his daughter. "Have you ever met
Lord Winston?"
Scully finally took his shot. The clack of balls
against each other hardly penetrated Max's brain.
"Met him at the races at Newmarket one year. He plays
rather deep. Drinks deep too."
"Does he go about in society much, for I do not
remember seeing him last season?"
"Doubt it." Scully rubbed chalk on the leather tip of
his stick. "I gather he's a bit of a Sunday man."
Which would explain Roxana's desperation to marry a
rich man. Had her father landed himself so deeply in debt that he
dodged prison? A man could not be arrested for debt on the Lord's
Day. Of course, he was likely living on expectations until he
inherited his father's viscountcy.
"I swear Fanny went around by the servant stairs so
she would not pass near the mistletoe when I was near it," Scully
said.
Max avoided being near the stuff too. A sprig would
be strung up just outside the dining room for those persistent
young women who might loiter about waiting for the gentlemen to
finish their port. One sprig hung in the corner of the ballroom,
for those bold enough to seek out its location in the midst of
company. Then another hung in a niche just to the right of the
staircase leading to the bedchambers. That was the dangerous
one.
"Your turn," said Scully.
Max took aim.
"Look, it is Breedon returning from his afternoon
constitutional," said Scully just as Max took his shot.
Used to his friend's attempts to distract him, Max
nailed the shot, the balls clicking neatly together as he'd
intended. "Is he? I need to speak with him."
"Sending him packing?" inquired Scully with an arched
eyebrow.
"Don't be absurd." Max leaned his cue stick against
the wall. "I want to sound out Breedon about his intentions toward
Roxana." Breedon should know that Max took his duty as her stand-in
guardian seriously. "Do excuse me while I catch him, unless of
course you really did not see him."
"How is it you manage to turn every disadvantage to
your advantage?" asked Scully.
"I have no disadvantages, just friends who would
offer useless distractions."
Scully followed Max out of the billiard room, toward
the entry hall and the stairs to the ground floor.
A form darted toward the niche where the servants had
removed the ornate table and Grecian urn that normally resided
there.
Scully started, "Is that—"
"Roxana." Max recognized the green dress that clung
to her figure like a glove—or a scarf—or a wet sheet. Was she
dampening her gowns? Every time he saw the way that the material
clung to her perfect form, his breath caught and desire stabbed low
in him.
Scully grabbed Max's shoulder, stopping his forward
progress.
Max wanted to shake free of Scully's hold. Was Roxana
planning for Breedon to catch her under the mistletoe?
Scully tugged him back. "She must have been watching
for him to return," he whispered.
In the dim twilight of the evening, before the wall
scones had been lit, Max felt himself sink into a blackness that he
didn't understand. "We should stop her."
"You know Breedon won't take advantage in an open
passageway. It's just a harmless kiss under the mistletoe."
Scully wrapped his arm in Max's and yanked him back.
Max could have broken free, but he knew Roxana wanted Breedon to
offer for her. Max stood his ground as Breedon reached the top of
the stairs and rounded the newel post.
Roxana stepped out.
Max could not see her expression, but Breedon's mouth
rounded in surprise.
After greeting her with a short nod, Breedon walked
past without stopping to kiss her.
Roxana's shoulders dropped, and she folded her hands
across her front.
"If Breedon doesn't mean to honor the traditions of
Christmas, I shall do the honors." Scully started forward.
Max grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. "No!"
"Stop. You're destroying my oriental."
"If that's an oriental I'll eat my hat. You cannot
tie more
minute. But the whole situation with her made him curious about the
man who should be watching over his daughter. "Have you ever met
Lord Winston?"
Scully finally took his shot. The clack of balls
against each other hardly penetrated Max's brain.
"Met him at the races at Newmarket one year. He plays
rather deep. Drinks deep too."
"Does he go about in society much, for I do not
remember seeing him last season?"
"Doubt it." Scully rubbed chalk on the leather tip of
his stick. "I gather he's a bit of a Sunday man."
Which would explain Roxana's desperation to marry a
rich man. Had her father landed himself so deeply in debt that he
dodged prison? A man could not be arrested for debt on the Lord's
Day. Of course, he was likely living on expectations until he
inherited his father's viscountcy.
"I swear Fanny went around by the servant stairs so
she would not pass near the mistletoe when I was near it," Scully
said.
Max avoided being near the stuff too. A sprig would
be strung up just outside the dining room for those persistent
young women who might loiter about waiting for the gentlemen to
finish their port. One sprig hung in the corner of the ballroom,
for those bold enough to seek out its location in the midst of
company. Then another hung in a niche just to the right of the
staircase leading to the bedchambers. That was the dangerous
one.
"Your turn," said Scully.
Max took aim.
"Look, it is Breedon returning from his afternoon
constitutional," said Scully just as Max took his shot.
Used to his friend's attempts to distract him, Max
nailed the shot, the balls clicking neatly together as he'd
intended. "Is he? I need to speak with him."
"Sending him packing?" inquired Scully with an arched
eyebrow.
"Don't be absurd." Max leaned his cue stick against
the wall. "I want to sound out Breedon about his intentions toward
Roxana." Breedon should know that Max took his duty as her stand-in
guardian seriously. "Do excuse me while I catch him, unless of
course you really did not see him."
"How is it you manage to turn every disadvantage to
your advantage?" asked Scully.
"I have no disadvantages, just friends who would
offer useless distractions."
Scully followed Max out of the billiard room, toward
the entry hall and the stairs to the ground floor.
A form darted toward the niche where the servants had
removed the ornate table and Grecian urn that normally resided
there.
Scully started, "Is that—"
"Roxana." Max recognized the green dress that clung
to her figure like a glove—or a scarf—or a wet sheet. Was she
dampening her gowns? Every time he saw the way that the material
clung to her perfect form, his breath caught and desire stabbed low
in him.
Scully grabbed Max's shoulder, stopping his forward
progress.
Max wanted to shake free of Scully's hold. Was Roxana
planning for Breedon to catch her under the mistletoe?
Scully tugged him back. "She must have been watching
for him to return," he whispered.
In the dim twilight of the evening, before the wall
scones had been lit, Max felt himself sink into a blackness that he
didn't understand. "We should stop her."
"You know Breedon won't take advantage in an open
passageway. It's just a harmless kiss under the mistletoe."
Scully wrapped his arm in Max's and yanked him back.
Max could have broken free, but he knew Roxana wanted Breedon to
offer for her. Max stood his ground as Breedon reached the top of
the stairs and rounded the newel post.
Roxana stepped out.
Max could not see her expression, but Breedon's mouth
rounded in surprise.
After greeting her with a short nod, Breedon walked
past without stopping to kiss her.
Roxana's shoulders dropped, and she folded her hands
across her front.
"If Breedon doesn't mean to honor the traditions of
Christmas, I shall do the honors." Scully started forward.
Max grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. "No!"
"Stop. You're destroying my oriental."
"If that's an oriental I'll eat my hat. You cannot
tie more
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