A Midnight Clear

by Kristi Astor

  WANTING MORE

  “Sweetheart? Do you mean to talk to me all night?”

  “If that is what it takes,” Max said, but then he brushed his lips across hers. His touch was light and altogether unsatisfying. She wanted more.

  “What do you”—his hand curled around her breast—“oh!”

  His mouth covered hers again. She lowered her arm around his neck.

  He kissed her langourously as if in no hurry at all. Her bones were melting and a building urgency made her arch into him. Then he ended the kiss as if reluctant, his lips clinging to hers. “Are you done being frightened, pet?”

  A Midnight Clear

  Karen L. King

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  WANTING MORE

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  December 1804

  Roxana Winston tied the strings of her chip-straw bonnet under her chin and gave one final look around the attic she shared with her three sisters. She would never return, and she would not miss this cramped and cold space.

  Bent over like an old crone to clear the low-hanging thatched roof, she skirted around the straw ticks on the floor and made her way to the ladder that led down to the cottage’s kitchen.

  This tiny house had once been the groundskeeper’s residence, but was quite a come-down from Wingate Hall, where the Winston family had lived for the first twelve years of Roxana’s life. Now they could look across the ungroomed lawn and see their family seat, but the hall was let to Mrs. Porter and her so-called “daughters.”

  Roxana’s mother stood at the bottom of the ladder. Perpetual worry carved lines in Lady Winston’s forehead and grooves along her mouth. “You will be all right, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will, Mother.” Roxana was more worried about the rest of them while she was gone.

  Worry was familiar to her. Worries that her father would learn that she was stealing up to Wingate Hall, worries that he would return home and make their life miserable, worries that she could not produce the next meal, and worries that they would not have enough firewood to keep warm were constant companions. She was numb to worry. Yet a herd of horses seemed to have established a racetrack in her stomach. Anticipation and—dare she think it—hope weakened her knees and made her hands shake. In a few minutes she would be free of this place.

  Roxana’s sister Katherine turned from where she peeled potatoes, as if she had heard the false bravado in Roxy’s voice. But Katherine was bravely pretending she could manage the household and take over the chores that Roxana managed.

  The four potatoes were shriveled, with black spots. Katherine was careful to peel only a narrow layer of skin away. Their food supply dwindled, while spring planting remained a long way away. A month ago a fox had broken into their chicken coop and left only bloody feathers, cracked eggs and scattered straw. These four potatoes would supply the day’s meals.

  Roxana had to be successful. If she failed, seventeen-year-old Katherine would be the next sacrificial lamb sent out for slaughter. Katherine would never be able to withstand the pressure. Roxana would never allow that.

  “Be good to the duchess. Do not do anything to anger her; you will need her help, if you . . . if you . . . if you are to be successful.” Lady Winston clung to Roxana’s arm with her damaged hand. Two broken fingers had never healed correctly and usually Lady Winston kept the hand tucked out of sight.

  “Yes, I know, Mama.” Roxana tugged her mother’s slipping shawl up around her bent shoulders. For a woman of only a certain age, Lady Winston was so beaten down she could have passed for a woman of twice her years. Thank goodness she had retained ties to friends of better times. “I am mindful of the great favor that the Duchess of Trent and her stepson are granting me. I will do nothing beyond show my gratitude.”

  Her mother frowned. “Your mouth has gotten the better of you at times. You cannot alienate a potential suitor with your sharp tongue. Your father. . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Katherine ducked her head as if their father was present. Roxana’s chin tilted up with her habitual defiance.

  “I shall restrain my tendency to speak my mind. In fact, I shall just keep my intelligence safely locked in a box.”

  Her mother wore a vague look as if she was not quite sure if her daughter was serious or not. “A husband will expect a sweet and biddable wife.” Her mother leaned close and whispered, “You must fix a man’s affections quickly. You are very pretty, so if you have to . . . no one will doubt . . .” Her mother found herself unable to supply the words for the fallback plan. “It is a good thing you inherited your father’s looks.”

  Roxana’s jaw tightened. Her dark hair, blue eyes and evenly matched features had come from her father, but she would have gladly traded them for Katherine’s wispy blond curls, upturned nose and freckles. Anything to look less like the man who had forced them into this poverty.

  “You remember what I told you?” asked her mother.

  Roxana nodded.

  Lady Winston had turned beet red as she explained the contingency plan to her oldest daughter. A party lasting a little over a fortnight was not likely to produce a proposal, yet Roxana needed to garner one. So she had been given instructions that she may get compromised, thereby forcing a proposal or a settlement. A girl of her birth could reasonably expect a proposal.

  “I know what I need to do, Mama,” Roxana said. Dissatisfied with her mother’s vague hints and innuendos, she’d asked the more worldly Mrs. Porter for a full explanation and pointers on how to prompt a man to take such a treacherous step. Mrs. Porter’s reluctantly given information had been much more illuminating.

  While her mother offered it as a last resort, Roxana, with her more pragmatic nature, thought she’d do better to get compromised. A legitimate marriage proposal was unlikely and the worst thing that could happen. Roxana had other plans. They did not include marriage.

  “Yes, do not set your sights on the duke, because he will do everything too correctly. My understanding is he would never . . . breach the bounds of propriety. A younger man is more likely to be swayed by his passions. You will need the duke to demand the proper recompense for you. And do not under any circumstance acknowledge our tenants.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Lady Winston had managed to avoid calling Mrs. Porter and her girls by name for the last half-dozen years. Roxana should not even know about their sort of people. She gave her mother a perfunctory kiss on her cheek. “Good-bye, Mama.”

  In the parlor that at night doubled as her thirteen-year-old brother’s bedroom, Roxana looked around ascertaining that every scrap of lace and usable button was packed. She no longer noticed the cracked and yellow plaster or the smoky, rattling windowpanes. Her poverty would not be evident in her wardrobe, at least. She closed the trunk in the center of the room. Her brother lifted one side and they carried it out to the waiting pony cart.

  “I can ask around in town and get work,”
said Jonathon as he lifted the trunk and shoved it into the cart bed.

  Roxana’s eyes stung as she considered the idea of the future Baron of Wingate working as a common laborer. “Let me see what I can do, first.”

  Her brother threw himself at her, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “It is bad enough that you have had to work as a seamstress. I cannot stand the idea of you marrying just to provide for us. If I were older I could join the army.”

  Roxana rubbed her brother’s shoulders. “I like the sewing, and do not fret about my future. This could be the best thing to ever happen to me.”

  A thick lump blocked her throat as she hugged each of her sisters.

  As she held Katherine she whispered, “The Christmas gifts are tucked under the end of the mattress in the attic.”

  Katherine leaned back. “You said we would not exchange gifts this year, that we could not afford it.”

  “Yes, well, they are only small gifts, and I am selfish enough that I want you to think of me on Christmas Day when you open them.” Roxana touched her sister’s cheek and smiled even though it was painful and she had much rather cry, but Katherine needed her confidence boosted. “Besides, I am sure I will want for naught at the Trents’ house party. I hardly need any gifts.”

  Katherine nodded.

  Her heart heavy with not knowing when she would ever see them again, Roxana climbed onto the pony cart. She was to sell it and the rickety old nag in town to have the money to hire a post-chaise and outriders to reach her destination. Roxana had already determined she could ride the mail coach for less, even with paying extra to transport her ancient trunks.

  The hope and fear on Katherine’s face, the quivering lip that Jonathon tried to control and the tearful kisses of her two younger sisters made an ache spread under her breastbone. She could not let them down. She would find a way to keep them fed and warm.

  Her sisters deserved the chance to make decent marriages and Jonathon should not have to face the prospect of becoming a laborer. Roxana was determined to succeed with her own plans. This was her golden opportunity and her last desperate chance to save her family and herself from this hopeless existence.

  Chapter One

  “Oh, Max, I am so glad you’ve arrived home. You will know the right thing to do. You always do. You have invited a few of your bachelor friends to the house party, have you not?” asked the Dowager Duchess of Trent without lifting her pen from the paper. Her smooth forehead crinkled with worry, and she puckered her lips in concentration.

  “Ah, are you ready to toss out your handkerchief again, Maman?” Maximilian Adrian Xavier St. Claire, otherwise known as the Duke of Trent, smiled indulgently at his stepmother. “It is about time you remarried.”

  “Pish!” said the young dowager duchess. “Well, there is you, and I invited the Breedons, and they will bring their son.”

  Since his stepmother was not likely to count him as possible marriage material, nor did he think she would consider the Breedons’ son, he did not suppose she was on the hunt for a new husband. This was just as well, because he was rather used to Fanny running his home, first for his father and now for him.

  Since she was only seven years older than Max, would she want to remarry now that her year of mourning was done? “I could send for Scully,” Max said.

  “Did you call me ‘Maman’?” She paused in the middle of writing.

  “Did I?” asked Max. She had halfheartedly tried to get him to call her that years ago. They had eventually compromised on first names. He knew that calling her “Maman” would jar her loose of her preoccupation with whatever current problem wrinkled her brow. He’d hoped for a laugh, but she had not laughed much of late.

  She put her pen down and rose, her blue eyes contrite. “I am so sorry. Welcome home, Max. I trust you are in good health?”

  She crossed the room and pressed her cheek to his.

  “Excellent health. And your grace?”

  “Stop being so formal, Max. You know I cannot abide it.” She tugged the bell pull. “And do not send for Scully if he means to tag after me like a lovesick puppy. But if you can think of any other unmarried men, you should invite them, posthaste. I need eligible men for our houseguest. It is probably much too late to send her home. I am quite in a dither with this situation.”

  “What situation?” Max settled in for the wait. Fanny was likely to circle the issue many times before it became clear to him.

  “I did not know she was coming, or I should have planned this all differently. I shall invite more young ladies of marriageable age too. You should be thinking of setting up your nursery.”

  “I can hardly boot my own brother and sister from the nursery, Fanny, dearest.” Plus, Max had no intention of marrying and setting up his nursery.

  “Well, Julia is too old to keep in the nursery and Thomas will be off to Eton next year. The timing is perfect for you to settle down. You are not getting any younger, you know.”

  “Do not invite any young ladies for my benefit.” At thirty, Max had no reason to be discontent with his life. He would not muck it up with a marriage.

  His half brother’s prospects were much better if Max stayed single and kept Thomas the heir presumptive. Max would rather not lose yet another younger brother to a war on foreign soil.

  “I invited the Malmsburys on your behalf.”

  “Oh hell and damnation, tell me they did not accept.”

  “Lady Malmsbury accepted.” Fanny wrung her hands. “You did not want her to come? She said you would, and are you no longer . . . ?”

  “Do not fret about it, Fanny. You could not have known.” He was not in the habit of discussing his affairs with his stepmother, although he just realized she had always managed to include his latest paramour among the company at the house parties. His parting with Lady Malmsbury had not been quite as amicable as he would have liked, but she was a lady and he a gentleman. “I am sure we shall manage to be civil to each other.”

  “Well, then that is all the more reason why I should attempt to include more of the marriageable set. If I use the rooms on the west wing, we could house a dozen more guests. Are there any young ladies whom you would like me to include?”

  He could only imagine Lady Malmsbury’s reaction to his paying any mind to young lady of a marriageable inclination. Her increasing possessiveness had prompted him to end their liaison. “Why are you hell-bent on matchmaking?”

  A footman opened the drawing-room door.

  “Please send in a tea tray. I’m sure Max is famished,” she instructed the servant. “Pray tell the children their brother is here and do see if you can locate Miss Winston.”

  “Very good, your grace,” said the footman before he bowed out the door.

  “Who is Miss Winston?”

  “Our houseguest.” Fanny’s lips flattened. “The reason I must have more younger people. I promised her mother, you see.” Fanny wrung her hands. “I never intended to match make, and I am not quite sure that she is everything she should be. But I cannot send her home now, can I?”

  Max pulled his stepmother to a chair. “Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning.”

  “You remember my friend Beth from my Bath days . . . Well, no, you probably don’t—”

  “Your friend”—prompted Max, knowing Fanny could wander about quite a bit before she got to the point—“from school.”

  “Yes, well, she married Sir Winston—or was it Lord Winston? He is a viscount or a knight or—”

  “He’s a baron. Baron of Wingate.” Max sighed. Would he have to listen to Miss Winston’s entire life story? “Do hurry, dear, before the children attack me.”

  “Why, Max, my children would never attack you,” said Fanny with her hand at her chest.

  “Yes, but if you hurry you might explain before they demand all my attention.” Max wanted to know why his stepmother had invited this young lady and why she was now having regrets. “Miss Winston is the product of this union?”

  “W
ell, yes. Her mother and I were quite good friends and we have corresponded over the years, although lately not near as much. She wrote earlier this year and asked if Miss Winston could be invited to our house party, there were so few prospects for her in Montgomeryshire, and the Winstons would not be able to present her in London. Apparently nothing can be spared to bring her out. And she has no dowry at all. There are other children and a brother who should be in school and they have been trying to get him in as a King’s Scholar.”

  Max tapped Fanny on her hands, hoping to redirect her conversation to the problem of Miss Winston and not her entire family’s concerns.

  He could hear the thump of feet above him, racing for the stairs. Julia and Thomas would be upon him in a moment.

  “Beth, er, Lady Winston asked if I might invite her—Miss Winston, that is—to one of my house parties, so she might have a chance of affixing a gentleman’s interest.”

  “And now she is here.” What was the problem? Was she bracket-faced? Were her manners boorish? Was she unmarriageable? “Whatever is causing your misgivings?”

  “I never received an answer. I did not know she was coming. And, well . . .”

  “Yes, well?”

  “She arrived on the mail coach, alone. She said it was more economical than traveling in a post-chaise and—”

  “Miss Winston traveled on the mail coach alone? Her parents do not attend with her?”

  “She is all alone. So you see my dilemma. I certainly expected that Lady Winston would accompany her daughter. I was rather looking forward to seeing Beth again. I never thought—”

  “Are her manners amiss?” Max was quite sure he did not see why Fanny was in a fret. It was a bit unconventional, but hardly unusual for an unmarried miss to stay with her parent’s friend.

  “No, she seems a lovely girl, but her clothes—”

  “Are rags?” So Miss Winston was a charity case and poor as a church mouse to boot. While it was not well done of the Winstons to send their daughter without escort and on a public conveyance, it did not make the girl a total liability. She was, after all, wellborn.