A Midnight Clear

by Kristi Astor

  His siblings clattered down the uncarpeted staircase from the third floor. One more flight of stairs and a carpeted passageway before they were upon him.

  “No, that is just it. Her clothes are to die for—a bit too fast for a girl not out—and, well.” Fanny tapped her lip with a forefinger.

  Max wondered if Fanny had forgotten how revealing the current London fashions were. Nearly sheer, dampened gowns were found in all drawing rooms. The duchess’s black silk gown was cut modestly, a somber tribute to her widowed state.

  “I suppose she should have been presented last year. She arrived with two monstrous trunks as well as two smaller bandboxes as if she meant to stay forever. I suppose she has a great deal of clothes. But I do not understand how she could afford such fashionable and well-made things. She seems quite enamored of my lady’s magazines—”

  “Fanny,” Max cut her off. So if Miss Winston’s clothes weren’t rags . . .

  “I sent my dresser to help her unpack, you see.”

  No, Max didn’t see. He heard Julia’s exuberant laughter and Thomas calling out as the carpeted passageway muffled their footfalls.

  “She wouldn’t open one trunk at all. I hate to think what might be in there.”

  “Fanny.”

  As red stained Fanny’s cheeks, her voice dropped to a strained whisper. “But my maid says that Miss Winston has undergarments made of red silk. Shifts and drawers and—”

  The door burst open. Thomas and Julia flew across the room, knocking into Max. They were big enough to almost bowl him over and too old to be so rambunctious. He hugged them tight anyway.

  Over their blond curls he saw what must be the owner of such scandalous undergarments made of red silk. His first thought was that even without a dowry, she should arouse enough interest to be satisfactorily settled.

  She took a step into the room. Her gown caressed her slender form and the only thought he could raise was that with her dark hair and midnight blue eyes, she’d look damn good in red silk. But then again, from the way the jade green material slid against her body, he was not sure she wore any undergarments at all. In either case, he’d really like to see for himself what was under that dress.

  Then he banished the thought as totally uncharacteristic. He never bothered with innocents and he had no plans to start now.

  Roxana Winston entered the massive drawing room more sedately than the youngest St. Clairs. Both of them had raced past her on the stair, shouting, “Max is home.” Julia and Thomas threw themselves at the newcomer. He enfolded them in a bear hug, lifting both the nearly grown youngsters off the floor.

  The joyous greeting for the return of the head of household was a far cry from what happened in Roxana’s home when her father arrived after an extended absence.

  The intensity of the duke’s gaze on her started flutters in her stomach. Then he ruffled Thomas’s hair and grinned down at Julia. Instead of looking imperious and imposing, he looked . . . friendly, perhaps kind. “Good grief, I believe you both have grown an inch. Have I been gone so long?”

  His tousled tawny brown hair appeared windblown and his skin was ruddy. As she neared him, she caught the scent of the outdoors, crisp with the cold.

  Even the Duchess of Trent appeared quite excited by her stepson’s presence. Her color was high as she clapped her hands together to restrain the boisterous antics of her son, jumping up and down clamoring, “Max, you have to come see me ride. I can take the paddock fence now.”

  Roxana glided forward and waited quietly to make her curtsy. She’d practiced, looking in her cheval glass. This was probably the only time she would ever make a curtsy to a duke in a social situation. In the future she would be shunned by the ton. Persons of trade were not welcomed in polite society.

  “Roxy is designing a new gown for me,” said Julia as Roxana neared the family group. “You should see it.”

  “Oh, dear,” said the duchess.

  The Duke of Trent cast a glance at his stepmother and then turned his brown eyes Roxana’s way, his warm gaze roving over her gown.

  Roxana supposed that was good. She wanted her dresses noticed, but she was not entirely sure that he was looking at just her creation. An edgy energy crept up her spine.

  He urged the children to step back. “Allow me to meet our guest.”

  The Duchess of Trent performed the introductions.

  Roxana pasted what she hoped was an appropriate smile on her face and dropped to her curtsy. “I am most grateful for your hospitality, your grace.”

  As her lowered gaze returned to his face, she noticed the way his buff unmentionables clung to the muscles of his thighs and the cut of his chestnut-brown coat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. Her curtsy had been designed to emphasize the bias cut of her dress; instead she noticed him.

  “Charmed to meet you.” He cast a disparaging glance in his stepmother’s direction. “I have heard so much about you, Miss Winston.”

  The Duchess of Trent hardly looked old enough to be a mother of the two youths, let alone as old as Roxana’s mother, although they were of an age. “I cannot imagine that you have heard much. I am sure I was never much more than an afterthought in my mother’s correspondence.”

  “I was just telling Max of your interest in fashion and how I so admire your wardrobe.” The duchess rolled her eyes toward her stepson as she sat down.

  The duke gestured for her to sit and Roxana complied, perching on the far end of the sofa. As soon as the Duke of Trent sat, Thomas leaned against his half brother’s knee and Julia crowded the sofa next to them. How different from when Roxana’s father returned home and everyone scattered. Giving Lord Winston a wide berth, with only the kitchen, bedroom, parlor and attic to provide refuge, often proved difficult.

  “Thank you, I do enjoy clothes and could spend hours discussing them, but the Duke of Trent will surely not want to be bored with such feminine diversions.”

  “On the contrary. Perhaps you could describe the dress being made for Lady Julia,” he said.

  While the question seemed innocuous enough, an undercurrent of caution threaded through the words. Had the Duchess of Trent’s “Oh dear” signified an objection to Julia’s new dress?

  Fearing she’d broken an unwritten rule, Roxana turned toward the duchess. “Would you rather I did not help Julia construct a new gown, your grace?”

  The Duchess of Trent looked left, then right, before she answered. “She is only fourteen.”

  “Pray tell, what color is this gown?” asked the duke.

  The duchess rapped her stepson with a closed fan.

  “I thought a simple day gown in white muslin, as would be appropriate for a young lady.” Roxana looked down at the green dress she wore with pride. Was the neckline too low? Was her lace fichu too transparent? Was the movement from the innovative bias cut a problem? Until this minute Roxy had thought the gown, which could be worn day or evening, one of her better pieces. “I was thinking of pink ribbons in love knots. I could show you the sketch I made, your grace, to see if there is anything you would alter.”

  “Oh no, Mama. It is perfect.”

  “I apologize.” Roxana ignored Julia’s interruption. “I should have asked your permission first.”

  “How could you?” said Julia. “We were just discussing it before you came, Max. It is only a little grown up. Roxy said it would not be appropriate to dress as if I were out. You should see her dresses; she has the most splendid ball gown in red silk.”

  The Duke of Trent coughed, then patted Julia’s knee. “I’m sure I will have the privilege during the festivities. So do you often design gowns, Miss Winston?”

  She ran a finger over a seam. “I dabble a bit.”

  Roxy had not meant to be so transparent with her ambitions. She just desperately needed to know if her designs would fly in fashionable circles. She’d been told her creations were to die for, but she had never been within an ames-ace of London to really see for herself. She sucked in a deep breath and then
said, “A dressmaker in my village made up my wardrobe. She wants to open her own shop in London.”

  It was only a small untruth, since she was the dressmaker. While here, she hoped to discover if members of the ton liked her dresses. Well, that and to follow her mother’s instructions to get herself compromised, not exactly to the letter.

  She stole a glance at the Duke of Trent. The very thought of what she would have to do to accomplish her mission made her go hot, then cold, as if she were struck with a bad case of ague. Until now, the man she would need to enact her plan had been a shadowy, unreal figure, not a real, flesh-and-blood man. Not that the duke would be the man she picked to be her pawn.

  He turned toward her, as if aware of her gaze.

  Doubt that she could accomplish her mission clawed icy fingers around her neck. She was not usually so false, and Roxy did not know if she could manage this deception well. But then, she had no choice. This was her only chance to be free of her father’s household and keep the rest of her family from the poorhouse. As her mother had said, it was all up to her. And she would not fail them.

  “So you see my dilemma, do you not?” Fanny wrung her hands and crossed the drawing room, empty except for her and Max. “She is very alluring and I cannot adequately chaperone a creature like that with all my duties as hostess.”

  Max paused in writing an invitation to a friend. He considered that his first thought about Miss Winston had been sinful. He found a small amount of relief that Fanny expected that sort of reaction from men, but that did present a bit of a problem. A chit like her could never be left alone with a gentleman, a prospect that was unavoidable at the house party. A less attractive young lady could be allowed a longer leash. Given that she was on the hunt for a husband, Miss Winston would be treading a thin line between respectability and temptation.

  “I will watch over her,” Max said.

  Fanny spun and faced him. “I can hardly ask that of you. She is my responsibility.”

  “Worry no more. You know that you may trust me to keep her reputation safe. She is my guest too. And her family has seen fit to entrust her well-being to us.”

  “You have duties too. You can hardly provide escort for her every moment when I cannot.”

  Max put down his pen. He would have to lead the gentlemen on afternoon shooting expeditions and arrange a fox hunt as well as daily rides. “I am sending for Scully. I will tell him if he wants to please you, he will focus his attentions on guarding Miss Winston.”

  Fanny frowned. “Can you think of no one else? I know I can trust you to do the proper thing, but asking Scully to help is a bit like asking a wolf to guard sheep.”

  “He has six sisters. He of all people knows how to keep a young lady in line.” Max dismissed Fanny’s distrust of his friend. Scully may be a ladies’ man, but he knew which women were off limits. He never preyed on innocents, either. “Between the three of us, we can protect Miss Winston’s reputation.”

  Max wondered what Miss Winston might have on today. Yesterday, she had worn the same green gown to dinner. She’d removed the fichu around her neck and added a crocheted lace shawl. As much as he’d studied her, he really could not name anything truly amiss with her attire. But his gaze was drawn to her form rather more than was comfortable.

  Fanny wandered across the room.

  He finished his letter and began one to his friend the Honorable Devlin Scullin. Having his friend back in the house again would be good. After he finished, Max folded the letters and sealed them. “I shall just take these to town. Is there anything you need?”

  “I have several additional invitations too, if you will be so kind as to post them.” Fanny sighed.

  “Have you seen our guest today?”

  “No, she seems to spend an inordinate amount of time in her room. I sent a footman for her a while ago.”

  Max paused in his trip to the door. Fanny seemed listless. Was she upset that he meant to invite Scully again? Usually by now she would be animatedly discussing the meals and the room assignments and ordering new linens, carpets or chairs. There had been endless discussions about the number of horses needed for the hunts with his father, who had countered with his own strong convictions about all the details. She should order blue carpets, not yellow, and they could purchase another dozen horses, none of which would arrive in time to be of any use.

  But his father was gone now.

  “If you need to argue about whether you will serve apricot tarts or apple fritters with the first remove, I am at your service.”

  Fanny waved him off. “You are no fun. You will just say serve apricot tarts on Friday and the apple fritters on Saturday.”

  “Perhaps I could urge Miss Winston to have a strong opinion one way or another.” Max watched Fanny. Did she long to indulge in a fit of redecorating? His father had been endlessly indulgent, buying his stepmother anything she wanted, be it house furnishings or extraordinary court dress. Max supposed that was the province of a beautiful younger wife with an older husband. But Max would not offer to let her redecorate, and she would not ask. A wave of guilt washed over him, even though he knew indulging her the way his father had would not be proper.

  Fanny smiled a watery smile. “I do miss him.”

  “As do I.” Responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders at moments like this. Yet he had so much that he could not complain. “I shall be back before too long. I have to procure the services of the farrier and a few whipper-ins for the hunt.”

  When Max reached the stairway leading to the great hall, Miss Winston was descending the stairs. He waited until she reached the landing. Today she wore a long-sleeved navy gown with a white habit shirt filling in the neckline. The dress was slightly more sedate than yesterday’s, but still not in the style of a young miss.

  “Miss Winston,” he acknowledged.

  She paused on the landing, her hand on the banister. She looked down into the main hall, where the footmen stood ready with his overcoat and top hat. “Are you going out, your grace?”

  “I have errands in town.”

  She bit her cherry lip and for a moment her mouth was all he could think about. That and the mistletoe that would be spread about the house when the festivities began in earnest.

  “Is there a linen draper in town?”

  Max snapped his attention back to more mundane subjects, such as clothing. “I believe so. Would you like to accompany me?” If Miss Winston needed to go to town, his duty required him to escort her.

  “I would indeed. Will you wait while I fetch my bonnet and cloak?”

  “Certainly, Miss Winston.”

  She had turned to go back up the stairs, and Lord forgive him, he thought he caught a glimpse of a red petticoat. Surely not. Fanny had said shifts and pantalets, not petticoats, which was quite bad enough. He stared at her skirts, trying to direct his thoughts to anything else. Conjugate Latin verbs or some such. He had never seen any woman in red undergarments, but that did not stop him from imagining the sight.

  She paused, then looked down at him. “Your grace, might I ask you a question?”

  “By all means.” He put a boot on the lowest step, and then wondered what the hell he was doing. He was supposed to be going downstairs and out, not following her upstairs.

  “Is something amiss with my dresses?”

  That she was wearing them. “Er . . . no.”

  She folded her arms across her middle and stared him down. “Go on.”

  “I am done.” He paused, searching for the proper response. Lord, he was a slowtop today. “Your gowns are quite lovely.”

  She took a step down, and for just a moment he could see the outline of her thigh under the dark material of her gown, then her skirts slid back into place.

  “You have been to London. Are they fashionable?”

  He hated conversations about clothing. But then again his conversations normally concerned the exorbitant costs, not if the style was au courant. Was this gown cut a little lower than the one s
he wore last night? Would the habit shirt disappear before dinner? “I believe you are bang up to the nines, Miss Winston. You would quite cut a dash in the city.”

  “Then why does the duchess look at me as if her eyes would cross?”

  “Envy?” volunteered Max, deciding he should leave now. Reluctantly he lifted his foot from the stair.

  Surprise flashed across Roxana’s face, but then her eyes narrowed with skepticism. “You do not offer that explanation with great conviction. If it is only envy, why then did she have misgivings about my designing a dress for Lady Julia?”

  He stopped and swallowed hard. “You are very direct, Miss Winston.”

  “Yes, I promise to make an effort to curb that disagreeable tendency when the rest of the guests are here. But I am green to society and should like to know if I am taking any missteps.”

  He spun around. “Being direct is not always disagreeable.”

  “Isn’t it?” She had descended to the landing again and he regretted that he had not watched. She pursed her mouth. “I am told that gentleman prefer a more demure countenance.”

  “I find plain speaking refreshing.” Fanny’s hints and prompts could drive him crazy with her unwillingness to just spill whatever it was she wanted him to know. “My stepmother dearly loves fashion, but she has been unable to indulge since donning her weeds.”

  Roxana was close enough he could see how the dark blue of her dress emphasized the color of her eyes. He could not help think of dark nights and forbidden pleasures. A direct woman had no qualms about asking for what she wanted. He shook his head to clear it. He had no business thinking such thoughts about a young unmarried woman, and he, as a rule, did not.

  The knowledge that Miss Winston—Roxana—wore red silk undergarments muddled his thoughts. Now that he had stepped into the role of chaperone, thinking about her undergarments was just wrong.

  “Do you really believe she is envious?” She scrutinized him.

  “Yes, I am sure of it.” He took a step back, wanting to break the web of fascination woven around him. Perhaps he should resume his liaison with Lady Malmsbury. He had mayhap allowed too much time to pass without a mistress.