“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder,” Filpot pronounced.
Bianca raised her eyes to his. No man, and no woman, Max silently promised her. He was under no illusions that Bianca came to this happily, but she’d done so willingly, and that was all that mattered. They were married, and she could not undo it now.
When the service was concluded, the minister led them to the chapel. Tate followed closely at their heels, jovial once more, shaking Mr. Filpot’s hand and slapping Max on the shoulder as if this outcome had been the dearest wish of everyone involved. It only deepened his cynical wondering if Tate had planned to foist Bianca onto him from the beginning, but he obligingly accepted the congratulations with a smile. What was done, was done, and if he’d been deceived into doing it, there would be time for redress later.
After the marriage was properly recorded, a legally binding record in the parish register, Filpot and Tate walked out. The minister seemed vastly relieved everything had gone off smoothly, chattering rapidly though quietly to Tate, and Max saw the coins Tate dropped into the man’s palm. Almost like a bribe not to raise any complaint.
But for the first time, he was alone with his lawfully wedded wife. Max folded his arms and leaned back to look at her.
Now that he really paid attention, she was rather lovely. Not in the way of her sister, who was like a delicately crafted porcelain doll with every hair in place . . . and yet. There was a fine pink flush in her cheeks, and that splendid bosom rose and fell appealingly. She wasn’t the wife he’d expected, but Max found that hadn’t decreased his desire for the marriage.
There was a real chance it had done the opposite.
She noticed his scrutiny. Her eyes were as turbulent as a summer storm as she advanced on him. “What a horrible name you’ve got.”
He smiled. “The bane of my existence since birth.”
“No wonder you use Maximilian,” she went on. “Augustus Crispin!”
His mother had named him after his father’s father and grandfather, hoping that would spur the family to look after him. It hadn’t worked, and Max only acknowledged those names when forced to do so. “Maximilian was my mother’s father’s name,” he said instead. Old Maxim had been a silent, stern type, refusing to speak anything but German despite living twenty years in Britain. Max had infinitely preferred him to anyone from his father’s family.
She sniffed. “How did you know my name?”
Max raised a brow. “We’ve been introduced more than once, my dear.”
“My full name,” she said acidly.
“Your father showed me the family Bible,” he replied after a moment’s pause. Tate had shown him the lines, including the spaces left for his daughters’ husbands. Again Max wondered if Tate had expected, even then, to write Maximilian next to Bianca Charlotte instead of Catherine Louisa.
His wife’s eyes flashed. Odd, how he already remembered to think of her as his. “Did he?” She paced away, her yellow skirts swinging in agitation. “You need to be disabused of some of the notions my father gave you. Firstly—”
“Firstly,” he interrupted, “we shall go to the wedding breakfast. Everyone will be waiting for us.”
The color rose in her cheeks again. “A pox on all of them.”
“As you wish.” He tugged his cuffs into place and headed for the door.
“Don’t you dare walk out on me!”
Hand on the latch, he turned and raised a brow. “My dear, we have the rest of our lives to disabuse each other of faulty notions. Today, at this hour, our neighbors and family are waiting to celebrate our union in holy wedlock. They will wonder if we spend the next hour shut up in the chapel shouting at each other.”
“Oh?” She widened her eyes. “Did you mean to shout?”
Max had not bumbled ignorantly along the path toward this marriage. He’d spent considerable time sorting out how Tate’s factory worked, which employees were clever and hardworking, what skills were vital. Buying a few rounds of ale at the local tavern had taught him a great deal.
Some of the more interesting tales had been about Bianca. At the time Max had listened in detached interest, not expecting to see much of her. Now, though, he found it much more valuable intelligence. Bianca didn’t spend her time in the house, arranging flowers and being domestic, as her sister did. She had a workroom in the factory and was nearly as demanding as Tate himself in pursuit of quality. Many of the men didn’t like a woman working in the pottery, but they tolerated it—though they took unwonted pleasure in the times Bianca and her father got into loud arguments, which all the factory could hear. Max had no doubt that she would begin shouting at him, if given the chance.
He laughed. “No. I rarely shout. A great waste of breath, generally.”
At his riposte, she put up her chin. “Neither do I,” she said in a frosty but not shouting voice, “at reasonable people. If you can be reasonable, we shall have no quarrel.”
And Max smiled again. “I am always entirely reasonable, madam.”
He meant it: reasonable, rational, cold-bloodedly logical. He’d learned the hard way not to trust anything else. Bianca, he sensed, was led more by her feelings, instinct, and passion. It would be an oil and water marriage, but Max meant to make it succeed, one way or another.
At least, as he defined success.
She came right up to him, raising her face. Up close her eyes were more gray than blue, and there were faint freckles across her nose. There was also a small beauty mark on her breast, barely visible under the lace fichu across her shoulders. Max had to fight back the urge to stare at it, and tried not to think of peeling away her yellow silk gown to explore the rest of her skin.
“I hope that is true,” she said, “for both our sakes. Since neither of us wanted to be married to the other, we’re going to have to be very reasonable indeed, or there will be a great deal of shouting. The first thing you should bear in mind is that these pottery works are mine. My father may have given you a share, but I’ve twenty years of experience and knowledge on you. Besides, we both know that what you want isn’t the manufactory. It’s the money.” Her lips curled in a condescending little smile. “That’s perfectly fine. You shall have it—a reasonable allowance, provided you stay out of my way.”
“Hmm,” he said, torn between laughing incredulously and being deeply offended. “An allowance.”
“You don’t know anything about pottery,” she said in the same belittling tone. She turned and walked back to the desk, where she’d left her frivolous straw hat when signing the register. “You would only be in the way! Take the money and amuse yourself, I don’t care how, and we’ll get along famously.”
He sighed. “My dear Mrs. St. James.” She started at the name. “This is not a strong beginning. Firstly, I own one quarter of Perusia, and I intend to participate in the business. Not throwing pots or stoking the kiln—all things you no doubt excel at,” he added, just to see that furious color in her face again. “But in my own inestimable way. And I’ll thank you not to tell me what to do. After all, I am not the one who vowed to obey and serve.”
The flush ran down her neck, toward that intriguing beauty mark. “You— How dare you— This is not a real marriage!”
He came off the door, closing the gap between them so quickly she gasped. “Not real?” he bit out. “It most certainly is, madam. Solemnized before all of Marslip, sealed in God’s eyes and bound by Church law. Don’t ever say it’s not real.” He paused, his gaze running down her again. Damn that beauty mark. “If you’re fearful I shall force you to your wifely duties in bed, set your mind at ease. I would never force a woman.”
“Then you accept this will be a chaste marriage?” she said as he went back to the door.
He paused, looking back at her. Some of her hairpins had come out, setting a long tawny curl loose to graze her bare neck. Despite the fichu he could see the beauty mark, dark and taunting on the plump swell of flesh.
Well, wasn’t he a fool. He w
anted the woman, even though she despised him.
“Of course it won’t be,” he said. “Someday you’ll come to me—”
She gasped in fury.
“—and when you do, it will be for pleasures that most women only dream of.” Max gave her another sinful smile and opened the door, leaving her staring after him in openmouthed indignation.
Chapter Six
Bianca resolved before noon on her wedding day that she would hate and despise her husband for the rest of her life.
She saw now why Frances had devoted her life to spiting the people responsible for her miserable marriage. St. James, she seethed, deserved to be broken on a rack. Papa deserved to be shunned by both his daughters for all eternity. Bianca deserved a sharp smack in the face, for letting her temper get the better of her, and Cathy—
Her anger lessened. Cathy deserved to be happy. She pictured her sister, wrapped in Mr. Mayne’s arms, her face glowing with joy, and told herself it was all worth it. Cathy had practically raised her since their mother’s death some thirteen years ago. If Bianca had any grace or manners, it was due to Cathy, who somehow absorbed everything feminine without effort. When she was eighteen, Papa had offered to take Cathy to London to search for a husband, and her sister had refused. “Not without Bianca, too,” she’d said, even though Bianca was only fourteen at the time and would have been, at any age, an unqualified disaster in London.
In the years since, Cathy had loyally supported Bianca in all her quirks and oddities, helping persuade Papa that she ought to be allowed to pursue her interest in making pottery, then in formulating new glazes. Cathy had even supported her when she refused those other marriage offers, when Papa had torn out his hair and raged at her for being stubborn.
Not that Bianca couldn’t have stood up for herself, but Cathy had smoothed things over and warded off the violent arguments that would have ensued—that always did ensue—without her, keeping peace between Bianca and their father. If this was the way Bianca had to repay her sister, she was only glad that she could do it.
That didn’t make the wedding breakfast less of a nightmare, though. St. James greeted all the guests cordially, already acting like a gentleman of the manor. To look at him, no one would ever guess that he hadn’t married the woman of his heart’s desire that morning. Lying rogue, she thought in disgust.
Papa had also regained his bonhomie, thanking everyone for coming and accepting congratulations with a smile. Bianca decided to ignore him, as she was no longer speaking to him.
For herself, she could only act as normally as possible, reminding herself that she was neither ashamed nor sorry, that this marriage would have very little impact on her life, and that it was all to the greater good anyway, enabling Cathy to be with her love and allowing Bianca to continue her work unimpeded. After all, if St. James wished to keep drawing his allowance from the business, he couldn’t very well oust her from it, since her work helped make Perusia pottery uniquely attractive. And now that she’d given in to Papa’s mad proposal, not only was she a married lady, no longer under his hand, but Papa owed her a monstrous debt.
Aunt Frances, of course, had to put in her word, as pointed as a needle. “Now I see why you were so keen on matchmaking between Cathy and the curate,” she murmured, her gaze raking over St. James. He stood across the room from them, smiling faintly at something Mr. Murdoch, Papa’s head modeler, was saying. “You sly minx,” added the older woman in a soft, almost spitefully delighted tone. “What fine prey you’ve bagged.”
“You think I wanted him for myself?” Bianca cast a scathing gaze toward the man. What a peacock he was, in his emerald satin breeches and ivory velvet coat. His lace alone was finer than anything any woman in the room wore. It made her own beautiful silk gown, a bright cheery primrose, look plain and simple in contrast.
“I assure you not. It’s strictly a marriage of convenience,” she told her aunt. “I see little difference between him and Mr. Murdoch.”
Frances raised her brow. “None at all?”
Mr. Murdoch was fifty, his fair hair faded to white and his hands callused to leather from handling the clay. He was a talented modeler, invaluable to the business. No one would ever confuse him with Maximilian St. James, who was far more attractive and far less useful.
“None,” lied Bianca. “If you’ll pardon me, Aunt, I see Amelia awaiting me.”
Amelia was agog, and Bianca was forced to employ some license in her retelling of the story. Cathy’s love affair became a bit more passionate, St. James’s courtship much more mercenary, and Papa’s motives a vast deal more paternal instead of mercantile. As for Bianca’s actions . . .
“You really had to marry him to save the pottery works?” whispered Amelia in scandalized shock.
“It was the only choice.” Bianca nibbled her slice of cake. Cathy had ordered it made, and Bianca loved cake. It would be silly to let it go to waste.
“But Cathy—!” Amelia clapped one hand to her mouth. “Does Cathy know?”
Bianca paused. “No,” she said carefully. “I had no time to ponder it, or write to her about it, but had to decide in the moment.”
That was not strictly true. She’d had well over half an hour from the time Papa snarled at her that perhaps she ought to step into her sister’s shoes and marry St. James, and the moment Mr. Filpot had cleared his throat and recited the charge to her. Not nearly enough time to consult her sister, who must have been halfway to Wolverhampton by then, but enough time to have put a stop to it.
“Bianca, she’ll be overset! Surely she never dreamed you would have to go to such lengths for her!”
“She will understand,” said Bianca firmly. “And she’ll be happy. It’s all I want her to be. I shall make the best of things for myself. Besides . . .” She lowered her voice. “It’s not as if St. James wants a real marriage, you know.”
Amelia goggled at her. “No! A man like that?”
Bianca looked at That Man, her husband, the scheming rogue. He looked perfectly at ease, chatting to her neighbors and friends as if he’d known them forever.
He also looked far too attractive for words—and for her. Bianca had not spent much time thinking about marriage, which didn’t look very appealing to her. But when pressed, she’d always pictured herself, if she married at all, wed to someone comfortable, a little older, much more amiable. In her mind he was neither handsome nor ugly, easy in manner and kind in spirit.
Instead she found herself yoked to this spectacularly handsome but soulless snake, who glided into Marslip intent on gaining her father’s company and stealing her inheritance.
“Look at him,” she said quietly to her friend, without looking away from him. “A London dandy, handsome and sophisticated and as slippery as oiled glass. What can he want, all the way out here in Staffordshire? Is he a potter? Is he a modeler? Does he know anything at all about pottery? No. He saw an opportunity, and he seized it, didn’t he? It was all the same to him whether he married Cathy or me.”
As she spoke, he glanced her way, his dark eyes gleaming. When he saw her watching him, he smiled—that wicked, knowing smile—and made her a very handsome bow.
“Are you certain?” Amelia bobbed a hasty curtsy and leaned closer to whisper in Bianca’s ear. “That one doesn’t look like he holds what is his lightly.”
Bianca stiffened. “I am not his,” she hissed.
“You are.” Amelia nodded sympathetically. “His wife, his property by law. Even if you think he doesn’t care for you, that doesn’t mean he isn’t possessive of what’s his.”
That would clearly be the first notion she disabused him of. Bianca gazed back at him, expressionless, her resolve hardening. She and Mr. St. James were going to have a very blunt conversation.
She managed to avoid him the rest of the day. After the guests left, he disappeared, a circumstance that pleased her greatly until she overheard Ellen tell Cook that Mr. Tate wanted a hamper for him and Mr. St. James at the offices. Bianca scowled at the tho
ught of That Man invading her workshop, but she could not slip away. In Cathy’s absence she had to oversee the tidying up after the guests, the distribution of the remaining food to the workers’ families, and the transfer of her own possessions to Poplar House.
That last drove home to her what she’d done. Poplar House had been their house before Papa built the large new Perusia Hall. It was at Poplar House that Bianca had been born and spent her childhood. When Mama died, just weeks before Perusia Hall was to be ready for them, Papa had moved them all up the hill to the Hall, disregarding its unfinished state, and promptly let Poplar House to his cousin.
None of them had been back to the quaint little house since. Papa had preferred the grander Perusia Hall, and the cousin’s wife had been a sickly woman who didn’t entertain guests.
Today Bianca walked down the hill to Poplar House as mistress of it, not a child but a married lady. With a sense of detached amazement she approached the familiar blue door under the freshly thatched roof. The cousin had moved out six months ago, having saved enough money to take his wife to Bath in a bid to improve her health. Upon St. James’s proposal, Papa had given orders for the house to be cleaned and repaired, making it ready for his daughter and new son-in-law.
No one had expected it would be Bianca stepping over the threshold, keys at her waist, to explore her new . . . old . . . home.
Cathy had furnished it very comfortably. It was a good thing she had, thought Bianca, wandering silently through the rooms, so familiar and yet so strange. Not only did Cathy have an eye for pleasing design and arrangement, Bianca would have been tempted to paint the master’s bedchamber black, including each pane of the casement windows.
Instead it was a welcoming shade of sage, complementing the new linen bed hangings of dark blue. The furniture had been polished to a warm glow, and the grate in the hearth was freshly blacked. A clutch of fresh daisies stood in a double-handled vase on the windowsill.
Bianca stood in the doorway for a moment. Her gaze lingered on the large bed. Pleasures that most women only dream of, echoed his arrogant voice in her mind.
About a Rogue EPB Page 7
