“I’m not a rake at all,” he countered. “I’m a happily married man. Why didn’t you want to marry?”
She rolled her eyes. “A married woman has no right to anything, even that which was hers before her marriage. Her money, her lands, her business, even the clothes she wears are his. If she bears a child, risking her health and person, it’s his child, and he can take the child from her at his whim.” She looked at him levelly. “Would you surrender all that in any bargain, sir, for yourself?”
“Hmm,” said Max thoughtfully. “When a man marries, he becomes the legal guardian of his wife, responsible for her room and board, liable for her debts. Men have gone to prison for their wives’ debts. If she bears a child, any child, while married to him, he is obliged to support that child as his own, even if half the town knows his wife was unfaithful to him and the child is another man’s.”
“Good heavens,” she said, laughing a little. “It sounds a miserable business for both people. I can’t imagine why anyone would desire it.”
Max grinned. “There are . . . certain pleasures that compensate for all that.” Their walk had brought a very fetching flush to her cheeks and her fichu had slipped; her breasts plumped up above her bodice, ravishingly tempting.
Still amused, she waved one hand. “Not for us. I told you this is a chaste marriage.”
“And it’s beginning to hurt my tender male feelings,” he told her.
Bianca laughed—a full, throaty laugh he’d never heard before. Max’s smiling éclat faltered; she was bewitching. No porcelain doll but an earthly goddess, the sort of woman who would keep a man on his toes but be a worthy partner, at dinner, at a ball . . . and in bed.
He hadn’t expected much in that regard from his marriage. Catherine had given little sign of attraction to him, even for a reserved lady, and Max had presumed they would find their own bedmates.
But Bianca . . . Lord above, the sparks of attraction were scorching him on all sides.
“Do you know,” she said, reluctantly amused, as Max tried to absorb this new realization about his bride, “I think I might have liked you, if we weren’t married.”
“Oh, you mustn’t hold that against me.”
“But it is by far your greatest fault, and one I cannot overlook.” She heaved a sigh of regret. “We must resign ourselves to being adversaries, or at best indifferent housemates.”
Max shifted his weight toward her. “Surely not. I can think of things far, far better than . . .” His gaze dipped once more, almost against his will, to her décolletage. “Indifferent chastity.”
Her eyelashes fluttered, and her throat worked. “What a tragic waste of imagination.”
He grinned at her. Oh God yes, he did like this woman. For the first time he was completely glad his intended bride had eloped with another man. “Imagination is never wasted.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “Fortunately, I know how to bide my time . . . and my imagination will keep me very warm while I do.”
She smiled widely. “For your sake, I hope so,” she said. “For I certainly shan’t.”
She marched off, leaving him to follow in her wake, his blood running hot and his thoughts very happily occupied imagining how it would be when he finally won her over.
Chapter Eleven
For the next fortnight and more, things went as they had done that first day.
No matter how early Bianca rose, That Man was always at the table before her. In aggravation she told Jennie to wake her earlier, and earlier, and even when she staggered downstairs, yawning in the predawn darkness, he would be waiting and rise, fully dressed and not looking tired at all, from his seat at the breakfast table to wish her a good morning.
In disgust Bianca gave it up. He could win this battle; she was going to sleep.
There were plenty of other battles to fight, of course. During those breakfasts, he always had a book or a pamphlet or a contract in his hand. Once she spied schematic drawings of a kiln and some device she didn’t recognize, annotated in writing she didn’t recognize. Bianca knew her father’s handwriting, as well as Mick’s and George’s, who were the heads of the firing house crew. Since she would have chewed off her hand before asking That Man to explain, she was reduced to asking Billy what was being built by the kilns. Twelve-year-old boys, alas, were not reliable spies; he did not know, and she was forced to swallow her curiosity.
And her husband persisted in walking to and from the factory with her. Some days they walked in silence, unless Bianca was forced to offer her thanks for some gallantry of his, like pitching a fallen branch from the path. Other days they sniped and sparred the whole way to Perusia’s gate. One day Amelia, meeting her in the courtyard after That Man had left her, commented that she looked unusually well that morning. “You have the look of victory about you,” teased her friend. “Flushed and bright-eyed. What problem have you solved?”
Bianca forced a smile and made up something innocuous, but seethed inside to think that there was no true reason other than her conversation with Max. He’d provoked her into speaking to him and then almost made her laugh. She would have to be more on guard with him.
And, perhaps, with herself. Holding her grudges was beginning to wear on her.
She still was not speaking to her father. A few times she had caught him watching her at the factory, when she came down to inspect some newly fired wares glazed in her now-perfected scarlet. To her joy, they glowed like June strawberries, bright glossy ruby-red without any purple or orange undertone. It was exactly as she’d wanted it.
Normally she would have borne the scarlet-glazed dishes off to her father’s office, to share her triumph with him. He’d raved when she showed him the delicate green glaze that had occupied her for several months, and which now graced many a tea set in the very fashionable Chinese style. He’d declared she was cleverer than half the factory put together, and more determined than all of them. Bianca had basked in his enthusiastic approval.
This time she was reduced to hearing from other people that Papa was pleased with the scarlet glaze. It took the shine off her triumph, particularly when That Man was one of the people telling her how splendid it was.
“It’s unmatched,” he said as they walked home one evening. “As red as the blood of the martyrs.”
She couldn’t stop a small smile. “Thank you.” And then, because of the rage she’d felt at his earlier slighting of her work, “Now perhaps you understand why I go to the workshop every day.”
“I certainly see the benefit to Perusia,” he said, smiling in that way he had that made Bianca—very much against her wishes—want to smile back. “It was a surprise to me that you would be so driven in pursuit of glazing formulae.”
She stopped. “Why was it such a surprise to you?”
He also stopped, and faced her. Bianca had to give him that—when she spoke to him, he turned his full attention on her. Many men did not. “Most ladies of my acquaintance are not given to such serious occupations.”
London ladies, she thought with an edge of irritation. Women who did not need to work or do anything practical. “Here, they are,” she replied. “Over one quarter of the workers at Perusia are women.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, “and some of them are highly skilled artisans. But they work for the income, which you do not need.”
Bianca put her hands on her hips. “No? That suggests my work has no impact on Perusia, that the orders would be streaming in even if we couldn’t produce teacups that look like they’re carved from jade.” She shook her head. “Any potter can produce a double-handled vase or a competent teapot. There are dozens of factories producing wares virtually identical to ours. It’s a cutthroat business, you know—”
“I do,” he murmured.
“—where everyone copies any competitor’s popular designs, and Perusia must stand apart. We do that with the delicacy of our decoration, from uniquely colorful glazes to the detailed paintings to the whimsical little touches other manufacturers don’t spend
the time to create. Papa has always taken great pains to hire the best artists and to train our workers to his exacting standards, and that is why we succeed. The glazing is only a part, but an important one, as it is often the first aspect of a piece to catch someone’s eye. My glazes, sir, are unique to Perusia. So if I went home and sat in the parlor all day,” she finished with a pointed finger for emphasis, “it might well decrease our income. Which we do need, to support not just our workers but our family.” She arched one brow at him. “Even you.”
Throughout her speech his demeanor had gone from sober seriousness to open appreciation. Now he laughed, and swept a deep bow. “Pax, madam! I intended no offense. Only . . .” He tilted his head, his face still relaxed in amusement. “You have been a great surprise to me. Daily I am astonished anew.”
“That is no surprise to me,” she told him. “I suspected all along you had no acquaintance of clever, ambitious women.”
“Ah, now, that’s where you’re wrong.” He kept pace with her as she started walking again. “London women have their own ambitions, and there’s no shortage of cleverness and cunning among them.”
“Oh? Then what do they pursue?” Bianca had seen fashionable magazines from London. She’d read their descriptions of needlework and playing the harpsichord and dancing. It all sounded rather useless to her.
“Influence,” he said after a moment. “Whether it be in leading the fashions or influencing the government.”
“Women must find power where we can, I suppose.”
He gazed at her for a moment. “You have far more within your reach than you think.”
Bianca scoffed. “You mean as a wife, or as a daughter. Thank you, no. I prefer to make my own mark.”
His forehead wrinkled ruefully. “I had no doubt of that.”
“I admire you for acknowledging it.” Although she tried to conceal it from him, Bianca was somewhat amazed. Even her father, who did value her contributions to Perusia and gave her credit for them, confidently expected that she would give it all up to be a wife and mother.
At this, her husband smiled his slow, simmering rake’s smile. “Perhaps I’m not what you thought I was.”
The smart retort stuck to her tongue. What he said was true, and she didn’t know what to make of it. She settled for ducking her head in a nod, and walking faster. And St. James, maddeningly, didn’t irk her by belaboring the point.
When they reached Poplar House, Mary was waiting with a letter. “From Miss Cathy,” she said—unnecessarily, for Bianca had gasped in joy at the sight of her sister’s handwriting.
“Thank you, Mary!” She seized the letter and tore off her hat and shawl, unloading them into the maid’s hands before carrying her prize into the parlor.
Bianca did not regret helping her sister elope, but now she realized how anxiously she’d been waiting for some word from Cathy that all had gone off well, that she was married to Mr. Mayne, that she was happy. Just the sight of this letter, free of tear stains—she looked closely for them, as she unfolded it—caused the pressure inside her chest to ease.
She sat on the settee by the window and broke the seal.
Dearest B—
I am married! And more happily than I can express in ink and paper.
We made the journey to Wolverhampton in good time, due primarily to your great assistance in helping us get away from Marslip unseen. The journey was not easy but Richard was so tender and caring of my comfort, I hardly felt a moment’s trouble. Richard’s sister, Mrs. Taylor, was astonished to see us, but she listened to our story and instantly agreed to help us. Where would we be, I asked Richard, without our sisters? He agreed we have both been singularly blessed in you and Maria.
There was some trouble about the license, which took several days to remedy. Richard had to ride to Lichfield, which caused a delay, but all is right now. I have been Mrs. Mayne for an entire day and have never been happier and know that I owe it all to you, dear Bianca.
I am sorry not to have written to you sooner but I felt it better not to stir up any trouble that may have erupted between you and Papa. I hope he was not too terribly angry with you for helping us. Do write as soon as you may and tell me if he has been horrible to you, or if Mr. St. James kicked up a terrible fuss about it.
Bianca stirred uncomfortably. She still had no idea how to tell her sister what had happened with Mr. St. James, let alone why she had gone along with Papa’s mad, angry suggestion. Papa would no doubt argue that he had been caught off guard, while Bianca had known for days and days that her sister would not be standing up beside St. James in the church. She ought to have been more prepared for his burst of fury, and not let herself get caught up in it.
What would Cathy say about this?
“I trust she is well.” St. James’s voice made her start. He had followed her as far as the parlor doorway, where he stood with his arms folded and his shoulder against the jamb.
Bianca cleared her throat and angled the letter away from his view. “She is.”
“Happily married?”
“Yes—very.” He continued to gaze at her until, uneasily aware that she had schemed to deny him the bride he’d wanted, she muttered, “Did you want something?”
“You look unsettled. Not as one might expect upon receiving a joyful letter from a beloved sister.”
“Are you an expert on sisters?” she parried.
“Not at all,” he said, a faint smile appearing. “I’ve never had one. But I am well-versed in disappointment and dismay, and you have the air of it about you.”
She wondered at that, but feared asking how he was such an authority would only invite more questions about her own behavior. “She asks how our father has taken her elopement.” She chewed on her lower lip, then added quietly, “And if you made a fuss.”
He strolled into the room and took a chair by the table. “Will you put her mind at ease?”
“Will I assure her all is well, or will I be honest?” She fiddled with the letter. “I don’t know.”
“In this instance, I recommend honesty.” Bianca glared at him, and he lifted one shoulder. “It can hardly be concealed forever. Might as well break the news and be done with it.”
“I suppose.” He was right, though she hated to admit it. “She is more concerned with how our father reacted to her disappearance.”
“Will he forgive her quickly?”
Bianca stared at the floor. Papa had always adored Cathy, who reminded him of their mother. One plea from Cathy, with tears brimming in her big blue eyes, and Papa would relent and fold her into his arms. Bianca, on the other hand . . . She was the bullheaded daughter, the one who got into arguments with their father, the one who stood up to him. She was the one he hadn’t spoken to in three weeks despite seeing her almost every day. “Perhaps not immediately, but he will.”
“He’s fond of her, then.”
“Very.” Bianca folded the letter. Cathy had written more, but she would read it later. The prospect of telling her sister what had happened, in all its incredible, furious detail, had dimmed her delight at receiving it.
She did not relish telling her sister that she, Bianca, was now married to the man who had courted Cathy. Even without sparing Papa and St. James generous shares of blame, even explaining how angry she’d been and how Papa threatened the loss of Perusia, it would shock her sister. Cathy would be stunned and horrified that Bianca had agreed to it.
“A forgiving father is a blessing,” her husband remarked.
Bianca blinked out of her thoughts. “Yes.”
St. James shifted in his chair, leaning a bit toward her. “He misses you, you know. He had no one else to regale with your triumph at the scarlet glaze, so I have heard it all twice.”
She blushed. She’d known all along her father would be enormously pleased with the scarlet. “Is your father kind?” she asked on impulse.
There was a second of hesitation. “He’s long in his grave,” said St. James easily.
“Oh
.” She had suspected as much, but felt, for the first time, a flicker of curiosity about his family—and a twinge of shame that she’d never spared them a thought until now, when it felt too awkward to ask. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Thank you.” It was politely said, but invited no further questions. St. James rose. “Convey my felicitations to your sister on her marriage.”
Bianca’s mouth fell open. “Your . . . felicitations?”
“Of course. She is my sister-in-law. I am delighted to hear she is happily wed.” His eyes gleaming, he gave a brief bow and walked out, his shoes ringing on the worn wooden floor. Despite his newly sober clothing, he still wore the raised heels of a London gentleman.
Bianca realized her fingers had clenched around Cathy’s letter. She exhaled and smoothed it on her skirt. St. James obviously was suffering no regrets about their marriage—or at least not great ones.
She tried to tell herself everything was still as she’d thought before, that he cared only for his share of Perusia and it was all the same to him no matter which Tate sister he had to marry to get it. It was no trouble for him to be pleased for Cathy, because he’d got the other daughter and ended up as he wanted to be anyway.
But deep inside, she was beginning to suspect there was much, much more to him than that.
Max’s stride remained unhurried and calm all the way up the stairs and into his bedroom. He even managed to close the door normally instead of flinging it shut behind him.
But he couldn’t hold back the curses, and his hands trembled as he ground his palms against his temples. “God damn it,” he whispered in the still room.
A noise outside the door made him tense, until the sound of a maid’s footsteps pattered past, accompanied by some off-key humming.
Max exhaled. His head bowed heavily. Eyes closed, he slid one hand into the pocket in his coattail and retrieved the letter. Mary had handed it to him after Bianca had carried off her sister’s letter to the parlor. Max had smiled and thanked Mary and swiftly hidden it in his pocket. Not quickly enough to avoid seeing the direction on the front, in the spidery familiar handwriting that always gave him nightmares, but he hoped he’d done it smoothly enough that the maid wouldn’t pay the letter any mind.
About a Rogue EPB Page 11
