She pictured a cozy shop lined with rows of shelves displaying their gleaming teapots and tureens, larger than what one found in Marslip but similarly quaint. Max took her to a yawning emporium and walked about, sketching with his hands the displays they could create.
“Displays?” Bianca envisioned her neat shelves of fruit bowls. “What do you mean, displays? We’ll set out the wares for people to examine, of course . . .”
He shook his head, catching her arm and leading her to the tall windows that overlooked the street. “Imagine a breakfast table here, set for a family. The egg cups glowing in the light, the chocolate pot at hand—full of chocolate, to perfume the air—a bowl of fresh fruit tempting customers to sit down and enjoy the meal.” He pulled her to the windows on the other side of the door. “And over here a dining table, with the most elegant wares Perusia can offer, fully arranged. Anyone can stack plates on a shelf. I want to show people how stunning their tables will look with a complete service.”
She looked around. A space such as this would command a high rent. “It’s very ambitious. If we were to start with a smaller shop—”
He slashed one hand impatiently. “Smaller shop, smaller orders. I know society. How do things become the fashion? One person demonstrates how smart it looks, whether it be jeweled buttons or a high-sprung carriage or the angle of a hat, and society follows in a rush. We will be creative—innovative—and people will flock to see the styles we set.”
Bianca looked at him doubtfully. “It’s an expensive chance to take.”
“All chance has a cost,” he said. “I never take one I don’t expect to pay off handsomely.”
For no good reason, she thought of their marriage, and how he had looked her up and down in the sacristy before saying, “Very well.” Agreeing to change brides virtually at the altar was certainly a chance . . .
But that was different. She gave her head a tiny shake. He meant business, in pounds and shillings—and if it applied to their marriage at all, it was only because wedding her brought him the same income and share in Perusia that wedding Cathy would have.
“Organizing the shop that way will require far more work,” she said, returning to the important point. “We’ll have to hire a shop assistant simply to maintain the displays. And how many do you plan to have? This space is enormous.”
“Not so. We’ll wall it off here, and display the larger pieces on the wall.” He paced it off as he spoke. “Behind will be a storeroom and offices, where orders can be stored. If we deliver the pieces here, they can be checked and repackaged, delivered in velvet-lined boxes and unveiled like the works of art they are.”
“Velvet boxes!” She threw up her hands. “The expense—!”
“The expense will be worth it,” he cut in. “Why does a jeweler display his wares on a cloth of black silk? It sets off the diamonds to their best advantage and suggests they are worth being stored in luxury. The same for our wares. They are priceless, they are valuable, they are a statement of wealth and dignity, they are worth a large sum because the owner’s children and grandchildren will savor and marvel at them.”
“It would be much better if the children and grandchildren decided to buy their own new dishes,” she retorted.
“When they do, they’ll remember how finely crafted Perusia wares are,” he countered.
She exhaled loudly. “This is not how these things are done,” she said, trying to stay calm and reasonable. “Papa has a man in London who takes orders and sees they are delivered. There’s no need to take this enormous space—”
“Not so enormous,” he murmured.
“—and spend madly on displays with real pots of chocolate and velvet boxes,” she went on, raising her voice over his. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll be out a great deal of money!”
“Your father agrees with me.”
“Well, Papa’s been spectacularly wrong before!” she blazed back.
For a moment his face went utterly still and blank. Too late she realized what he must have been thinking, about his marriage proposal and Papa’s gift of Perusia shares.
And in that moment Bianca felt a prickle of horror. She hadn’t meant that, even though a few weeks ago she bloody well would have. Awkwardly she cleared her throat. “Papa is drawn to grand ideas,” she tried to explain. “The bigger and more dazzling, the better. He would be inclined to approve anything that suggested advancement, even if it were based on nothing . . .”
Oh heaven help her, she was making it worse.
“I am not persuaded,” she blurted out in helpless frustration. “I think it’s too great a risk.”
Her husband had been watching her, arms folded, expression increasingly stony. At this, though, his mouth eased. He crossed the room, his steps loud and deliberate in the empty shop. He stopped right in front of her, which did nothing for Bianca’s inner turmoil.
“Will you give me a chance?” he asked softly. Lazily he reached out and straightened the brooch holding her fichu in place. The brooch was pinned right over the valley between her breasts. “To persuade you that it might actually be a brilliant idea?”
She couldn’t stop thinking that this conversation was more about their marriage than the showroom. Had he been trying to persuade her for all these weeks? At the time she’d thought he was trying to provoke her by being so calm, or to enrage her by being so solicitous. But perhaps . . .
“Allow me three months,” he said, his voice growing softer and more seductive. The brooch slipped free of her dress; he’d undone the catch. “Three months to show you how beautiful it can be . . .” His fingers smoothed the fine lawn of her fichu, stroking it into place. “How elegant. How it will make people yearn for what they see here.”
His dark eyes never wavered from hers. Bianca felt hooked, pinned in place by that gaze. A tremor went through her as he slid one fingertip inside the front of her bodice and secured the brooch back in place.
“Will you?” he whispered. “Will you allow me to try? If you are still . . . unsatisfied, I will heed your every suggestion.”
He didn’t mean the showroom, and Bianca wasn’t thinking about it, either. Her skin felt alive where he had touched her, ever so briefly, and her nipples had grown taut inside her bodice. She couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on her, and what he might do. Pleasures that most women only dream of, echoed his potent promise in her memory. What did that mean? What did other women dream of? It was bad enough contemplating doing the things her own imagination conjured up.
With her body in active revolt against her sense and logic, Bianca grasped for any escape. She tore her gaze from his, staring at the much safer folds of his neckcloth. “Perhaps.” The word came out husky and tentative. She cleared her throat. “I suppose a quarter is a fair trial. For the showroom. If you can secure a reasonable rent.”
Slowly he smiled. “Thank you, my dear. I promise to make the most of it.” He took her hand, so lightly she barely felt his fingertips, and raised it to his lips.
She did feel that. His breath was warm on her skin, and even though his mouth only brushed her knuckles, it reverberated through her like a blow.
She made the mistake of glancing up at him again. His eyes smoldered and a little curl of hair had fallen free at his temple. He was magnificent, and overwhelming, and utterly focused on her.
This time there was no question: he meant her. He meant to persuade her that he could show her unparalleled pleasures.
And she feared he just might succeed.
It took four days for her to understand exactly why Max had wanted her to buy so many new gowns. A number of crates arrived at the house as she was writing a letter to her father on their search for a showroom.
The letter was taking longer than usual because she wanted to be diplomatic. She had agreed to let Max go forward with his grand ideas, but she still feared it was too grand, and she didn’t want to give her father an overly rosy view of it.
The delivery, though, caused a commotion, and she a
bandoned her letter to go see.
“What is this?” Men were carrying in crates, some so large they barely fit through the door.
“Mr. St. James directed us to bring them, ma’am,” said one fellow, swiping off his cap and bowing.
Max appeared as the men were trooping out the door, and Bianca turned on him. “What did you buy?”
For answer he pried off the lid of the top crate and lifted out a plate. It was familiar to her, as it was some of Papa’s best creamware, the rim royal blue with a gilded edge and a bucolic scene etched in the center. It was a custom order that had been delayed due to troubles with the gilding, and sent to London only days before they left.
“That’s Sir Bartholomew Markham’s order—”
“Markham has not paid for it. We’re having guests for dinner tomorrow night.”
She gasped. “What? Why?”
He replaced the plate, his gaze on her. “To make London swoon over Perusia’s finest work. To hint there is even finer work coming soon.” Finally a smile curved his mouth. “And for entertainment. I cannot ask my wife to sit idly at home every night.”
“Whom have you invited?” Real alarm clutched at Bianca’s heart. She had no talent for entertaining. That was Cathy’s province.
“Friends. Acquaintances. People who can afford Perusia on their dining table.”
“No . . . Wait, I—” She stormed after him as he started up the stairs. “You ought to give me more warning!”
He paused, looking down at her with his brows raised. “I beg your pardon for that, but we’re only here a month. I arranged it a fortnight ago.”
“Oh.” As much as she worried about arranging such a dinner, it was a bit disconcerting that he’d already done it. Still, Bianca rallied, following him to the top of the stairs. He wanted a dinner party, and so he had arranged one. “You ought to have told me sooner.”
“Ah.” He smiled ruefully. “I should have. I apologize, my dear.”
“We can’t use Sir Bartholomew’s service,” she went on forcefully.
Max shrugged. “Until he pays the bill, it’s ours.”
Bianca bit her lip. Sometimes customers never paid and Papa would despair over the bill and the wasted work. “Has he been asked?”
“Twice,” said Max. “Both times he urged that we deliver it and said he would send payment by the start of next quarter.”
“How much is the bill?”
“Nine hundred pounds,” he replied, “and if a fellow needs to wait for his quarterly income to pay it, chances are he’ll ask for more time after that, and never pay in full. I’ll grant him the time, but until then, he shall not have the dinnerware.”
“All right,” said Bianca after a moment. She had a passing familiarity with the accounts, but her cousin Ned handled most of it, under Papa’s direction. She knew about unpaid bills primarily when Papa went into a rage over a particularly galling one. “That is sensible.”
“I told you I could be,” he replied, smiling. “As to the dinner party, trust me. I’ve chosen the guests carefully, for greatest impact and ability to spread the word.”
Slowly she nodded. This was his world, after all, and the reason Papa had wanted him in the business at all. Papa had traded his daughter’s hand in marriage for the man’s connections to elegant society. She ought to be pleased that he was earning his keep.
“Thank you, my dear.” He gave her another gleaming look as he bowed. “I hope to lay all your doubts and fears to rest, and assure you of my complete devotion.”
And as he continued up the stairs, his heels ringing on the treads, Bianca thought to herself, That’s what I’m afraid of.
Chapter Seventeen
Everything hung upon this dinner party, and Max wasn’t leaving a single thing to chance.
The guest list had been chosen with great deliberation. He had put Lawrence to the task of sniffing out the latest rumors and whispers, and had carefully molded his ideal party. No one in dun territory; no one in the midst of scandal. No one who had fallen from favor in society, or retired from it.
Fortunately for Max, he knew someone who fit each and every criterion. He also knew a great many more who violated some—or all—of them as well, but those people he shut out of his mind. He had won Samuel Tate over with the promise of his connections. No matter what he had learned, no matter how many contractual improvements he suggested, no matter how splendidly the showroom might work out, Max knew that this was his opportunity to win his father-in-law’s esteem.
His wife’s, he was not as sure of. She didn’t argue about the party, and in fact made several suggestions about the menu, to best display the greatest range of Sir Bartholomew’s dinner service. She raised her brows when the crates of crystal and silver were delivered, but Max assured her they were borrowed only, and she made no protest.
It gave him some private bemusement, that the daughter of a man as rich as Tate cared about whether they bought silver or not. They could have purchased a complete set of each to take back to Marslip and not dented the family coffers.
He dressed with care that evening, knowing it would send the first and most vital message to his guests about his change of fortune. A dark blue coat of velvet, lined with ivory silk and glittering with golden buttons. Dark charcoal breeches, cut close. A waistcoat of pale blue stripes, embroidered with black thread. Elegant, the pinnacle of fashion, unquestionable quality. He smoothed his hands down his chest, scrutinizing his reflection.
How different from a few months ago, when last he’d dined with Dalway and Carswell. When his linen had been worn to threads and his waistcoat had been a castoff. When he’d had but one pair of shoes, and those scuffed and splitting. He’d won three hundred pounds off Carswell that night, and Harry had loudly proclaimed that he’d lost on purpose, to help Max avoid the Fleet.
He didn’t want anyone’s pity tonight.
Lawrence dressed his hair, but Max refused to powder it. It was still fashionable for court, but not as much elsewhere; he’d never been able to afford a wig and now preferred his own hair. Likewise he waved off the valet’s offer of cosmetics. The last thing he wanted to look like was a macaroni, with rouged cheeks and painted mouth.
He went down to await the guests and survey the dining room. Everything was in order. The plate sparkled and shone. He had arranged for several pieces in the new scarlet glaze to be sent to London, and they glowed as if they were made of rubies in the candlelight.
“Oh my,” said a voice behind him.
Max turned. Bianca stood in the doorway, one hand on her bosom, her lips parted in amazement. She wore the gown of cream silk, with a deep peach petticoat beneath it. Her hair was swept up into a pile of curls, not frizzled in the most modern way, but with a very attractive spill of one long lock over her shoulder, and powdered to a pale pink tinge.
The floor seemed to heave beneath him. “By the heavens,” he managed to say, “you are a vision, Mrs. St. James.”
She flushed. “Jennie was so eager to do it.” She plucked at the curl lying across her shoulder. “It feels so odd. Not at all like Marslip.”
“No,” he said, mesmerized by her. “We are not in Marslip.”
And he’d never been gladder of it.
Bianca was more than a trifle curious to meet their guests.
Whom had Max invited? She had put him down as a rake, a rogue, a scoundrel who probably associated with other rakes, rogues, and scoundrels. She had never expected to meet any of them, of course, let alone as part of a plot to spread Perusia’s reputation.
But the people who arrived did not strike her as dissolute or depraved. They bowed over her hand, congratulated both her and Max on their marriage, and struck up conversation on a wide variety of topics. Bianca had expected gossip about the king’s health or the recently published memoirs of Mrs. Baddeley, the notorious courtesan. She was mildly surprised to hear instead about the excursion to Australia, the new abolition society begun by Mr. Clarkson and Mr. Sharp, and the struggles o
f the Americans in the wake of the war.
“Taxes,” drawled one man, Lord Dalway, in delight. “They’re squabbling with each other about taxes!”
“Again?” asked Mr. Farquhar.
“Forever,” rejoined Dalway.
“I find it much more amusing now,” put in Lady Dalway.
“I only wonder how long until they select a king,” said Sir Henry Carswell. “Or better yet, ask for our king back, and admit they were wrong on every score!”
Everyone laughed. “I doubt very much they will,” said Bianca. The guests turned her way.
“What do you mean, ma’am?” asked Farquhar politely.
“They will never retreat now,” she said. “After reaching such a momentous decision, and committing themselves to it in blood, they’ll never come back. Indeed not. They may make a mull of it, but it is their chosen course, and they will stay to it and thrash their way through as best they can.” As she finished, she caught Max’s gaze from the far end of the table, thoughtful and attentive. Bianca flushed but gazed boldly back. Yes, she silently told him. I am that way, too.
Dalway’s brows went up. “I do believe you’re right, Mrs. St. James. They certainly are a stubborn lot!” He raised his glass to her.
Everyone else joined in, but Bianca still caught Lady Dalway’s murmur to Max: “Oh Maxim, I do like her!”
When dinner ended, Bianca led Lady Dalway, Mrs. Farquhar, and Lady Carswell to the drawing room. The rumble of the gentlemen’s voices quieted as the door closed, and Bianca rang for Martha, the maid.
“Well!” Lady Dalway threw herself on the sofa, managing to end up draped elegantly across the cushions. “What a treasure you are, Mrs. St. James!”
Bianca smiled politely. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do,” said Mrs. Farquhar with a knowing smile. “I’ve never seen Maxim so content!”
“Or so civilized,” added Lady Carswell—archly, to Bianca’s ears.
Lady Dalway let out a peal of laughter. Like everything else about her, her laugh was light and beautiful. She sat up and put out one hand. “Oh heavens, I must thank you for that! Such a rogue he always was, but now he’s been polished and brushed to a shine! I’ve never seen him look better.”
About a Rogue EPB Page 15
