“You’re cold,” she said thickly, swatting away her curtain of hair. “What— Why are you here?”
He grinned at her last statement, half alarm, half bemusement. “You’re in my bed, love. And you’ve taken all the blankets and left me to freeze.” He slid his leg between hers, genuinely cold but unashamed to take advantage.
She blinked at him for a moment, then relaxed into the pillows again. “Move over,” she mumbled before draping herself across him.
Max stroked her hair and let his hand drift down her back. Like him, she had fallen asleep naked. Her breasts were plump against his chest, and her legs tangled with his, her thigh atop his. It was tender and moving and unbearably arousing.
“Are you awake?” he murmured against her temple. Lightly he cupped her bottom, marveling at the smoothness of her skin.
“No,” she grumbled.
“Hmm. Pity.” He stroked upward. “It looks to be a damp, rainy sort of day, no good for going out. And no one will be at the factory anyway, because of the wakes. Hardly a day to get out of bed at all.”
“Only laggards lie abed all day.”
Max smiled. “Do they? It needn’t be lazy.”
She raised her head and propped her chin on his chest. Her eyes were still heavy-lidded with sleep, but sparkled with incipient desire. “Are you encouraging sloth and other wickedness?”
He clicked his tongue as he turned onto his side, tugging her knee up to his waist. “Not at all. It’s not wicked, and decidedly not sloth.” He was already hard and ready, and Bianca moaned softly as his length pressed between her legs.
“Jennie will come in,” she said, her mouth against his.
“Lawrence will keep her away,” he countered.
She smiled, opening her glorious eyes, fathoms-deep ocean blue. “Then say good morning properly to your wife, Mr. St. James.”
With a tilt of his hips he pushed inside her. She gasped, but she was already slick and ready. Leisurely Max moved against her, exploring her body as he’d dreamed of doing for weeks. He lavished attention on that beauty mark, now freely displayed to him. She was ticklish on her ribs but threw back her head in pleasure when he kissed her neck below her ear.
When she was clinging to him with arms and legs, Max flipped them over. She sat up, a wanton goddess with her hair wild around her. Heart hammering, climax building inside him, he shoved himself up on the pillows and touched her, burning to feel her come.
And his wife clasped her hands behind his neck and rocked back and forth until the color rolled up her face and she gasped in ecstasy. He seized her hips and felt his soul come apart with his climax.
Shaking, he pulled her to him for a deep kiss. Never, not even in his most fanciful dreams, had he imagined it would be this way. He’d wanted Perusia for the occupation, for the chance to prove himself not a useless fribble and to find some benefit in his rake’s history. He’d wanted a marriage for the fortune, so he would never be penniless again, jerked about by the Duchess of Carlyle’s whim. He’d thought it would be distant, polite, perhaps cordial.
Instead he gazed helplessly into Bianca’s glowing eyes and wondered how he’d ended up so deeply in love without even noticing he was falling.
“I’ve wondered about one thing,” she said, smiling dreamily. “When we were first married, you were downstairs every morning before I was. Do you always rise appallingly early?”
“Ah. That.” He chuckled, sliding down the pillows again. Bianca curled up against him, stretching her legs over his. Max thought he would never find a petite woman attractive again, after having her long legs wrapped around him. “Rather amusing, really. This wall”—he reached up and knocked his knuckles on the panel behind his head—“is not so thick as it looks. When Jennie brings your morning wash water, the door makes a particular squeal—”
She sat bolt upright. “Do you mean to say—?”
He folded his arm behind his head and smiled modestly. “As soon as I heard her come in, I would leap out of bed and hurry into my clothes, so that I would be ready to greet my wife at the breakfast table . . .”
She slapped his shoulder. “I thought you must not need sleep! Every morning—!”
Max gave her a sly look. “The back stairs are very conveniently near my door, and in stockinged feet, it’s possible to creep down without a sound.”
“Oh!” Eyes flashing, she flung herself onto the other side of the bed. “How perfectly vile of you!”
“Once,” he said, crawling after her, “I barely made it—if you’d looked closely, you would have noticed my shoes were thrown under my chair instead of on my feet—”
“I rose earlier and earlier!” she cried. “It was still dark!”
Laughing, Max wrapped his arms around her. “And you were a vision of beauty every morning, even with that piqued little frown on your brow. Well worth scrambling down the stairs without a candle.”
“Why?” she demanded in indignation. “What did you win?”
“My dear Mrs. St. James,” he teased, “was our marriage a contest to you?”
She flushed pink. “You know it was! That’s why you ran down the stairs, in the dark, without your shoes, just to be there before me. You wanted to prove that no matter what standard I held up, you could meet it.” She punctuated the last few words with a finger to his chest.
Max gave her a sinful smile in reply. “No, madam, you are wrong. I meant to show you I would exceed them, each and every one.”
“So it was a contest!” Finally she laughed. “Wretched man,” she said, letting him hold her closer. “I was exhausted.”
“I promise not to wake so early again,” he told her. “Or perhaps I will have more reason to stay abed later in the mornings . . .”
She laughed again, twisting in his arms to face him. Still smiling, she put her hand on his cheek. Her hair was wild and her face was glowing and her eyes were warm. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and so precious to him it was almost painful.
Max barely breathed; the words seemed to be swelling inside him, about to burst from his lips. He’d never told a woman he loved her, not since his mother . . .
“This is not what I imagined,” she said softly. “When I helped Cathy elope.”
Max let out his breath. Her sister. What a brilliant stroke of luck the quiet sister had been in love with someone else. If Catherine Tate had dutifully walked down the aisle to meet him . . . “I am unspeakably happy that you did.”
Her face stilled. “Are you truly?”
He nodded. “I hope she is very content with her marriage. Just as I hope you are . . . pleased with ours.”
She gazed at him for a long moment, as if she’d heard his tiny hesitation before pleased. Max’s heart turned to ice. Thank God he’d not said anything—perhaps love was too much to ask for, after the way they’d begun . . .
“I am,” she said in a low voice. “Pleased beyond measure.”
He smiled, the moment of fear passing. He kissed her again, and began teasing her about forming a cricket club in Marslip.
But he didn’t tell her he loved her. Not yet.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
For the next several days, Bianca walked with a spring in her step and a song in her heart.
She had never planned to marry because she had never thought it looked like fun. Her parents had been affectionate, but her mother’s long illness had of course cast a pall over the last several years of her life. Papa had been loving and caring of Mama, but the toll it took on him had been clear to all. Even now, he didn’t come to Poplar House, where they had all lived together; when he wanted something from her or Max, he sent a note or visited her in the workshop.
The marriages of cousins and friends, as happy as some of them were, appeared to be comfortable and convenient rather than passionate and thrilling. Aunt Frances’s marriage, on the other hand, might have been designed purposely to put anyone off the institution. Bianca had cast a critical eye on all the eligible men
within fifteen miles of Marslip, assessed the chances that she would be happy in close proximity to any of them for more than a month, and decided marriage was probably not for her.
Of course, she had thought the same about Max, and now he was proving her wrong in innumerable ways. Not only had he allayed all her suspicions that he would know nothing about Perusia ware or how to sell it, he had secured orders from the Duke of Wimbourne, the Earl of Dalway, and almost a dozen other aristocrats. Papa even showed her a few letters he’d received from other noblemen, who had seen or heard of the new wares, inquiring if they could visit his factory themselves.
“I knew that fellow had a clever head,” he said, watching her keenly. “Admit it. He’s improving on you, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said primly, though she blushed to think how much Max had improved on her.
“Are you happy, Bee?” her father prodded.
“Of course. Look at these orders, especially for the new scarlet ware—”
“I mean with him.” Papa leaned forward, refusing to let her evade the question. “Are you?”
She met his gaze. There was a trace of uncertainty in his hopeful expression. “Once you said that you and Mama had no choice but to make the best of things. What did you mean by that?”
A veil came down over her father’s face. He sat back in his chair. “When did I say that?”
“When you urged me to make the best of things with Max.”
“You should do that,” he told her. “Always try to make the best of your lot.”
“Papa.”
He sighed. “I was very fond of your mother. She was a loving mother and a good wife.”
“I thought you loved her,” said Bianca slowly.
“Oh, I did, I did!” Papa nodded. “But . . . not . . . perhaps not as much as she loved me.” He sighed, looking away. “I tried to do my best by her, and she bore up under my faults with admirable grace. Cathy is so like her—although your mother never would have run away in the middle of the night,” he added, sounding grudgingly impressed.
“I suppose Cathy got that from you,” said Bianca.
He glanced up sharply. “Aye, you would think so! Well, I suppose you were right to encourage her. I see now that St. James is a much better match for you than he ever was for her.”
Bianca blinked. “What?”
“Look at this!” Papa swept his hand over the desk, where the ordering papers lay. “Cathy never would have gone off to London with him. He tells me you impressed the Duke of Wimbourne to no end, and won over Lady Dalway and Lady Carswell. He gave all the credit for the visit to you, my dear.”
Bianca sat with her mouth open. “Oh—oh no,” she managed to protest. “That’s not true! Max knew just how to approach Dalway and Wimbourne—who were both his friends for many years—and while they admired the scarlet glaze, it was his efforts that caused the orders! He found the showroom, and the Cheapside shop where he proposes to sell his Fortuna ware, and he even got Sir Bartholomew Markham to pay his bill—”
Papa was grinning from ear to ear. “As I said,” he said proudly, “a much better match for him than Cathy. The two of you are a splendid pair, perfectly suited to each other! St. James is damned lucky that curate finally screwed up his courage.”
She frowned at him. “You could have prevented all that if you had listened to Cathy.”
He rolled his eyes. “She barely said a word against him! How was I to know it wasn’t just maidenly nerves? Frances assured me young ladies have such fits of passion, and when they recover no one, even they themselves, can recall what the fuss was. She was certain Cathy would get over her fit and settle down contentedly with St. James.”
“You consulted Aunt Frances about us?” Bianca was incredulous.
“Who else?” he asked in surprise. “What other woman should I ask for help with my daughters?”
Bianca was speechless. Frances cared for them, but she was also a quarrelsome old lady who’d been disappointed in love herself. Frances was the last person whose counsel she would ask when it came to marriage or happiness.
Papa waved one hand. “I’m not above admitting I was wrong. Neither is Frances.”
“She isn’t?”
He laughed at her dry remark. “Not in so many words, of course.”
“You’re in an expansive mood today,” she couldn’t resist saying.
Papa grinned. “Am I? It must be because your sister’s written to me.”
Bianca gasped. “She has? You never said! Is she well?”
He nodded, beaming. “She says so. Mr. Mayne has been writing to his superiors, and has finally been assured he may come back to his living here. I gather the bishop was displeased with his actions, but has decided it will all come out well.”
“I hope it was because you wrote to the bishop that you now approved of the marriage,” remarked Bianca.
Papa grunted. “Well, your sister asked it of me, and since all came out so happily for you, I could hardly refuse her.”
Bianca shook her head, but with a smile. She’d known Papa would forgive Cathy anything. “So she’s coming home?” She was both anxious to see her sister and nervous of the reunion, and the explanations that would be required. In her letters to Cathy, she hadn’t been able to find the words, and finally gave it up as hopeless, promising herself she would explain much better in person.
“I have every confidence she’ll come soon,” her father promised. “Especially once she hears of your marriage!”
“You . . . you told her?” Bianca asked after a moment. “What did you say?”
“That you married St. James in her place, much to the advantage of everyone.” Papa rose. “I expect you’ll want to fill in the details, but I thought you might like someone else breaking the news to her.”
She gave him a sour look, and he laughed, patting her on the shoulder.
When she met Max at the factory gate later that day, it was the first thing she told him. Max raised a brow. “You hadn’t told her already yourself?”
“No.” Bianca cringed. “I should have. What shall I say now?”
They strolled along, arm in arm. Bianca was a little astonished at herself; she’d been thinking of this all day, craving his advice. She, who was so decisive and who trusted her own judgment.
“Is there a reason not to tell her the truth?”
She blew out her breath. “She’ll be so disappointed in me.”
He squeezed her hand. “Would her feelings matter more than your own?”
Bianca paused. She hadn’t let Cathy’s opinion stop her before. “I fear the truth is not my friend this time.”
He cut a sharp look at her.
“I can bear her disappointment at how I argued with Papa,” Bianca explained quickly. “I can bear it when she learns how I . . . I agreed to our marriage in a fit of temper.” Her cheeks were burning. “I shall hate to tell her how long I blamed you and called you the worst sort of fortune hunter.”
“You could omit that bit,” he suggested after a pause. “Or make light of it. Surely what matters most is how we get on now.”
Warmth flooded her at the thought of that. She squeezed his arm and gave him a teasing smile as they reached Poplar House. “How do we get on now, sir?”
“Very well, madam, very well indeed,” he murmured, opening the door for her. “One might even say . . . passionately.”
Bianca all but purred at his gleaming glance. They had passion in abundance. More than passion, even; she looked forward to seeing him every day. She had come to respect him, she admired him, and she was desperately attracted to him. She liked being with him—enormously. She liked him.
Enormously.
Her hands slowed as she removed her hat and gloves, barely noticing when Mary took them. Max had not followed her; Lawrence had intercepted him at the door, speaking in a low voice. Bianca couldn’t see Max’s face, but just the rumble of their conversation made her heart swell. She even loved the sound of his voice.
/> And she knew then how she would answer her sister’s inevitable question, the answer that would forestall any tears or remonstrances and elicit instead delight and congratulations. Once again, Max was correct; she didn’t need to lie to Cathy at all. The truth was far better.
Cathy, I fell in love with him.
She turned on the stairs to look back. Max still stood in the doorway below, head together with Lawrence and poring over a letter. Upstairs Jennie was humming, and from the kitchen came the murmur of the other servants’ voices, preparing dinner. It was the sound of a happy home once more.
Bianca put a hand on the wall to steady herself. How had she been so blind? Why had she not admitted to herself that this was what she wanted? Max was not her vision of an ideal husband; he surpassed it in every way. He shared credit for their successes, even when the idea had begun with him. He never once argued against her working on the glazes, but congratulated her and encouraged her. He looked at her as if she were beautiful and alluring. He even wagered on her at cricket.
He said something to Lawrence, who nodded and slipped out the door. For a moment his dark head remained bent over the letter in his hands. Then he looked up.
Bianca’s smile withered at the sight of his expression. “What’s wrong?” She descended a few stairs.
His face was stark. “I have to go out.”
“Now?” She was astonished. “Why?”
His gaze dropped to the letter. “Yes, now. I’m sorry.”
Bianca clattered down the remaining steps. “Why? What is wrong? You’re as pale as death, Max!”
His eyes closed. She put her hand on his in concern, fearing he might fall unconscious, and he jerked violently away from her touch. “I have to go,” he repeated, breathing hard. He crumpled the letter in his fist. “I’m sorry.” He brushed past her and took the stairs two at a time.
Bianca ran after him, following him into his bedchamber. It had been their bedchamber for the last week, where they talked and laughed and kissed and held each other and made love to each other. Now he was flinging off his clothes, pulling on riding breeches and boots and determinedly not looking at her.
About a Rogue EPB Page 24
