She wielded it much the same way a swordsman might a rapier, too.
If he’d had more time to consider, would he have agreed to the switch? Max pondered the question in some remote, analytical portion of his brain as he took his place in the church, before the handful of whispering guests and the minister, who was still fumbling through his book of Common Prayer for the marriage service.
He would like to know if either, or both, ladies had been in on the scheme all along. Miss Tate had never refused his attentions; she’d appeared flattered by them, with her shy blushes and murmured thanks. He didn’t imagine that it meant her feelings were engaged, and frankly he had not hoped they were.
Now, of course, it was clear her feelings had been engaged . . . just not by him.
As for Bianca, her feelings toward him had always been crystal clear: disdain, disgust, and dislike being chief among them. At the time he’d been amused. He’d thought she might be jealous of her older sister, betrothed at last while she remained a spinster.
More fool you, he told himself. Perhaps he should have recognized the chance offered in the sacristy to reject this mad plan, and cut his losses.
But Max had learned to seize opportunity when it crossed his path. Dame Fortune hadn’t smiled upon him often in life, and she rarely allowed him the luxury of pondering and debating her offerings. He still half expected the Duchess of Carlyle to withdraw her support and cut him off without warning, which was why he had moved so swiftly to propose this arrangement to Tate.
No, he reflected, he didn’t think more time would have changed his answer. He was used to making the best of things, and this last-minute adjustment did nothing, really, to change his plans.
A murmur of amazement signaled the appearance of the bride. Max kept his gaze on the cross standing on the altar behind the minister as she strode up beside him. He didn’t need to see her face to sense her fury; it fairly streamed off her, like heat from a fire. With whom? he wondered idly. With her father? With herself? She could have denied agreeing to it, but she hadn’t.
Still, when the minister reached the admonishment to anyone who wished to protest the marriage, Max tensed. All she had to say was one word and everything would be ruined.
Nothing. The silence in the church was absolute.
The minister, Filpot, cleared his throat and turned to Max. “Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?”
Max barely heard the rest of the charge as Filpot droned on. He would. He would have her, and keep her, and be just as good a husband to her as he’d meant to be to her sister—which was to say, probably not a very good one, though he intended to atone for that by being away as much as possible. The best marriages, after all, were ones conducted at some distance. The only times his parents had seemed at all fond of each other was when they were apart—far, far apart. As Max planned to spend most of his time away from Marslip, it didn’t much matter which wife he left behind.
“I will,” he answered with calm certitude.
Filpot nodded once, darted a nervous glance at Mr. Tate, and turned to the bride. “Wilt thou take this man to thy wedded husband?”
Aside from a faint noise of derision as Filpot read, “Wilt thou obey him and serve him?” she made no protest. When Filpot raised his eyes warily at the end, Bianca said, quietly but clearly, “I will.”
It sounded to Max’s ears like a threat.
He was smiling in mild amusement when he took her hand from Tate’s. She still hadn’t looked at him, but kept her fierce gaze fastened on the minister. “I, Augustus Crispin Maximilian, take thee, Bianca Charlotte, to my wedded wife,” he recited. At his name, she finally glanced at him, horror stamped on her face at the terrible moniker. Max’s smile widened as he gripped her hand tighter. “According to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
She pulled loose at the last word, only to take his hand again when prompted. In a flat voice she repeated her own vow. Max laid the ring on the minister’s book and listened with the same detached amusement as Filpot blessed it.
At the last moment he worried it would not fit. It had been chosen for her sister, after all, and Max had spent some time deliberating over it; women liked jewels, and Max liked to make a good impression. But when he took Bianca’s hand and tried it, the ring slid smoothly onto her finger. She made a fist, causing the gold to sparkle in the sunlight, and he couldn’t resist another smile.
“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.