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 wanted 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.