That didn’t make the wedding breakfast less of a nightmare, though. St. James greeted all the guests cordially, already acting like a gentleman of the manor. To look at him, no one would ever guess that he hadn’t married the woman of his heart’s desire that morning. Lying rogue, she thought in disgust.
Papa had also regained his bonhomie, thanking everyone for coming and accepting congratulations with a smile. Bianca decided to ignore him, as she was no longer speaking to him.
For herself, she could only act as normally as possible, reminding herself that she was neither ashamed nor sorry, that this marriage would have very little impact on her life, and that it was all to the greater good anyway, enabling Cathy to be with her love and allowing Bianca to continue her work unimpeded. After all, if St. James wished to keep drawing his allowance from the business, he couldn’t very well oust her from it, since her work helped make Perusia pottery uniquely attractive. And now that she’d given in to Papa’s mad proposal, not only was she a married lady, no longer under his hand, but Papa owed her a monstrous debt.
Aunt Frances, of course, had to put in her word, as pointed as a needle. “Now I see why you were so keen on matchmaking between Cathy and the curate,” she murmured, her gaze raking over St. James. He stood across the room from them, smiling faintly at something Mr. Murdoch, Papa’s head modeler, was saying. “You sly minx,” added the older woman in a soft, almost spitefully delighted tone. “What fine prey you’ve bagged.”
“You think I wanted him for myself?” Bianca cast a scathing gaze toward the man. What a peacock he was, in his emerald satin breeches and ivory velvet coat. His lace alone was finer than anything any woman in the room wore. It made her own beautiful silk gown, a bright cheery primrose, look plain and simple in contrast.
“I assure you not. It’s strictly a marriage of convenience,” she told her aunt. “I see little difference between him and Mr. Murdoch.”
Frances raised her brow. “None at all?”
Mr. Murdoch was fifty, his fair hair faded to white and his hands callused to leather from handling the clay. He was a talented modeler, invaluable to the business. No one would ever confuse him with Maximilian St. James, who was far more attractive and far less useful.
“None,” lied Bianca. “If you’ll pardon me, Aunt, I see Amelia awaiting me.”
Amelia was agog, and Bianca was forced to employ some license in her retelling of the story. Cathy’s love affair became a bit more passionate, St. James’s courtship much more mercenary, and Papa’s motives a vast deal more paternal instead of mercantile. As for Bianca’s actions . . .
“You really had to marry him to save the pottery works?” whispered Amelia in scandalized shock.
“It was the only choice.” Bianca nibbled her slice of cake. Cathy had ordered it made, and Bianca loved cake. It would be silly to let it go to waste.
“But Cathy—!” Amelia clapped one hand to her mouth. “Does Cathy know?”
Bianca paused. “No,” she said carefully. “I had no time to ponder it, or write to her about it, but had to decide in the moment.”
That was not strictly true. She’d had well over half an hour from the time Papa snarled at her that perhaps she ought to step into her sister’s shoes and marry St. James, and the moment Mr. Filpot had cleared his throat and recited the charge to her. Not nearly enough time to consult her sister, who must have been halfway to Wolverhampton by then, but enough time to have put a stop to it.
“Bianca, she’ll be overset! Surely she never dreamed you would have to go to such lengths for her!”
“She will understand,” said Bianca firmly. “And she’ll be happy. It’s all I want her to be. I shall make the best of things for myself. Besides . . .” She lowered her voice. “It’s not as if St. James wants a real marriage, you know.”
Amelia goggled at her. “No! A man like that?”
Bianca looked at That Man, her husband, the scheming rogue. He looked perfectly at ease, chatting to her neighbors and friends as if he’d known them forever.
He also looked far too attractive for words—and for her. Bianca had not spent much time thinking about marriage, which didn’t look very appealing to her. But when pressed, she’d always pictured herself, if she married at all, wed to someone comfortable, a little older, much more amiable. In her mind he was neither handsome nor ugly, easy in manner and kind in spirit.
Instead she found herself yoked to this spectacularly handsome but soulless snake, who glided into Marslip intent on gaining her father’s company and stealing her inheritance.
“Look at him,” she said quietly to her friend, without looking away from him. “A London dandy, handsome and sophisticated and as slippery as oiled glass. What can he want, all the way out here in Staffordshire? Is he a potter? Is he a modeler? Does he know anything at all about pottery? No. He saw an opportunity, and he seized it, didn’t he? It was all the same to him whether he married Cathy or me.”
As she spoke, he glanced her way, his dark eyes gleaming. When he saw her watching him, he smiled—that wicked, knowing smile—and made her a very handsome bow.
“Are you certain?” Amelia bobbed a hasty curtsy and leaned closer to whisper in Bianca’s ear. “That one doesn’t look like he holds what is his lightly.”
Bianca stiffened. “I am not his,” she hissed.
“You are.” Amelia nodded sympathetically. “His wife, his property by law. Even if you think he doesn’t care for you, that doesn’t mean he isn’t possessive of what’s his.”
That would clearly be the first notion she disabused him of. Bianca gazed back at him, expressionless, her resolve hardening. She and Mr. St. James were going to have a very blunt conversation.
She managed to avoid him the rest of the day. After the guests left, he disappeared, a circumstance that pleased her greatly until she overheard Ellen tell Cook that Mr. Tate wanted a hamper for him and Mr. St. James at the offices. Bianca scowled at the thought of That Man invading her workshop, but she could not slip away. In Cathy’s absence she had to oversee the tidying up after the guests, the distribution of the remaining food to the workers’ families, and the transfer of her own possessions to Poplar House.
That last drove home to her what she’d done. Poplar House had been their house before Papa built the large new Perusia Hall. It was at Poplar House that Bianca had been born and spent her childhood. When Mama died, just weeks before Perusia Hall was to be ready for them, Papa had moved them all up the hill to the Hall, disregarding its unfinished state, and promptly let Poplar House to his cousin.
None of them had been back to the quaint little house since. Papa had preferred the grander Perusia Hall, and the cousin’s wife had been a sickly woman who didn’t entertain guests.
Today Bianca walked down the hill to Poplar House as mistress of it, not a child but a married lady. With a sense of detached amazement she approached the familiar blue door under the freshly thatched roof. The cousin had moved out six months ago, having saved enough money to take his wife to Bath in a bid to improve her health. Upon St. James’s proposal, Papa had given orders for the house to be cleaned and repaired, making it ready for his daughter and new son-in-law.