Nor, it must be admitted, the physical desire he craved. He wanted her, and he wanted her to want him.
Bianca wound a strip of linen around the end of her braid and tied it. “There was no need to frighten off Jennie.”
“Did I frighten her?” He affected surprise. “If I did, she takes fright very easily. Might as well get it over and done with, I suppose.”
“None of us here know you,” she replied. She rose from her seat and tugged the ties of her dressing gown tighter. “Nor you, us.”
“Ah. Yes. That will change.” He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled toward her. She watched him, her expression calm if a shade condescending. “We are married, after all, until death shall us part.”
“Well.” She smiled sweetly, looking coy and mischievous for a moment. Max’s sangfroid faltered. She was rather . . . bewitching like that. “At least there is an end in sight.”
He laughed. “No, really? I was counting on another forty years or more.”
“And I’ve already begun counting them down,” she replied as if struck by delight at the coincidence. “What do you want?”
He lowered his gaze at that question. “What any husband might want, with his new wife.” Idly he picked up one of the delicate little pots from her dressing table and opened it. “To become closer acquainted.”
She made a sound like a faint snort. “It will take very little effort for that, since we aren’t acquainted at all.”
“And yet, we aren’t entirely strangers, either.” The pot was crafted to look like a ripe plum, deep pinkish-purple with a pert pair of leaves on a stem forming the handle on the lid. It was very finely made, and Max removed the lid. It glowed translucent green when held in front of the candle. The pot itself was delicate porcelain, and held a fragrant salve of some kind. He inhaled the scent of sweet almonds, honey, perhaps lavender. “What is this?”
“A remedy for pernicious itching in sensitive places,” she said evenly. “Do you need some?”
Max’s gaze jerked up, startled.
“A balm for my hands,” she said, an impish smile tugging at her lips. She was pleased to have wrong-footed him, the minx. “The clay can be quite abrasive.”
“Right.” He studied the little pot. It was as dainty and lightweight as an eggshell. It bore the Tate mark on the underside—or rather, a variant on it. Not the usual, stately Roman TATE encircled by a laurel wreath, but the name, scripted, enclosed in a rosette. If he had to guess, it was Bianca’s personal mark. He put down the jar of balm. “You work in your father’s office.”
Her lips flattened. “I work in my own workshop. I am a Tate, too, you know.”
Max cocked his head. “Not any longer.”
At that, temper flashed in her eyes and she brushed past him. “Don’t be so certain of that.”
He only smiled.
“Since you’re here, you might as well sit down.” She took a seat in the wingback chair by the window and nodded at the opposite chair. “There’s a great deal you need to learn.”
I might say the same, he thought as he accepted her invitation to sit. “Should I fetch a quill and paper, to make notes?”
“Only if you’re too simple to remember.” She eyed him dubiously. “On second thought, perhaps you should.”
“Why do you think I’m simple?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. Max was frivolously vain of his legs, and he smiled as her gaze flickered to his calves in their silk stockings for a moment.
“Let’s see.” She put her head to one side and ticked off her fingers. “You coldly proposed marriage to a woman you didn’t know. You married a woman you knew even less, after pondering the question for a matter of minutes. You—”
“And how long, pray, did you ponder that same question?” he drawled.
She took his meaning at once. Her slate eyes turned flinty. “Are you suggesting I planned to marry you?”
Max lifted one shoulder. “It must be considered, you know. Perhaps that bit about your sister running off with another fellow was a convenient story. Perhaps you envied her. Perhaps you schemed to bring this about.”
“Good God, why would I?” she exclaimed in horror.
Max spread his arms wide, as if to display his person, and smiled engagingly.
He did not think Bianca had engineered their marriage. He did not really think Tate had done so, either, not after the way the man blustered about it all afternoon. But the switch of brides had been done with breathtaking speed, requiring a healthy bribe to encourage the curate to read the proper lady’s name and amend the license. It was all very suspicious, and while Max didn’t regret his own actions—he rarely wasted time on regret—he was curious about hers.
Her mouth fell open and her brow creased indignantly. “You!” she cried. “You? You think I wanted you?”
“It must be remarked,” he said in a low, silky tone, “that you got me, while so many other women have failed.”
A bright flush rolled up her neck. “Would that any of them had succeeded!”
Max shrugged. “To your great benefit, they did not.”
He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to needle her. It might be a dreadful mistake. Sometimes it was better to let someone vent their spleen, get their shouting done, and then stealthily work his way into their good graces.
But he just couldn’t, not this time, not with her. Regardless of how and why, she was his wife, the supposed helpmeet of his life. He found her intriguing, if challenging, and there was that bloody inconvenient charge of attraction that went through him every time he saw her.
And most importantly, he sensed that if he ever let Bianca trample over him, he would never, ever win her respect. That would be the single greatest mistake he could make, and Max wasn’t about to make it.
“My benefit!” She stared at him as if he’d gone mad. “Of all the—”
“You know, I took care to discover what sort of wife your sister would be,” he said idly. “No one said aught of you. Perhaps you wish to tell me yourself?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied in the same careless tone after a moment’s pause. “We aren’t much of a husband and wife, are we?”
“Now that is where you’re wrong.” He clasped his hands over his stomach and let his gaze drift toward her bed for a moment. “We are most certainly husband and wife.”
A fine flush of pink colored her face again. “Bollocks.”
His brows shot up, half-surprised, half-amused. “I say, madam!”
“You say.” She shot to her feet, her dressing gown swirling around her legs. “You say! All this time, it’s been what you say, and what you want. I must tell you, sir, that shan’t continue.” Pacing a path in front of the fireplace, she eyed him narrowly. “You might as well acclimate yourself to a few truths, Mr. St. James. I may be your wife before the law, but I do not belong to you. This marriage was, and is, merely a business arrangement. My father, fool that he is, made you a partner in the pottery works, but I daresay he didn’t tell you how much of its success is due to my efforts—efforts which I intend to continue. And if you have half a brain in your head, you’ll not argue.”