St. James turned a page. In the frosty silence it sounded loud. Bianca made an impatient noise low in her throat.
“Your pardon, my dear,” he murmured.
She tried to fix her attention on her formula. It was so close. Perhaps a little more potash? A bit less alum? She took down her mortar and pestle to grind another batch from the jars of minerals on the shelf above her head.
A tap at the door sounded, and Billy stuck his head inside. He was twelve, an apprentice in the firing workshop. “More samples for you, ma’am.”
Bianca abandoned the mortar. “Bring them right in! Has the red mellowed?”
Billy shrugged as he carried in the tray of tiles. “A bit.” They’d been fired three days ago and were only now cool enough to examine.
Bianca bent over the tray, scrutinizing each one. “This one looks good . . . This one is nearly orange, though. What happened? These all had the same sample applied.”
“Edge of the kiln, perhaps, ma’am.” Billy cleared his throat. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” said St. James pleasantly. “Billy, was it?”
“Yes, sir.” Billy looked at Bianca nervously. “Billy Tucker, sir. My da works in the throwing house.”
“I believe I made his acquaintance yesterday. Tall fellow with sandy hair?” asked That Man, as if he’d already met and memorized every person at Perusia.
Billy perked up. “Aye, sir! Quite tall. Mum says I’ll be tall like ’im . . .” His voice petered out as Bianca looked up from her samples. “Are these not right, then?”
“They’re very close,” she replied. “How is your da, Billy? Hands still sore?”
“No, ma’am, that salve you sent over helped that.”
She beamed, pleased. “Lovely! I hope that makes it a bit easier on your mother.” Mrs. Tucker had had a baby only a few months ago. If her husband’s hands had stiffened too much for him to work, they would have been without income.
Billy nodded. “Aye, ma’am.”
“These ones are good. The rest are rubbish.” Bianca picked up the chosen tiles and flipped them to see what she’d marked on the reverse, to be sure she used the right formula. Billy took the tray and left, closing the door behind him.
She made notes in silence for a few moments, until her neck prickled. That Man was watching her. “What?” she snapped.
“How do you formulate the glazes?”
“With a close study of mineral properties, some chemistry intuition, and extensive trials,” she replied without looking up.
“Very impressive,” was all he said in reply. She stole a peek from the corner of one eye to see him holding one of her tiles. He caught her watching and laid it down. “Brilliantly impressive.”
Bianca went back to her work, reminding herself to hate him. He hadn’t the first idea what she did. Calling it impressive was empty flattery from him.
When she glanced at him again, he was once more absorbed in the contracts, turning the pages silently.
“It would surely be more comfortable to read in my father’s office,” she couldn’t stop herself from murmuring.
“Not so,” he replied. “The din from the workshops is disturbing.”
“You might ask him to close the casements.” Papa liked to be able to survey the entire workshop from his office, but even he acknowledged it could be loud, with the lathes and potters’ wheels. There were casement windows to dim the noise.
“I am quite comfortable here,” said St. James. “Though I do treasure your tender concern for my comfort.”
“Should I not?” She consulted her notes and added a gram of soda to her mixture. “As your wife, I insist you retire to a more refined space, befitting a gentleman who once read law.” She bit off the word wife with emphasis.
“My dear, I would not be parted from you, not even by a regiment of workmen hammering away,” was his silky reply.
She imagined chasing him from the room with a pair of fire tongs, the sturdy tool that lifted items from the kiln. It cheered her enough to carry on, but not enough to allow her to forget he was there.
And that was what Bianca really craved. This man had already taken up too much of her attention, and now he was spoiling her concentration simply by sitting there, his legs elegantly crossed and those spectacles on his nose again. How did a man look more appealing with eyeglasses, instead of like a nearsighted quiz?
Even worse, she could see his leg from the corner of her eye. He had very shapely calves. Bianca wasn’t above noticing a finely muscled leg on a man, but before it had always been passing curiosity and nothing more. There had never been the remotest chance she would do more than look.
But this man . . . The world expected her to go to bed with this man.
She had tried not to look at his legs the night before—nor at any part of him—but he seemed determined to draw her eye. Even in his plain, sober clothing, wearing spectacles and reading a dust-dry contract. Obviously he knew he was a handsome man. Bianca was wildly annoyed that she had to know it, too.
She made a valiant effort, but it was too much. Within the hour she gave it up, threw down her pestle, and jumped off her stool. “Very well, I shall lead you on a tour. After that I expect to have this workshop to myself.”
He removed his spectacles and studied her. “Do I unsettle you?”
“I prefer to work in privacy.” She stressed the last word. “You unsettle me as much as anyone being in the room would. There is a reason my workshop is in this wing, quiet and removed. Shall we?”
“Of course.” He stowed his eyeglasses and tucked the contracts under his arm, then followed her out the door. “A strong lock,” he observed as she put in the key.
“Very strong. What I work on would be quite valuable to a rival.” She tucked the key back into her bodice, flushing as his gaze followed, and lingered on her bosom. “This way,” she said brusquely, tugging up her fichu as soon as she’d turned her back to him.
Outside in the southern courtyard, she turned to him. “Do you know how pottery wares are produced?”
He smiled at the blunt question. “In broad strokes.”
Bianca shook her head in disgust. “The way I know how to play the harp! In other words, not at all. This way.”
She led him first to the clay house, with its sloping ramps to the canal and the road, to allow barrows and wagons to be drawn up to the door. “Here is the first step,” she said, striding through and pointing as she went. “The clay is brought in to be inspected and weighed. It must be clean and pure or the wares produced from it will be rubbish. Charles there is responsible for making sure it is so.” She nodded to her distant cousin, who was watching her and St. James with undisguised interest.
Bianca’s face heated. Today she deeply regretted how enmeshed her family was in the pottery works. They had all been invited to the wedding festivities the day before, and all had seen her, instead of Cathy, emerge from the church on St. James’s arm. She knew what they must all be thinking: Bianca the outspoken spinster had somehow ended up with her sister’s intended husband! Poor fool, she supposed they were thinking when they looked at St. James himself, the man who’d almost won the sweet, lovely Cathy and instead had got her.