She led him back to the main offices and up the stairs to throw open the door and march in. Max followed, unhurried.
“And here is a place you must remember well,” said Bianca as he entered. “I believe you had some questions about contracts for my father?”
Samuel Tate came around his desk, his eyes sharp and interested. “Well now, I didn’t think to see either of you at the factory today. It was your wedding yesterday! Take a day free, man, to recover your strength.”
“Yes,” said Bianca warmly. She gave Max a smile he’d never seen before, one which made his heart stutter in surprise. Her eyes sparkled and her lips curved in true pleasure. “Do, Mr. St. James. This is all so very new and taxing to you! You must want a week’s respite at the very least.”
Max smiled back at her, letting the full force of his appreciation show. “New and fascinating, my dear. I find myself entranced, and utterly lost in my study.”
Tate laughed. “I knew it! I told you,” he said triumphantly to his daughter, whose face had turned pink. “I knew it would work out for the best. Wasn’t I right?”
She ignored him. Max could only guess what was in her mind as she made a graceful little curtsy. “If you are so happily occupied, sir, I shall leave you here and return to my work.”
“Of course.” He bowed, catching her hand when she tried to brush past him, and raising it to his lips. “I would never dream of interrupting your work, knowing how important it is to you and to Perusia.” Her mouth flattened. Max released her hand. “Until later, my dear.”
With a twitch of her skirts and a glare of pure aggravation, she swept out of the room.
Grinning broadly, Tate closed the door behind her. “Well! Seems a promising beginning, aye?”
All yesterday the man had alternated between fretting, apologizing, and fulminating about his daughter’s temper and obstinate will. Max wasn’t sure if Tate regretted his actions at the church, or merely wanted Max’s assurance that all was well. It had not escaped him that his wife had not spoken one word to her father either yesterday, at the wedding breakfast, or just now, when she’d kept her back to him the entire time she was in his office.
But she’d come into the office, and apparently that was enough reconciliation for Tate. Today the storm had passed, in his mind, and he was ready to resume course.
Max had a feeling Bianca took after her father in that. The first time he’d been invited to Perusia, for that dinner a few months ago, he’d noticed that Catherine Tate would listen politely to anyone prattle on for as long as they could talk. Not Bianca; she’d whittled a long-winded philosophical argument down to its essence, and left the two philosophers blinking at her in bewilderment. She had a sharp, quick wit, with no patience for idle chatter. She walked briskly, spoke boldly, and was delightfully easy to rouse to a passion.
Max admired her confidence—and envied it. He, however, had learned that there was a time for that boldness, and a time to hold his tongue and listen. Time to erupt in fury and time to swallow his pride, even to grovel. Time to act, and time to watch, and wait, and learn, until precisely the right moment arrived to seize what he wanted.
So he smiled at Tate’s hopeful query. “It was all very sudden for both of us. Of course it will take time to become acquainted, as husband and wife.” He paused. “But I do believe it is a most auspicious beginning.”
When the bell rang at six o’clock that evening, Max was waiting at the main gate. He had spent the day in the offices, as Bianca had told him to do, but now was time to devote some attention to his wife.
After several minutes she emerged from the far workshop. Her head was bent, the flat straw hat hiding her face as she tugged on her gloves. Her head came up. He saw the flash of her wide smile as she lifted one hand in greeting to the woman who had called to her.
Max’s gaze lingered on that smile. He’d only seen it a few times, true and carefree instead of tight and grim. But it transformed Bianca’s face, brightening her eyes to blue and accentuating her lush mouth.
All day long he had kept his ears open, keen for any new glimmers of insight into this intriguing, infuriating woman who was his wife. Max thought they were more alike than not; she’d taunted him about how quickly he agreed to the bride switch, but had no reply when he turned the query back on her. He suspected they had both acted on impulse, even if her impulse sprang from passion and fury while his came from an iron-willed determination not to let this opportunity slide through his grasp.
Perhaps, he thought idly, watching the sway of her skirt as she crossed the courtyard toward him, she had felt the same. These pottery works are mine, she’d said in the church. Tate had assigned him a quarter share of the business upon his marriage—the business being of course Tate’s and not his daughter’s, not yet. Max had probed a little, and Tate admitted he had always hoped to leave Perusia to his children.
Tate had hastened to add that he’d been reserving ultimate judgment on that score until his daughters were married, for he did not intend to leave his life’s work to be frittered away by an indolent son-in-law. That last had come with an appraising look, to which Max somberly agreed that it was a wise precaution to take. It seemed to have satisfied Tate, who had quickly moved on to doubting the sensibility of the erstwhile curate, who was presumably his other son-in-law by now.
Bianca looked up and caught sight of him, watching her, thinking about her, and her smile dropped away. She walked right by him, but Max fell in beside her without missing a step. “Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening, sir,” she replied coolly.
“It is now,” he said with a smile.
“Is it?” She widened her eyes innocently. “I felt a sudden chill.”
“Allow me to lend you my coat.”
Her lips parted and she stared at him in astonishment, until Max began removing his coat. “Please, no,” she said hastily. “Don’t do that!”
Max paused mid-shrug. “I don’t mind,” he said in a low voice, gazing at her. “I grew rather warm and flustered as you approached.”
Her color deepened. She snatched back the hand she’d put out to stop him. “It must be a fever. Pray, keep your coat on so you don’t develop an ague.”
“I’ve never felt fitter,” he assured her, tugging his coat back into place. With a huff, she strode off, the ribbons on her hat fluttering.
“Did you make good progress on the scarlet glaze?”
She gave him a sideways glance. “Some.”
Max nodded once. “I am delighted to hear it.”
If Bianca was so dedicated to her work, he would encourage her to pursue it. It did not escape Max’s mind that here was an easy way to please them both: she could continue in her glazing experiments unchecked, while he was free to improve the rest of the business.
After several silent paces, she said, with the air of one forcing herself to make conversation, “I trust you spent a pleasant day reading contracts.”
“Oh yes,” he agreed.
She eyed him warily, but he said nothing else. Let her wonder. Let her come to him, wanting more.
“You needn’t come to the factory again,” she said, facing forward.
“Why are you so keen to keep me from the factory?” he asked. “A factory which is one-quarter mine.”