“You’re a strange fellow,” she said, turning back to the window—to hide how impressed she was, he thought with amusement.
“My dear,” he told her, “that’s only the beginning.”
If anyone had told Bianca that a long journey, trapped in a chaise with her husband, would be pleasant, she would have called them a bald-faced liar.
And yet, it wasn’t dreadful. His good humor never faltered. He never missed a chance to say something mildly flirtatious, but didn’t even propose sharing a room at the inn. They talked of business, or London, or the sights they were passing. It was . . . pleasant.
They reached London late in the day. The dusty roads of the turnpike changed to the rattling cobblestones of town, and Bianca pressed her face to the carriage window again, undeniably curious. Her mouth fell open in wonder.
She’d seen engravings of London, with buildings so tall and densely packed the sun didn’t reach the pavements, of streets lined with shops and filled with carriages. Nothing compared to being in the midst of it herself. Engravings gave no sense of the bustling activity, even this late in the day. Everywhere she looked there were people: peddlers crying their wares, boys with brooms rushing out to sweep the streets for those on foot, sedan chairs carrying well-dressed people, ladies walking the pavements with small Black servant boys trailing behind, liveried servants rushing on errands, young men throwing dice on a barrel outside a pub. And to the east, above it all, she could see a golden dome that Max said was St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was a spectacle she’d never imagined.
The carriage rolled onward before turning into a quieter street. Tall lamps stood in front of every third house, and there were iron railings lining the pavement. They stopped in the middle, before a narrow but gracious house of pale brick. The door was a welcoming blue, just like Poplar House, with a glazed light above.
“This—this is ours?” Bianca looked at him to be sure.
Max nodded as he threw open the carriage door. “For the next month.”
She barely felt his hand as he helped her down. Four stories rose above her, a dizzying height to her eyes. Even Perusia Hall, which was grand indeed, had only three floors.
As they reached the step, the door opened. “Welcome to town, sir,” said Lawrence, Max’s man. Bianca supposed she ought to call him a valet, but Lawrence seemed to do far more than a valet. More than most servants did, to be honest.
As Max spoke to the man, Bianca walked through the hall to look into the front room. It was handsome, though furnished rather sparsely. With Jennie at her heels, she climbed the stairs and found the dining room, with an elegant parlor behind it. Up again she went, finally stepping into a large bedroom, dominated by a massive bed in rich damask hangings. Jennie, her excitement revived after so many days of travel, went to the connecting door and disappeared. Bianca followed and discovered a small closet, furnished with a writing desk and bookshelves, beyond which lay another bedroom, smaller and cozier than the first.
She stared at that bed. Bianca had pictured a few rooms, not an entire house, let alone one so elegantly appointed. She had braced herself to argue against sharing a bedroom, and a bed, and now found that she had perhaps been anticipating Max’s attempts to persuade her.
Not that she meant to give in. But somewhere between Stoke on Trent and London, his flirting had grown flattering. She still didn’t quite believe he meant every word of it, but like a steady flow of water over stone, his attention and suggestive words were wearing away her resistance.
A footstep behind her made her start. “What do you think?” asked her husband, leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb.
“It’s so large,” she said.
He smiled. “Comfortable, I say.” He came into the room and moved around the bed to peer out the window. “Do you like this room, or would you prefer the other?”
Bianca blinked.
“It’s got a view of the garden,” he said, still looking out the window, “but the other bed is larger.”
Large enough for two people. Bianca flushed from head to toe, and said the first thing that came into her head. “This one will do, thank you.”
He glanced at her, as if he knew what she meant, but only nodded. “I’ll tell Lawrence to send your trunks.”
“How did you find such a place on short notice?” she asked.
“The previous tenant wished to remove from town sooner than his lease required,” said Max. “It was quite reasonable.”
“How much?” she asked without thinking.
Max raised a brow, and she blushed. “Reasonable,” he repeated. “You must trust me in this. Any London rent would sound appallingly high to you, but to one well acquainted with the rents in town, it was economical.” He nodded at the windows facing the garden. “I wouldn’t bring my wife to a shabby set of rented rooms.”
She flushed deeper. Her face would be burned as scarlet as her glaze, after a month in such proximity to him. “I’m sure I didn’t ask for such indulgence . . .”
He smiled, that lazy rogue’s smile that both put her on guard and made something inside her soften treacherously. “But I wanted to give it, my dear.” He turned and walked out of the room, calling for Lawrence.
Simultaneously irked and touched, Bianca pulled loose the ribbons of her hat and handed it to Jennie, who had just come in, out of breath from exploring the rest of the house.
“’Tis beautiful, ain’t it, ma’am?” asked the girl rapturously.
“Yes.”
“And so near the shops! I confess I do hope you’ll be wanting to visit them, as I’ve longed to see Bond Street all my life.” Jennie put away the hat and tugged the drapes fully open. “Look, miss—I mean, madam, such a neat garden!”
Bianca smiled reluctantly at the girl’s enthusiasm. Perhaps Jennie had the right of it. “I suppose we shall visit a great many things.”
Their London adventure was off to a strangely exciting beginning.
Max closed both doors between his chamber and Bianca’s. “Well done,” he told Lawrence. “It cleaned up well.”
The valet grinned. “Aye, after four days of frantic scrubbing. Had to pay the charwomen extra. I trust that’s acceptable.”
Max waved it away. “How is he?”
“In good health.”
“So she didn’t kill him, then,” said Max, and the man raised one finger in salute.
The house was let to Lord Cathcart, who had been, at times, one of Max’s best mates. They’d also fallen out and not spoken to each other for months at other times, but this spring, when Max learned of his stroke of immense good fortune, Cathcart had been the first friend he told. The viscount thought it terribly amusing.
The previous resident of the house had been Cathcart’s mistress, a plump, doe-eyed creature whose porcelain cheeks and dimpled smile had concealed the heart and soul of a vicious harpy. Max, along with most of Cathcart’s other friends, had wagered on how long it would be until Mrs. Robbins fell out with him. It was a habit of theirs, as Cathcart ran through mistresses as though they were coats that must be changed with the season. Max had won the pot, with his wager of seven months and one week coming within days of the final rupture.