“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. “Yousay! 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.”
“I see,” he murmured.
“In addition, this is my bedchamber, and I’ll thank you not to walk in and out as if you own it.”
He did own it. Max said nothing, entertained beyond measure.
“And lastly...” She sat in the chair again, this time leaning forward, her gaze intent on him. “When my sister returns to Marslip, you’ll not say one word to her about our discussion in the church.”
“Our discussion in the church...” He pretended to think. “I don’t really recall much of one. Your father said she was gone, you declared she had run off on some great love affair, and that was it.”
“There was your coldhearted willingness to marry a perfect stranger on the spot,” she said, two spots of pink burning brightly in her cheeks.
Slowly Max leaned forward until their faces were barely a foot apart. He could see the flecks of blue in her eyes, and the damned beauty mark on her breast. Her pacing had dislodged the sash of her dressing gown, and it gaped open just enough for him to see that tempting spot.
“Was it?” he asked softly.
A line of bemusement appeared between her brows. “Was it—was it what?”
This time he openly surveyed her, not hiding his brazen appreciation of her flushed skin, full bosom, long legs, and dishabille. God help him, why did he find temper and passion in a woman so mesmerizing? He’d tried to choose a demure, quiet wife who wouldn’t provoke him, who would make it easy for him to leave her be.
Instead...
“Wasit coldhearted?” he whispered. “Are you certain, Mrs. St. James?”
She blinked. “Obviously—”
Max clicked his tongue. “Don’t be so sure. I’m not as simple as you want me to be.” As she stared in amazement, he got to his feet, bowing low in the same motion to keep his face near hers. “Until tomorrow.”
Unhurriedly he rose. There was a door beside her bed, which could not lead to the corridor or to the back stairs to the nursery. Tate had showed him the house, and Max vaguely remembered this door led to the master’s bedchamber. He hadn’t taken much notice of it at the time, not thinking he would use it often. “This connects us, I take it?” He opened the door and gave her one last lazy smile. “How convenient.”
“Go!” She snatched a cushion from her chair and hurled it at him. Max caught it and flipped it onto her bed, then let himself out. He paused, waiting, and heard her exclamation of disgust when she realized the door had no lock.
“Good night, my dear,” he called.
