His only reply was silence. But Max still thought things were already improving between them, all things considered.
Chapter Eight
Bianca went to bed in a rage but woke the next morning restored to her calm, practical self.
So Mr. St. James would not back down quietly; she was silly to have thought he might. That man was trouble, and even worse, he was clever and canny. From what he said last night, he was pursuing a long game.
“Forty more years, indeed,” she muttered as she tied on her petticoat. With his sly smiles and blatant suggestion that she must want him because he was so incredibly attractive, he’d be lucky if she didn’t poison him within forty days.
It was tempting, once she’d put on her shoes, to stomp about loudly and disturb his rest. The other room was still silent, and she pictured him holding a pillow over his head to drown out the sounds of her own toilette. In the end she decided against it, on the idea that it was better not to let him believe she thought about him at all. She cast one last baleful glance at the door to his bedroom as she left. Perhaps one of the men from the workshop could come over the hill and nail it closed.
She went downstairs, absently reaching up to tap her knuckles on the low ceiling where the stairs turned. When she and Cathy were small, she used to jump off the top step and try to touch that bit of ceiling. Once she jumped too hard and fell head over heels down the stairs to the hall, sending Cathy running, screaming for their mother. Mama had held her and kissed her and made her stay in bed for three days to settle her brain and let her bruises fade—but she’d sat by Bianca’s bedside for those three days, telling her stories and singing songs.
This had been such a happy house then.
She went into the dining parlor. It adjoined the kitchen and as such was much too informal to be called a dining room. Unlike the dining room in Papa’s house, with its tall windows and silver chandelier, this room was just as worn and cozy as the rest of the house, with floors that sloped and uneven whitewashed walls and a fireplace permanently blackened by the many years of fires. It was still furnished much as it had been in Bianca’s youth. None of the furnishings had been fine enough for Papa’s grand new Perusia Hall, not the walnut dresser and plate rack, nor the ordinary oval table and spindle chairs, and especially not the tall-backed settle by the fire. It had all been as Bianca remembered it, when she explored the house yesterday.
Today, though, she threw open the door to the familiar room and stopped short. That Man sat at the table, and from the looks of things he’d been there awhile.
At her appearance, he looked up from the papers in his hand, over the round spectacles perched on his nose. “Good morning, my dear,” he said with a faint smile. “Mary, bring Mrs. St. James’s chocolate.”
The maid cast a nervous glance at Bianca, but nodded and whisked out of the room.
Bianca reminded herself to breathe deeply, because it did not matter to her what he did or said. She seated herself as far from him as possible. The table was sadly too small—far smaller than she remembered it.
“You rise early,” she remarked coolly when he continued to watch her with that small, knowing smile.
“Always have done.” He sipped his coffee. From the dishes in front of him, he’d already been served, and eaten, a healthy breakfast. She hadn’t heard a whisper of noise from his room, making her wonder with an unpleasant start if he’d been downstairs before she even woke. “How delightful that we have it in common.”
“Not so delightful,” she returned. “Papa blows the horn for the workers to begin at seven. Everyone in Marslip rises early.”
“Ah. Then I shall blend in seamlessly.”
“Like a polecat among the lambs.” She smiled at the irritated twitch of his brows, and spread fresh butter on a soft, plump roll. Mary brought in the small pot of chocolate, steaming gently, and set it before her. Bianca inhaled greedily. She lived for her morning chocolate.
Particularly today.
St. James had gone back to his reading. Bianca ate in silence, trying to savor her chocolate without looking at him. Instead of his usual finery, today he wore ordinary clothes: a dark blue coat over a gray waistcoat, dark brown breeches. It was ordinary cloth, too, linen and wool instead of satin and velvet. It ought to have madehimmore ordinary, and to her intense disgust, it did not.
His dark hair was neatly queued, though not as sleekly as yesterday; slightly tousled, as if he’d gathered his hair with one hand and tied it in a hurry. One loose strand curled just behind his ear. Bianca glared at it, both for being out of order and for being so mesmerizing.
As she poured out the last of her chocolate, he flipped a page of his document, and she caught sight of the writing on it. She set down the chocolate pot with a clink. “What are you reading?”
“The contract with Albert Brimley.”
Her mouth set. Mr. Brimley owned the warehouse in London where Papa shipped some of his finest wares. “Why?”
St. James glanced at her over his spectacles. “Someone ought to. Is it standard, this quota on breakage?”
“Some breakage is unavoidable, with the roads as they are, so yes, I presume it is the usual.”
“Presume,” he echoed under his breath. “The roads are terrible, but this contract allows Brimley to claim up to one fifth of every shipment arrives broken.”
A fifth? That sounded excessive. But Bianca was forced to admit, to herself if not to him, that she didn’t know if it were reasonable or not. She had never taken a great deal of interest in the particulars of any contract, only the choosing of the merchant they wished to deal with. Mr. Brimley, she felt, was an honorable man.
“Whatever made you read a contract?” she asked instead. Surely Maximilian St. James, London dandy, couldn’t possibly know more about shipping pottery and chinaware than she did.
“I’ve been reading them all,” he said, dropping the papers and removing his spectacles. “Are there any you wish me to read with particular attention?”
