He’d wondered if she had another suitor, or someone she fancied for a suitor. It had been one of the questions in the back of his mind as he kept his ear open for any intelligence about his new wife. If she harbored feelings for someone else, it would wipe away any suspicion that she’d schemed to cause their marriage.
Of course, it would also affect his strategy. He didn’t like to think of his wife pining for another man.
“I never thought to marry at all,” she said.
“Never?” Max had not expected that answer, and wasn’t sure she meant it.
“Of course not,” she said firmly, her lips turning up. “Certainly not to anyone like you.”
“I understand,” he said with mock gravity. “Most women never dare even dream ofthat.”
She stopped. “You—you conceited rake!”
“I’m not a rake at all,” he countered. “I’m a happily married man. Why didn’t you want to marry?”
She rolled her eyes. “A married woman has no right to anything, even that which was hers before her marriage. Her money, her lands, her business, even the clothes she wears are his. If she bears a child, risking her health and person, it’s his child, and he can take the child from her at his whim.” She looked at him levelly. “Would you surrender all that in any bargain, sir, for yourself?”
“Hmm,” said Max thoughtfully. “When a man marries, he becomes the legal guardian of his wife, responsible for her room and board, liable for her debts. Men have gone to prison for their wives’ debts. If she bears a child, any child, while married to him, he is obliged to support that child as his own, even if half the town knows his wife was unfaithful to him and the child is another man’s.”
“Good heavens,” she said, laughing a little. “It sounds a miserable business for both people. I can’t imagine why anyone would desire it.”
Max grinned. “There are... certain pleasures that compensate for all that.” Their walk had brought a very fetching flush to her cheeks and her fichu had slipped; her breasts plumped up above her bodice, ravishingly tempting.
Still amused, she waved one hand. “Not for us. I told you this is a chaste marriage.”
“And it’s beginning to hurt my tender male feelings,” he told her.
Bianca laughed—a full, throaty laugh he’d never heard before. Max’s smiling éclat faltered; she was bewitching. No porcelain doll but an earthly goddess, the sort of woman who would keep a man on his toes but be a worthy partner, at dinner, at a ball... and in bed.
He hadn’t expected much in that regard from his marriage. Catherine had given little sign of attraction to him, even for a reserved lady, and Max had presumed they would find their own bedmates.
But Bianca... Lord above, the sparks of attraction were scorching him on all sides.
“Do you know,” she said, reluctantly amused, as Max tried to absorb this new realization about his bride, “I think I might have liked you, if we weren’t married.”
“Oh, you mustn’t hold that against me.”
“But it is by far your greatest fault, and one I cannot overlook.” She heaved a sigh of regret. “We must resign ourselves to being adversaries, or at best indifferent housemates.”
Max shifted his weight toward her. “Surely not. I can think of things far, far better than...” His gaze dipped once more, almost against his will, to her décolletage. “Indifferent chastity.”
Her eyelashes fluttered, and her throat worked. “What a tragic waste of imagination.”
He grinned at her. Oh God yes, he did like this woman. For the first time he was completely glad his intended bride had eloped with another man. “Imagination is never wasted.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “Fortunately, I know how to bide my time... and my imagination will keep me very warm while I do.”
She smiled widely. “For your sake, I hope so,” she said. “ForIcertainly shan’t.”
She marched off, leaving him to follow in her wake, his blood running hot and his thoughts very happily occupied imagining how it would be when he finally won her over.
Chapter Eleven
For the next fortnight and more, things went as they had done that first day.
No matter how early Bianca rose, That Man was always at the table before her. In aggravation she told Jennie to wake her earlier, and earlier, and even when she staggered downstairs, yawning in the predawn darkness, he would be waiting and rise, fully dressed and not looking tired at all, from his seat at the breakfast table to wish her a good morning.
In disgust Bianca gave it up. He could win this battle; she was going to sleep.
There were plenty of other battles to fight, of course. During those breakfasts, he always had a book or a pamphlet or a contract in his hand. Once she spied schematic drawings of a kiln and some device she didn’t recognize, annotated in writing she didn’t recognize. Bianca knew her father’s handwriting, as well as Mick’s and George’s, who were the heads of the firing house crew. Since she would have chewed off her hand before asking That Man to explain, she was reduced to asking Billy what was being built by the kilns. Twelve-year-old boys, alas, were not reliable spies; he did not know, and she was forced to swallow her curiosity.
