“How kind of you to say so,” he said with amusement, holding out one hand.
Bianca let him help her up. She fussed with her skirts, discreetly pushing the bulk of the fabric to the side just as her husband settled into the seat beside her.
“Ready to be off?” he asked, holding the restive horse in check with one hand.
Bianca glanced at him, unsettled by how near he was. She could see the faint laugh lines around his eyes, and how smoothly shaven his cheek was. “Yes,” she said, curling her hand around the outer corner of the seat. Ready, and fully conscious that she would have to be on guard at all times.
And not just for the ride into Stoke on Trent.
Chapter Fifteen
It was by far the easiest journey Max had ever taken. What a difference money made.
He suspected Bianca thought he’d driven the gig to Stoke on Trent to be alone with her. That had been a happy consequence, he acknowledged, but the truth was he had ridden in too many filthy, jolting wagons to want to do it ever again. Bianca obviously hadn’t traveled rough, as he had done most of his life, if she thought it an extravagance to choose a gig. To Max it was deeply significant.
Lawrence, his manservant, had done his job well, and there were comfortable rooms waiting for them at each inn. The first night Max noted Bianca’s tight-lipped expression before he made an offhand mention of her room being across the hall from his, and offering his assistance if she required anything. He had the pleasure of seeing her thank him while trying to hide how very relieved she was.
It had been tempting to request only one room. Max wasn’t having any better luck fighting his attraction to her than she was having at repressing hers to him. Of course, he wasn’t trying to fight his, but he did mean to play a long game, and that meant waiting until she couldn’t resist him any longer. He wanted his wife—rather painfully at times—but he also wanted her to come to him, not just amenable, not just willing, but fevered with desire. As he’d said on their wedding day.
Max was accustomed to being denied his desires, but this one was the greatest trial yet.
From Stoke on Trent they traveled in a comfortably sprung chaise. The farther they got from Marslip, the more interested Bianca grew in the passing scenery. She leaned out the window when their chaise had to pull over to allow the mail coach to barrel past, horn blowing. She gasped in awe at the grand house Max pointed out to her on a distant hill. When they crossed a canal, she wanted to stop and see if there were any shipments from Marslip, but Max persuaded her there were not.
“How can you be sure?” she asked, still watching the bargemen as they rolled across the aqueduct.
“I know the route of every shipment from Perusia.”
She whipped around, eyes wide. “You do not!”
“Try me,” he answered equably. Years spent tuning his mind to count cards and figure odds had left him with a prodigious memory, at least in the short run. He was able to answer every question she asked, until she finally pursed her lips and looked back out the window.
“Is it possible?” he couldn’t resist teasing. “Have I possibly learned more about one small aspect of Perusia than a Tate?”
“I’m sure Papa knows all the routes as well,” she retorted without looking at him.
Max laughed, allowing her that. It was enough that they both knew he’d proved his point, however minor it might be. “I’m sure he does.”
“Did you memorize them just to show me up?”
“Of course not.”
She waited, then burst out, “Then why would you? Not the destinations, nor how the wares will be conveyed, but the precise routes? Why would you commit that to memory?”
“When I first approached your father,” he said, “he questioned me closely as to my interest in Perusia. I assured him my interest was deep and abiding. I did not lie to him, and learning the shipping routes is simply useful information I was keen to have.”
She pursed her lips. “That is a deep interest. What has it gained you?”
I surprised you, he thought. “Nothing but the satisfaction of knowing it,” he said lightly. “Who knows when it may come to my aid?”
“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.
