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.
And now he’d won even more, by remembering that Cathcart would still have almost two months owing on the lease. His friend had been only too happy to unload the house for a pittance.Be certain to check the cupboards for any dead animals skewered to the boards, Cathcart had written in a postscript.
But the house itself was a find, particularly this late in the Season. The fact that it was virtually free made it all the better.
“It still needs a bit of work,” Lawrence went on. “I wouldn’t advise letting Mrs. St. James take up the carpets.”
Max had been to a few parties here. He knew what Lawrence meant. “We’re only here a month, perhaps a fortnight longer.”
“As you wish, sir.” The valet paused. “Shall I send Mrs. St. James’s things to the back bedroom?”
Right. Max nodded even as his gaze lingered on the wide bed. It was big enough for two—or three or four, as Cathcart had once boasted.
Max had never let himself get drawn into that. He too rarely had the funds to support a mistress, and he preferred to keep his lovers to himself, unlike Cathcart, who couldn’t resist any woman with large dark eyes and an evil temperament. The more misery she promised to inflict upon him, the more desperate Cathcart was to have her.
It had been easy to mock and tease his friend about that. Cathcart had shrugged it all off with a smirk, saying he had his cravings and they had theirs. Max had always told him he was as deranged as the she-demons he took to bed.
Bianca was nothing like those women. But Max was realizing that Cathcart had been right about one thing: every man had his own tastes. And his were running very strongly in favor of confident, intelligent women who took no nonsense from anyone and spoke their own minds. Women who had a purpose beyond acquiring as many new gowns and jewels as their protector would buy. Women who took a practical, clear-eyed approach to the world at large. Women who didn’t seem to realize how unconsciously seductive they could be just by blushing.
It was only a bed; Lawrence had replaced all the linens and mattresses, on his orders. But Max eyed that large, elegant bed and silently promised himself that he would woo and win his wife here, in London, before he went mad from wanting her.
Chapter Sixteen
Life in London moved at a faster pace than in Marslip.
As Jennie had hoped, they went shopping—more shopping than Bianca had patience for. The house was rather simply furnished, but they were only going to be in it for a few weeks. She had brought enough clothing for that time. There was no need to buy much of anything.
But Max insisted. He took her to a dressmaker, and told the woman they wanted three gowns for evening, several day dresses, and all the hats, gloves, and undergarments necessary. Bianca protested until the dressmaker held up the first gown against her, a glowing ivory robe à l’anglaise embroidered with gold thread and seed pearls.
“It suits you very well, madam,” said the dressmaker.
“I— It’s lovely,” she managed to say. It was beyond lovely, and unlike anything she had ever owned before.
Eyes gleaming, the dressmaker swept it away and motioned for the assistant to bring the next gown. This one was gleaming steel blue, with gold spangles for trim and wide flounces of lace at the sleeves and neckline.
“Yes,” said Max behind her, and Bianca jumped.
“What are you doing in here?” She grabbed at the dress, holding it in front of her.
“The color suits you, my dear,” he said, before obediently strolling away.
“It does,” said the dressmaker warmly, as the assistant helped Bianca into the dress, tugging the tight-fitting sleeves up her arms and pinning it in place. “With a petticoat to match it will be superb.”
“Well,” said Bianca, flustered. “I suppose...”
“Monsieur insisted,” replied the woman pertly. “Marie will fit it and you shall have it tomorrow.” She tripped out of the room, calling for another assistant.
Even though those beautiful dresses were more tempting and alluring than she wanted to admit, the best part of the visit to London was the search for a Perusia showroom. Max, it turned out, had grander ideas than Bianca.
She pictured a cozy shop lined with rows of shelves displaying their gleaming teapots and tureens, larger than what one found in Marslip but similarly quaint. Max took her to a yawning emporium and walked about, sketching with his hands the displays they could create.
