Bianca’s mouth was dry. “Because you want me. You want to take me to bed.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he didn’t bother to deny it. “I want you to want it, too.”
Bianca was afraid to admit that she did. She had already been weak and allowed her alleged boundary to flex and shift until here she was, pressed up against him with his arms around her. And just weeks ago she had sworn to hate and despise him forever.
Of course, she was also coming to realize that he wasn’t much like the person she had imagined him to be then.
Max’s already-low desire to go to Vauxhall fell even further upon a closer reading of Serafina’s card.
“A bloody masquerade,” he said in despair. “She’s trying to ruin me.”
Lawrence looked on with sympathy. He had formerly been valet to Percy Willoughby, who’d been forced to slink back to his father’s estate in disgrace after a disastrous night at Vauxhall’s gaming tables. He was well aware of how badly things could go in Vauxhall. “May I recommend a domino, sir?”
Max thought of the outfits he’d worn to previous masquerades, including the white sheet and ivy wreath—and nothing more—he’d worn once to win two hundred pounds from his mate Henry Campbell. He’d proclaimed himself Dionysus and had an extremely debauched evening in the woodland. “Perhaps that would be best.”
“Shall I advise Jennie on Mrs. St. James’s costume as well?”
Dear God. What would Bianca want to be? “Most likely a domino as well,” he said, hoping it was so. She was from Marslip, where women didn’t dress as Turkish concubines or Egyptian goddesses for an evening of wicked fun. Surely she’d be more comfortable in a simple black cloak and mask.
Lawrence’s gaze cut away. “As you say, sir.”
Something about it pricked Max’s attention. “What?” he asked.
The valet studied his hands. “I suspect madam will like something more intriguing, sir.”
Max went still. “What do you mean by that?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but Lady Dalway and Mrs. Farquhar have been to visit her, and I have no doubt they’ve told her all about it. Before the week is out, they’ll have her agreeing to dress as an Arcadian shepherdess or a nun.”
He let out his breath slowly. “Right.” He was being ridiculous. Bianca was too sensible to dress as anything dreadful.
“I shall endeavor to guide Jennie toward the most dignified and proper costume,” Lawrence assured him.
Max nodded and waved him away. For a long moment he stood, tapping his fingers on his hip as he stared out the window.
It was one night in Vauxhall. One night with his friends. Bianca wanted to go, and he wanted to please her. He would stay close by her side, attentive and protective, and ignore—as if they were cold in their graves—any former acquaintances who might dare speak to him. It was one night.
Surely everything would be fine.
Chapter Twenty
If asked, Bianca would have said that of course she had friends in Marslip. Amelia, for one, had been her compatriot in all manner of childhood pranks. Cathy, her pillar of family, was the one person she told all her secrets to. Then there were her cousins, who came to dine and would commiserate when her father was in a temper, and even some of the working women, with whom she had set up the Perusia school for employees’ children.
Nothing and no one, though, were anything like Lady Dalway and Mrs. Farquhar.
They called upon her almost every day after the dinner party, sweeping in like a perfumed hurricane of feathers, silks, and gossip. Sometimes Lady Carswell came, sometimes they brought someone else. They laughed and talked so gaily, Bianca found herself being drawn into their enthusiasms.
It had been Mrs. Farquhar—who had begged Bianca to call her Clara—who suggested the masquerade. “Don’t you remember how amusing it was last year?” she said to Lady Dalway.
Lady Dalway—Serafina—gave one of her perfect, dimpled smiles. “I do! But Clara, we mustn’t overwhelm dear Bianca. She’s never been to Vauxhall, you know.”
Bianca’s ears pricked up at the mention of the famous pleasure gardens. “Is a masquerade terribly scandalous?”
“Of course not,” cried Serafina, at the same time Clara gave a tiny nod, her eyes gleaming with glee. “Well, perhaps they can be,” the countess amended, having seen Clara’s gesture. “There are places where one mustn’t go, at least not alone. But I daresay Max wouldn’t stray from your side all evening, so that is of no consequence.”
“Royal princes and ladies of the realm attend Vauxhall,” Clara assured her. “Would they do that if it were appalling?”
Bianca had already deduced that Clara had a slightly naughty, fun-loving nature. In fairness, Bianca herself had been the same when she was younger. The fact that Clara didn’t seem to have outgrown it, as Bianca had done, she put down to the effects of London society. Bianca had become more sensible because she wanted to work in the Perusia workshops, and being a madcap girl hadn’t helped.
