Instead of laughing, too, he grew serious. He stroked the hair back from her face, and studied her for a moment. “No,” he murmured. “Not at all. It was the finest match I’ve ever played. Not merely for the triumph of topping Mannox, as much as I relish that, but for being part of the Perusia side. I gather the same people play every year?”
“Yes,” she said, startled. “Usually. Sons replace fathers, daughters their mothers... We only play for that ugly redware vase, and of course pride of winning. It’s been a tradition in Marslip since my father was a young man.”
Max’s fingers tightened on her nape. “I like that,” he said softly.
It hit her that he’d never had that—a stable home where the same things happened every year, with the same people. Bianca, who had rarely left Marslip or Stoke, had found it comfortable, if a bit stale. Some years she wished they could take off a number of players and get new ones, as everyone knew everyone else so well it grew dull at times. But to a young man at the whim of family caprice and always keeping poverty at bay, it might seem utterly appealing...
Before she could form a reply, though, Max’s face relaxed into a grin more like himself. “Don’t say you play for only a lopsided vase and pride. I won forty pounds on that match.”
“What?” She blinked. “When? Why did you make a wager?”
He winked, pulling her back into his arms. “When you made your way to the crease, I thought to myself,she looks capable of fifty notches at least, and I wagered fifty pounds on Perusia to win. We were trailing badly at that point, so I got good odds. My fifty paid ninety.”
“You did not!”
“I did, and the winnings are in my pocket,” he countered.
“Mr. Falke ought not to have let you wager at all,” she protested, “since you were playing! And you knew how good you are!”
“If I’d fallen short he would have happily kept my money and I wouldn’t have argued.” Max lifted one shoulder. “I didn’t cheat, and he watched me field. He knew what he was doing. It was a fair wager.”
She looked at him for a long moment before finally laying down her head with a sigh. “I suggest you savor it. He’ll never take your money again, now that he’s seen you play.”
Max grinned as he pulled her close. “I’ll gladly suffer that, for the right to play again.”
Bianca nestled against him. She felt... peaceful. Not only from the euphoria of winning, not only from the bliss of lovemaking, but from feeling, for the first time, truly at ease with her husband. He was so completely different to what she had thought he was, and all for the better.
Perhaps... just perhaps... this ill-begotten marriage would turn out to be a brilliant match.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Max woke, thoroughly frozen, because Bianca had stolen all the blankets.
It took him a moment to sort that out. At first he almost thought it was a dream, that he had been in an agony of arousal for so long, his mind had snapped and imagined that he’d spent the night making love to her in his bed at Poplar House, when really he was sleeping rough in a London doorway again.
The figure sprawled in his blankets, though, was no dream, but a flesh and blood woman. Anakedflesh and blood woman, lying on her stomach with one arm flung across the pillows. Her long hair had come loose from the braid and trailed around her like Medusa’s, the golden-brown locks curling invitingly across the smooth expanse of her bared shoulders.
He hated to disturb her. It was early still, and from the light it looked to be a gray sort of day. But she had wound the blankets around her, and the alternative to waking her was to get up and dress. Max slid across the mattress and kissed the back of her neck.
“Wha—?” She reared up, all that hair flying. Max seized the chance to yank free a fold of blanket and press up against her. She was soft and warm, making him aware of how chilled he was.
“You’re cold,” she said thickly, swatting away her curtain of hair. “What— Why are you here?”
He grinned at her last statement, half alarm, half bemusement. “You’re in my bed, love. And you’ve taken all the blankets and left me to freeze.” He slid his leg between hers, genuinely cold but unashamed to take advantage.
She blinked at him for a moment, then relaxed into the pillows again. “Move over,” she mumbled before draping herself across him.
Max stroked her hair and let his hand drift down her back. Like him, she had fallen asleep naked. Her breasts were plump against his chest, and her legs tangled with his, her thigh atop his. It was tender and moving and unbearably arousing.
“Are you awake?” he murmured against her temple. Lightly he cupped her bottom, marveling at the smoothness of her skin.
“No,” she grumbled.
“Hmm. Pity.” He stroked upward. “It looks to be a damp, rainy sort of day, no good for going out. And no one will be at the factory anyway, because of the wakes. Hardly a day to get out of bed at all.”
“Only laggards lie abed all day.”
Max smiled. “Do they? It needn’t be lazy.”
