Her face stilled. “Are you truly?”
He nodded. “I hope she is very content with her marriage. Just as I hope you are... pleased with ours.”
She gazed at him for a long moment, as if she’d heard his tiny hesitation beforepleased. Max’s heart turned to ice. Thank God he’d not said anything—perhaps love was too much to ask for, after the way they’d begun...
“I am,” she said in a low voice. “Pleased beyond measure.”
He smiled, the moment of fear passing. He kissed her again, and began teasing her about forming a cricket club in Marslip.
But he didn’t tell her he loved her. Not yet.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
For the next several days, Bianca walked with a spring in her step and a song in her heart.
She had never planned to marry because she had never thought it looked like fun. Her parents had been affectionate, but her mother’s long illness had of course cast a pall over the last several years of her life. Papa had been loving and caring of Mama, but the toll it took on him had been clear to all. Even now, he didn’t come to Poplar House, where they had all lived together; when he wanted something from her or Max, he sent a note or visited her in the workshop.
The marriages of cousins and friends, as happy as some of them were, appeared to be comfortable and convenient rather than passionate and thrilling. Aunt Frances’s marriage, on the other hand, might have been designed purposely to put anyone off the institution. Bianca had cast a critical eye on all the eligible men within fifteen miles of Marslip, assessed the chances that she would be happy in close proximity to any of them for more than a month, and decided marriage was probably not for her.
Of course, she had thought the same about Max, and now he was proving her wrong in innumerable ways. Not only had he allayed all her suspicions that he would know nothing about Perusia ware or how to sell it, he had secured orders from the Duke of Wimbourne, the Earl of Dalway, and almost a dozen other aristocrats. Papa even showed her a few letters he’d received from other noblemen, who had seen or heard of the new wares, inquiring if they could visit his factory themselves.
“I knew that fellow had a clever head,” he said, watching her keenly. “Admit it. He’s improving on you, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said primly, though she blushed to think how much Max had improved on her.
“Are you happy, Bee?” her father prodded.
“Of course. Look at these orders, especially for the new scarlet ware—”
“I mean with him.” Papa leaned forward, refusing to let her evade the question. “Are you?”
She met his gaze. There was a trace of uncertainty in his hopeful expression. “Once you said that you and Mama had no choice but to make the best of things. What did you mean by that?”
A veil came down over her father’s face. He sat back in his chair. “When did I say that?”
“When you urged me to make the best of things with Max.”
“You should do that,” he told her. “Always try to make the best of your lot.”
“Papa.”
He sighed. “I was very fond of your mother. She was a loving mother and a good wife.”
“I thought you loved her,” said Bianca slowly.
“Oh, I did, I did!” Papa nodded. “But... not... perhaps not as much as she loved me.” He sighed, looking away. “I tried to do my best by her, and she bore up under my faults with admirable grace. Cathy is so like her—although your mother never would have run away in the middle of the night,” he added, sounding grudgingly impressed.
“I suppose Cathy gotthatfrom you,” said Bianca.
He glanced up sharply. “Aye, you would think so! Well, I suppose you were right to encourage her. I see now that St. James is a much better match for you than he ever was for her.”
Bianca blinked. “What?”
“Look at this!” Papa swept his hand over the desk, where the ordering papers lay. “Cathy never would have gone off to London with him. He tells me you impressed the Duke of Wimbourne to no end, and won over Lady Dalway and Lady Carswell. He gave all the credit for the visit to you, my dear.”
Bianca sat with her mouth open. “Oh—oh no,” she managed to protest. “That’s not true! Max knew just how to approach Dalway and Wimbourne—who were both his friends for many years—and while they admired the scarlet glaze, it was his efforts that caused the orders! He found the showroom, and the Cheapside shop where he proposes to sell his Fortuna ware, and he even got Sir Bartholomew Markham to pay his bill—”
Papa was grinning from ear to ear. “As I said,” he said proudly, “a much better match for him than Cathy. The two of you are a splendid pair, perfectly suited to each other! St. James is damned lucky that curate finally screwed up his courage.”
