“Very well, madam, very well indeed,” he murmured, opening the door for her. “One might even say... passionately.”
Bianca all but purred at his gleaming glance. They had passion in abundance. More than passion, even; she looked forward to seeing him every day. She had come to respect him, she admired him, and she was desperately attracted to him. She liked being with him—enormously. She likedhim.
Enormously.
Her hands slowed as she removed her hat and gloves, barely noticing when Mary took them. Max had not followed her; Lawrence had intercepted him at the door, speaking in a low voice. Bianca couldn’t see Max’s face, but just the rumble of their conversation made her heart swell. She even loved the sound of his voice.
And she knew then how she would answer her sister’s inevitable question, the answer that would forestall any tears or remonstrances and elicit instead delight and congratulations. Once again, Max was correct; she didn’t need to lie to Cathy at all. The truth was far better.
Cathy, I fell in love with him.
She turned on the stairs to look back. Max still stood in the doorway below, head together with Lawrence and poring over a letter. Upstairs Jennie was humming, and from the kitchen came the murmur of the other servants’ voices, preparing dinner. It was the sound of a happy home once more.
Bianca put a hand on the wall to steady herself. How had she been so blind? Why had she not admitted to herself that this was what she wanted? Max was not her vision of an ideal husband; he surpassed it in every way. He shared credit for their successes, even when the idea had begun with him. He never once argued against her working on the glazes, but congratulated her and encouraged her. He looked at her as if she were beautiful and alluring. He even wagered on her at cricket.
He said something to Lawrence, who nodded and slipped out the door. For a moment his dark head remained bent over the letter in his hands. Then he looked up.
Bianca’s smile withered at the sight of his expression. “What’s wrong?” She descended a few stairs.
His face was stark. “I have to go out.”
“Now?” She was astonished. “Why?”
His gaze dropped to the letter. “Yes, now. I’m sorry.”
Bianca clattered down the remaining steps. “Why? What is wrong? You’re as pale as death, Max!”
His eyes closed. She put her hand on his in concern, fearing he might fall unconscious, and he jerked violently away from her touch. “I have to go,” he repeated, breathing hard. He crumpled the letter in his fist. “I’m sorry.” He brushed past her and took the stairs two at a time.
Bianca ran after him, following him into his bedchamber. It had beentheirbedchamber for the last week, where they talked and laughed and kissed and held each other and made love to each other. Now he was flinging off his clothes, pulling on riding breeches and boots and determinedly not looking at her.
She lowered her voice, mindful of the servants. “What is wrong? Tell me something.”
He yanked on one boot. “It’s a family matter.”
Her mouth fell open. “Family? Is—is it the Duke of Carlyle?”
His gaze flashed toward her, then just as quickly away. “No.”
“Mrs. Bradford,” Bianca guessed after a moment’s frantic thought.
Max’s head came up. “What did you say?”
She blinked in astonishment at his tone, practically a snarl. “Your aunt. Is it about her?”
He jammed his other foot into a boot and rose. He came to her and cupped her face in both hands and for a moment, appeared to struggle for words. “I—I don’t have time to explain now.” He looked anguished. “Can you trust me?”
“Yes,” she replied at once. She was done doubting him.
He gave her a scorching kiss. “Thank you, love,” he breathed, and then he was gone, his boots echoing on the stairs, calling for Mary to bring his greatcoat and hat.
Bianca hurried after him in time to see him swing into the saddle of his horse. He wheeled the animal around, saying something to Lawrence. He caught sight of her and touched his hat before riding out of the yard.
She was left staring after him, her hand still upraised and her mind a whirl. “Lawrence,” she demanded as the valet retreated to the house, “where has Mr. St. James gone?”
“Stoke on Trent,” he replied. “’Tis all I know, madam. He bade me send for his horse, and questioned me about the man who brought the message.”
“Who brought it?”
