About a Rogue EPB

by Linden, Caroline

  “Did you?” He made a face. “I’d rather not ride a wagon from here to Marslip Green, let alone to Stoke on Trent.”

  “I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” she began, but something flickered over his face.

  “It’s worse,” he said in a low voice, then immediately cocked his head and smiled. “No fit way for a lady to travel. I made other arrangements.” As he spoke, the stable boy pulled up in the gig.

  Bianca drew a tense breath. The gig was what they used for short trips into Marslip, or the slightly larger, somewhat more distant town of Burslem. The seat was well padded but small; she and Cathy fit comfortably, but Max was larger than either of them, and she was wearing her thick wool traveling skirt today. They would be pressed up against each other the entire way to Stoke on Trent.

  “The gig’s not meant for such a distance,” she tried to argue.

  “But it will serve.” The stable boy jumped down and Max walked over to check the harness.

  Bianca chewed the inside of her lip and thought hard. The gig would be more comfortable than the wagon. Even if they’d ridden in the wagon, she and Max would likely have been squashed together amidst the trunks. She was probably being silly, just because she didn’t want to touch him.

  Touch was the line she had promised herself she would not cross. It was ridiculous to pretend she could survive this marriage without speaking to the man, and once they were speaking, it might as well be cordial. She could admit he was intelligent and could have some good ideas about Perusia. It was even acceptable to find him amusing from time to time.

  But his smoldering good looks hadn’t diminished, not even when he wore his little wire-rimmed spectacles and let his hair curl around his temples. Bianca was keenly aware that he was the beauty in their marriage. Whenever he smiled at her in that slow, seductive way he had, every time she caught his dark eyes lingering on her, she reminded herself that if she gave way and let him seduce her, he would have won everything: her father’s approval, a share of her business, her very person. A chaste, cordial marriage was the best she could hope for, and where she must hold her line.

  He turned to her expectantly. The wagon was out of sight down the lane. If she wanted to go to London—and Bianca could admit that the idea had grown on her, quite a bit—she had to ride with him in the gig.

  “It’s an extravagance,” she told him, coming forward. “Now Matthew will have to bring home the gig and the wagon, not to mention the inconvenience Aunt Frances will be put to if she requires a carriage, but since you’ve already done it, I suppose there’s no choice.”

  “How kind of you to say so,” he said with amusement, holding out one hand.

  Bianca let him help her up. She fussed with her skirts, discreetly pushing the bulk of the fabric to the side just as her husband settled into the seat beside her.

  “Ready to be off?” he asked, holding the restive horse in check with one hand.

  Bianca glanced at him, unsettled by how near he was. She could see the faint laugh lines around his eyes, and how smoothly shaven his cheek was. “Yes,” she said, curling her hand around the outer corner of the seat. Ready, and fully conscious that she would have to be on guard at all times.

  And not just for the ride into Stoke on Trent.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was by far the easiest journey Max had ever taken. What a difference money made.

  He suspected Bianca thought he’d driven the gig to Stoke on Trent to be alone with her. That had been a happy consequence, he acknowledged, but the truth was he had ridden in too many filthy, jolting wagons to want to do it ever again. Bianca obviously hadn’t traveled rough, as he had done most of his life, if she thought it an extravagance to choose a gig. To Max it was deeply significant.

  Lawrence, his manservant, had done his job well, and there were comfortable rooms waiting for them at each inn. The first night Max noted Bianca’s tight-lipped expression before he made an offhand mention of her room being across the hall from his, and offering his assistance if she required anything. He had the pleasure of seeing her thank him while trying to hide how very relieved she was.

  It had been tempting to request only one room. Max wasn’t having any better luck fighting his attraction to her than she was having at repressing hers to him. Of course, he wasn’t trying to fight his, but he did mean to play a long game, and that meant waiting until she couldn’t resist him any longer. He wanted his wife—rather painfully at times—but he also wanted her to come to him, not just amenable, not just willing, but fevered with desire. As he’d said on their wedding day.

  Max was accustomed to being denied his desires, but this one was the greatest trial yet.

  From Stoke on Trent they traveled in a comfortably sprung chaise. The farther they got from Marslip, the more interested Bianca grew in the passing scenery. She leaned out the window when their chaise had to pull over to allow the mail coach to barrel past, horn blowing. She gasped in awe at the grand house Max pointed out to her on a distant hill. When they crossed a canal, she wanted to stop and see if there were any shipments from Marslip, but Max persuaded her there were not.

  “How can you be sure?” she asked, still watching the bargemen as they rolled across the aqueduct.

  “I know the route of every shipment from Perusia.”

  She whipped around, eyes wide. “You do not!”

  “Try me,” he answered equably. Years spent tuning his mind to count cards and figure odds had left him with a prodigious memory, at least in the short run. He was able to answer every question she asked, until she finally pursed her lips and looked back out the window.

  “Is it possible?” he couldn’t resist teasing. “Have I possibly learned more about one small aspect of Perusia than a Tate?”

  “I’m sure Papa knows all the routes as well,” she retorted without looking at him.

  Max laughed, allowing her that. It was enough that they both knew he’d proved his point, however minor it might be. “I’m sure he does.”

  “Did you memorize them just to show me up?”

  “Of course not.”

  She waited, then burst out, “Then why would you? Not the destinations, nor how the wares will be conveyed, but the precise routes? Why would you commit that to memory?”

  “When I first approached your father,” he said, “he questioned me closely as to my interest in Perusia. I assured him my interest was deep and abiding. I did not lie to him, and learning the shipping routes is simply useful information I was keen to have.”

  She pursed her lips. “That is a deep interest. What has it gained you?”

  I surprised you, he thought. “Nothing but the satisfaction of knowing it,” he said lightly. “Who knows when it may come to my aid?”

  “You’re a strange fellow,” she said, turning back to the window—to hide how impressed she was, he thought with amusement.

  “My dear,” he told her, “that’s only the beginning.”

  If anyone had told Bianca that a long journey, trapped in a chaise with her husband, would be pleasant, she would have called them a bald-faced liar.

  And yet, it wasn’t dreadful. His good humor never faltered. He never missed a chance to say something mildly flirtatious, but didn’t even propose sharing a room at the inn. They talked of business, or London, or the sights they were passing. It was . . . pleasant.

  They reached London late in the day. The dusty roads of the turnpike changed to the rattling cobblestones of town, and Bianca pressed her face to the carriage window again, undeniably curious. Her mouth fell open in wonder.

  She’d seen engravings of London, with buildings so tall and densely packed the sun didn’t reach the pavements, of streets lined with shops and filled with carriages. Nothing compared to being in the midst of it herself. Engravings gave no sense of the bustling activity, even this late in the day. Everywhere she looked there were people: peddlers crying their wares, boys with brooms rushing out to sweep the streets for those on foot, sedan chairs carrying
well-dressed people, ladies walking the pavements with small Black servant boys trailing behind, liveried servants rushing on errands, young men throwing dice on a barrel outside a pub. And to the east, above it all, she could see a golden dome that Max said was St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was a spectacle she’d never imagined.

  The carriage rolled onward before turning into a quieter street. Tall lamps stood in front of every third house, and there were iron railings lining the pavement. They stopped in the middle, before a narrow but gracious house of pale brick. The door was a welcoming blue, just like Poplar House, with a glazed light above.

  “This—this is ours?” Bianca looked at him to be sure.

  Max nodded as he threw open the carriage door. “For the next month.”

  She barely felt his hand as he helped her down. Four stories rose above her, a dizzying height to her eyes. Even Perusia Hall, which was grand indeed, had only three floors.

  As they reached the step, the door opened. “Welcome to town, sir,” said Lawrence, Max’s man. Bianca supposed she ought to call him a valet, but Lawrence seemed to do far more than a valet. More than most servants did, to be honest.

  As Max spoke to the man, Bianca walked through the hall to look into the front room. It was handsome, though furnished rather sparsely. With Jennie at her heels, she climbed the stairs and found the dining room, with an elegant parlor behind it. Up again she went, finally stepping into a large bedroom, dominated by a massive bed in rich damask hangings. Jennie, her excitement revived after so many days of travel, went to the connecting door and disappeared. Bianca followed and discovered a small closet, furnished with a writing desk and bookshelves, beyond which lay another bedroom, smaller and cozier than the first.

  She stared at that bed. Bianca had pictured a few rooms, not an entire house, let alone one so elegantly appointed. She had braced herself to argue against sharing a bedroom, and a bed, and now found that she had perhaps been anticipating Max’s attempts to persuade her.

  Not that she meant to give in. But somewhere between Stoke on Trent and London, his flirting had grown flattering. She still didn’t quite believe he meant every word of it, but like a steady flow of water over stone, his attention and suggestive words were wearing away her resistance.

  A footstep behind her made her start. “What do you think?” asked her husband, leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb.

  “It’s so large,” she said.

  He smiled. “Comfortable, I say.” He came into the room and moved around the bed to peer out the window. “Do you like this room, or would you prefer the other?”

  Bianca blinked.

  “It’s got a view of the garden,” he said, still looking out the window, “but the other bed is larger.”

  Large enough for two people. Bianca flushed from head to toe, and said the first thing that came into her head. “This one will do, thank you.”

  He glanced at her, as if he knew what she meant, but only nodded. “I’ll tell Lawrence to send your trunks.”

  “How did you find such a place on short notice?” she asked.

  “The previous tenant wished to remove from town sooner than his lease required,” said Max. “It was quite reasonable.”

  “How much?” she asked without thinking.

  Max raised a brow, and she blushed. “Reasonable,” he repeated. “You must trust me in this. Any London rent would sound appallingly high to you, but to one well acquainted with the rents in town, it was economical.” He nodded at the windows facing the garden. “I wouldn’t bring my wife to a shabby set of rented rooms.”

  She flushed deeper. Her face would be burned as scarlet as her glaze, after a month in such proximity to him. “I’m sure I didn’t ask for such indulgence . . .”

  He smiled, that lazy rogue’s smile that both put her on guard and made something inside her soften treacherously. “But I wanted to give it, my dear.” He turned and walked out of the room, calling for Lawrence.

  Simultaneously irked and touched, Bianca pulled loose the ribbons of her hat and handed it to Jennie, who had just come in, out of breath from exploring the rest of the house.

  “’Tis beautiful, ain’t it, ma’am?” asked the girl rapturously.

  “Yes.”

  “And so near the shops! I confess I do hope you’ll be wanting to visit them, as I’ve longed to see Bond Street all my life.” Jennie put away the hat and tugged the drapes fully open. “Look, miss—I mean, madam, such a neat garden!”

  Bianca smiled reluctantly at the girl’s enthusiasm. Perhaps Jennie had the right of it. “I suppose we shall visit a great many things.”

  Their London adventure was off to a strangely exciting beginning.

  Max closed both doors between his chamber and Bianca’s. “Well done,” he told Lawrence. “It cleaned up well.”

  The valet grinned. “Aye, after four days of frantic scrubbing. Had to pay the charwomen extra. I trust that’s acceptable.”

  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 th
at 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.