Page 68 of About a Rogue
“In ten years, I’ve never known you to place a losing bet.” The duke shook his head. “Incredible. And now I hear rumors Carlyle is ill.”
Max paused. “Is he?”
“Yes, more ill than usual.” Wimbourne eyed him closely. “You’re his heir, are you not?”
“Second,” said Max. He cleared his throat and closed the lid of the chest, motioning for the waiting Lawrence to take it away. “Captain St. James, my cousin, is heir presumptive.”
“Right, right.” The duke tapped a quick tattoo on his knees with both hands. “Still, one never knows. An army fellow, isn’t he? In Scotland? Dangerous country, Scotland.”
“Yes.”
“Imagine a Scottish army captain becoming duke! Wouldn’t that set London on its ear?”
“Stranger things have happened, I’ve no doubt.”
Bianca watched the conversation with interest. Max had never said a word about the Duke of Carlyle, beyond whispering his family connection in her father’s ear. At first she had assumed it would make him arrogant, and then she had suspected he didn’t mention it to avoid provoking her. And now she had the distinct thought that Max did not want to discuss it at all.
Which was... odd, for someone who had used it so blatantly.
“Stranger, yes,” said the duke thoughtfully. “Not as odd as the Durham case, I grant you. The heir was practically a shopkeeper!”
“He seems to have pulled it around rather admirably. As I expect the captain to do, when His Grace finally departs this mortal vale.”
“No doubt,” agreed the duke amiably, rising. “Ah—I almost forgot to inquire after Mrs. Bradford! I hope she’s well.”
Max had already got to his feet, ready to leave. At the name, he stiffened with a jerk. “Yes.” He bowed. “Thank you for seeing us, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Give her my best regards.” Beaming, the duke bounced on his feet, offering Bianca his hand. “My thanks for bringing your lovely wife and those incredible dishes. Did youreallycreate that glaze, madam? It’s perfection.”
“It is,” said Max, his voice clipped. “Good day, Wimbourne.”
“And to you,” replied the duke, amused. He bowed to Bianca. “Good day, Mrs. St. James.”
Bianca almost had to run to keep up with Max’s strides. By the time they reached the carriage, she was out of breath. “What happened?” she managed to ask, fanning herself.
“Wimbourne ordered thirty settings of Perusia ware.” Max slammed the carriage door behind himself and rapped on the roof to start. “A triumph for your work, my love. He has a discerning eye.”
“Yes, but—” She gazed at him in bewilderment. He was facing straight ahead, his expression calm but somehow forbidding. “Who is Mrs. Bradford?”
Max was as still as stone. “My aunt.”
Bianca’s eyes widened. His aunt who took him in after his mother’s death. Bianca had assumed the aunt had also passed away, but apparently that was not the case. “Why did His Grace ask about her?”
“She came to visit me in Oxford a few times, and once Wimbourne met her at the theater.” There was something oddly mechanical about his words. “Wimbourne never forgets a woman. He’ll be asking about you until his dying day.”
“But...” She tried to restrain her curiosity and her dismay, that he’d offered to tell her anything about himself at Vauxhall, and yet barely mentioned his aunt. “Are you estranged from her?” she finally burst out in unbearable curiosity.
“I’ve not seen her in a long time,” he said after a moment.
And Bianca suddenly understood. He’d been a rake and a gambler. His aunt, who had tried to get him a start in a respectable profession, must have been deeply disappointed by that.
That softened her temper, and revived her sympathy. He’d lost his mother, his grandfather, and then his aunt had turned against him. She put her hand on his. “I’m sorry Wimbourne asked about her.”
His fingers convulsed around hers. “He’s got no tact at all. I’m surprised he didn’t ask something worse, like if we’d care to join him and his latest mistress at the opera.”
Bianca smiled, squeezing his hand. Max smiled, too, a trifle ruefully. “I would have said yes,” she confided. “I’ve never seen an opera.”
“Ah.” His thumb rubbed her knuckles as he smiled at her, looking more like his usual self. “I can remedy that, and without having to endure Wimbourne’s ceaseless prattle.”
