Page 94 of About a Rogue
The duchess blinked in surprise. “Yes. Thank you. That is very kind, Mrs. St. James.” She turned her head to glare at Max. “I suppose you are here to demonstrate that you have made yourself more respectable.”
He smiled. “I have come to thank you, ma’am. Your generous offer provided the means I needed to do just that. And now, I have come to say, I am no longer in need of your assistance.”
“What?” she demanded after a shocked moment. “What do you say to me, Mr. St. James?”
“I am determined not to be a burden, Your Grace. You need not pay the allowance you offered me the last time I was here.”
She pursed up her lips in displeasure. Max was sure he knew why; now she had no leverage over him. “As you wish, sir. Far be it from me to force an income upon a man!” She turned back to Bianca. “You are of the Staffordshire Tates, are you not?”
“Yes, ma’am. My father is Samuel Tate, of Perusia.”
“Hmph.” The duchess looked at her with unwilling interest. “My solicitor tells me you work in the factory.”
Max could see how surprised Bianca was, but he doubted the duchess did. His wife was as poised as ever, confidently answering questions from the older woman. “I do, ma’am. I formulate the glazes used in our finest wares.”
“Glazes!”
“I recently developed a brilliant scarlet red glaze. We have only just begun filling orders for it.”
Again the duchess’s lips pursed. “And what is your part in this endeavor, Mr. St. James?”
“I have taken it upon myself to arrange viewings for interested parties who might wish to order a service of dinnerware,” he said. “His Grace the Duke of Wimbourne recently ordered thirty settings.” He paused, then added, “Wimbourne and I were at Oxford together.”
“Wimbourne!” The duchess made a face. “Not even married! What use has he got for a dinner service?” She leaned forward. “I want to see these dishes. If you came all this way, I expect you’ve brought a few.”
Max smiled. “Yes, ma’am. We have indeed brought a tea service in the new scarlet glaze, and hope you will accept it as our thanks for your generosity.”
That had been Bianca’s idea. “Without her, we would not be here, together,” she’d told him, and Max had packed up the service without another word. If it came down to thanking the duchess for enabling him to approach Samuel Tate with his audacious marriage and business proposal, Max would send a new service to Carlyle House every year, and bear the expense himself.
It seemed to astonish the duchess. “Well,” she said, then again, “Well. That is thoughtful of you. Miss Kirkpatrick, see to it.” The companion silently rose and slipped out. Max had left the crate, each glittering ruby piece nestled in a black velvet box, with the butler. Max and Bianca were invited to sit, and the duchess quizzed them about the factory, Bianca’s family, and Max’s role in it.
Unbidden he told her about Greta. In the month since being rescued, his aunt had improved a great deal. She spoke mainly English now, had put on some healthy weight, and took long rambling walks in the country with Frances and a pair of the handsome footmen. She was returning to the woman Max remembered, and he knew it was due to Bianca and her family, who had taken her in with unfaltering support and kindness.
The duchess was gratifyingly angry over Greta’s treatment. “A madhouse!” she declared indignantly. “How dare he! If he returns and gives you any trouble at all, I trust you will send Mr. Edwards after him. Edwards knows how to tear a person apart without leaving a mark.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I shall bear it in mind.”
Miss Kirkpatrick returned some time later, followed by a maid carrying a large tray with the new tea service on it, replete with cakes and pastries. “Ah!” The duchess gazed with interest on the teacups and the teapot, one of the finest Perusia had ever produced, with a fluted rim and embossed lattice-work handle. “I commend you, Mrs. St. James. I would have thought it was genuine rubies.”
Bianca smiled modestly. “Thank you, ma’am.”
After they had left the duchess—in a noticeably warmer mood—they toured the house. Max thought Bianca might like to see it once, although as her eyes climbed the tall, narrow windows in the dining room, a relic of the castle’s Norman past, he thought he might have let himself in for some teasing as well. They visited his ancestor’s portrait, and Bianca agreed he looked a bit of a rogue.
“Then again,” she whispered to him as they strolled out of the gallery, “I have a greater fondness for rogues now...”
They did not see Mr. Edwards, the solicitor, until the day they left. While the luggage was being stowed in the carriage, they had walked outside the castle walls to the rose garden, terraced on the sunny southern side of the motte. Mr. Edwards begged a moment of Max’s time, and so they left Bianca admiring the roses.
“Her Grace tells me you have refused further payments under her proposal,” said the solicitor once they had reached his office.
Max bowed. “You have the right of it, sir.”
“If I may be so bold, sir,” said the solicitor, “do not be an idiot.”
Max raised his brows. “I beg your pardon.”
“Despite what you might think, Her Grace did not offer the income to hold you under her thumb.” Edwards put up his hands at Max’s cynical look. “Not entirely to do so,” he amended. “It was her fondest hope that it would rouse your interest in Carlyle as well. Becoming duke would be an enormous challenge, and she did not wish to see you struggle under the weight of it. Any preparation at all would be invaluable.”
Max frowned. “We both know the odds that I’ll inherit are vanishingly small.”
