Page 36 of About a Rogue
In an effort to relieve some of the strain, she reconciled with her father. She marched into his office, held up Cathy’s letter, and announced, “My sister wishes you to know that she is well, and very happily married to Mr. Mayne.” She curtsied to her parent, and almost walked back out the door before he recovered from his astonishment.
“Bianca, wait!” Papa caught her arm. “You have heard from her?”
Her jaw worked. “Surely you already knew?” She meant St. James, who spent a portion of every day in the offices with Papa. He must have told her father that she’d heard from Cathy. Even if he hadn’t, there was a very large chance Mary or another servant had told someone at Perusia Hall that a letter had arrived. The housekeeper there, Mrs. Hickson, was mother to her maid Jennie, and there wasn’t much news that didn’t eventually travel from house to house.
“By my soul, I did not!” Her father couldn’t keep the yearning from his voice. “Tell me how she is.”
Bianca turned toward him. Papa released her, giving her arm a small pat. He cleared his throat and nodded at the letter in her hand. “She’s happy, then?”
Bianca nodded. “Very happy.”
Papa’s lips pressed together. “I suppose I should be relieved that curate did the proper thing.”
“He always meant to,” she said in withering tones. “It was obvious to everyone in Marslip that he wanted to marry Cathy.”
“And it would have cost him nothing to ask my permission and my blessing,” her father fired back. He threw up his hands as she drew an irate breath. “Never mind! ’Tis done, and there’s nothing to gain by quarreling over it now.”
“No,” said Bianca stiffly.
“And you?” he asked cautiously. “Are you... happy?”
Bianca drew a controlled breath. “I am content with the choices I made.”
He didn’t look pleased. “Content.”
“Well, what else can you expect me to be?” She raised her brows. “Condemned for helping my sister pursue her true happiness—”
“Condemned!” he growled indignantly.
“—told that my birthright was to be given to a stranger, and then told I could reclaim it only by marrying the stranger.” Bianca lifted one shoulder. “I did what I must.”
Her father’s face worked. She braced herself for a fiery row; this was the first time she’d spoken to him since the disastrous wedding day, and Papa rarely missed a chance to put in his word.
But instead, with almost visible effort, he swallowed whatever it was, and gruffly said, “I hope you warm to the fellow. He’s a good man.”
The fact that Bianca was coming to agree, however reluctantly, did not make her admit it now. “I have little choice now but to make the best of things,” she said. “And I will.”
“That’s a start,” Papa replied, his face brightening. “Your mother and I did the same.”
Bianca blinked. “What?” She’d always thought her parents had cared deeply for each other.
But before he could respond, Ned tapped on the door. “Beg pardon, Uncle Tate, but Mr. St. James requests you to join him in the drying room.”
“Aye, of course,” said Papa. Ned nodded and left.
Bianca looked at him inquiringly, but Papa shrugged. “I’ve no idea what he’s about. You’re... welcome to come along and see.”
She gave a stiff nod. It was a truce, and possibly the first time they had reached one without any shouting at all.
And what could Max want? Bianca had slowly got used to seeing him in every corner of the factory. He’d spent time with every single group of workmen, learning something of their trade. Not only was he there every day, in one office or workshop, he’d taken to speaking to all the workers, from the women painting scenes on custom platters to the gilders applying delicate gold leaf to teacup rims to the men hauling up clay from the barges. Not everyone welcomed his attention, but everyone admitted he was polite and displayed deep interest in each and every skill.
She knew he’d helped unload clay and inspect it. He’d even gone to the firing house, the blistering hot warren of rooms where the kilns were, and tried his hand at unloading the kiln.
Bianca knew all this because Amelia’s brother worked in the firing house and told her Max had dropped a piece. It was only a fruit bowl, but it shattered, and Max had amazed all the workmen by apologizing. Papa would never have done that.
That was all startling enough. But every day when she came down to dinner, he was waiting, no longer humble and ordinary in wool and linen but the elegant, sophisticated rogue again in velvet and lace, smiling at her with unwavering attention and interest.
He was provoking her curiosity to no end.
