Page 51 of About a Rogue
“Cheapside,” he said. “’Tis for the proposal your father agreed to read.”
Ah. About the new line of dinnerware. One of them had been able to keep their mind on business. Flustered, she also rose. “Of course.”
“Are you warming to the idea?” he asked, his eyes dancing and a smile lurking about his mouth. There was a drop of coffee on his lower lip, and Bianca couldn’t tear her eyes from it.
“I— Well— Perhaps—” Compulsively she reached out and smoothed away the coffee with her thumb.
Max went still. Bianca flushed. “There was some coffee,” she muttered, waving one hand toward his face.
“Thank you,” he murmured. And to her shock he took her hand. Her clenched fingers unfolded in his, and then he put her thumb to his lips, sucking lightly. She felt the touch of his tongue and her knees almost gave way. His eyes flashed and he released her. “I’ll send for the carriage.”
He walked out, leaving her gripping the back of a chair for support. Her heart threatened to crack her ribs. What was she thinking, touching him like that? She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Don’t be foolish, Bianca,” she whispered to herself.
“Ma’am?”
The voice of Martha, the hired maid, made her jump. “Yes, yes, quite well,” she exclaimed, then bolted from the room when the girl looked at her oddly. Hearing Max’s voice at the bottom of the stairs, she turned and rushed up. Her head seemed totally disconnected from her mouth—to say nothing of her hands.
A quarter hour later, she felt in command of herself once more. Max handed her into the carriage and she didn’t say or do anything lunatic, but thanked him very civilly. The ride itself passed without trouble as well, and then he helped her down in a busy thoroughfare.
Bianca looked around with interest. This was a very different sort of street compared to the one with the large showroom where Max envisioned well-laid dining tables. Here were ordinary women, bustling servants, working men delivering goods and manning the carts, and merchants welcoming customers into their shops. She felt instantly more at home here than in York Street.
The agent let them in, and a bell tinkled at their entrance. Bianca inhaled happily, despite the dusty air. Here was the quaint little shop she had pictured, with shelves along the walls and a large round table in the middle. There was a wide counter at one side, with wider, deeper shelves behind it, and there was a place in front of the window to display wares to passersby. It was perfect.
“I can see by your face this pleases you,” said Max with a smile.
She couldn’t help a small laugh. “It does. This is what I pictured when you began talking of showrooms and shop premises.”
“And it’s a very good idea,” he said, “for Fortuna wares.”
“What is Fortuna ware?”
“What I propose to call the new, simpler wares.” He drew her forward and turned her to face the windows, stepping behind her to leave the view unimpeded. “Look at the people passing by. People who could never hope to afford the coffee service Lord Dalway ordered, but who would like something quality, something lovely, something above ordinary Delftware and plain pottery. Imagine them eyeing the candleholders and little plum pots of rouge—”
Bianca turned her head. He was right behind her, his outstretched arm brushing hers as he sketched his vision in the air in front of her. “Perusia doesn’t make candleholders.”
He tipped his head, meeting her eyes. “Fortuna ware will include candleholders, and chamber pots and butter crocks and ink pots. Any item that could be made of earthenware or porcelain.”
Bianca wasn’t so sure her father would agree to that. “That plum pot was a lark, nothing more than some experiments I tried with soft paste porcelain for my glazes—”
“It was not a lark, it was a brilliant idea,” he replied. “Fine ladies have little pots of silver and blown glass. Imagine how pleased a shopkeeper’s wife would be to have something just as beautiful, but costing a fraction of the silver, on her dressing table. I picture items made at a cost such that even your own artisans could afford some.”
Well... when he put it that way... “How much do you propose to produce?”
He must have sensed that she was coming around to his point of view. He grinned, looking rather like a pirate who’d just unlocked the chest of treasure. “A modest run to start, but if it does well, I would produce as much as we can sell.”
“Perusia is where Papa’s heart lies,” she told him. “He will always care more about it than anything else.”
“So he should.” Almost idly he touched the loose curl lying on her shoulder. Bianca had liked the stylish arrangement, so she told Jennie to fix her hair that way again, leaving off the powder and sticky pomatum.
“After all,” said Max, his voice deepening, “when you find yourself holding something beautiful and unique, you want to treasure it, and safeguard it. Only a fool would let it slip through his fingers.” He twisted the curl around his finger as he spoke.
Bianca inhaled roughly. The letting agent had discreetly vanished, leaving them alone in the shop. She was practically in Max’s arms. He wasn’t talking about Papa, or about pottery, and she knew it. “When I kissed you the other night—”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“It was a mistake,” she said, striving for firm confidence and only achieving breathless pleading.
He touched her chin, tipping up her face toward him. “No, it wasn’t.” And he kissed her.
