Page 85 of About a Rogue
“You had better never do it again,” she added with a tug at his hair.
“Never,” he promised. “I am the poorest excuse for a husband in all Britain.”
“As long as Silas Croach walks the earth, you can’t be the worst husband anywhere.”
He kissed her. “You are the very best of wives to endure my many faults and failings, and I shall spend the rest of my days atoning for being such an idiot to have doubted you.”
She took his face in her hands and kissed him back, softly, deeply, completely. “You had better make love to me so I forget how you didn’t trust me, after askingmeto trust you so often...”
“Always.” Max yanked off his nightshirt and moved over her. Primed to iron, he plowed up her skirts and pushed inside her. Her fingernails dug into his back, and he shuddered at the sight of her beneath him, her eyes shining like silver and her hair dark bronze around her.
“Yes,” she moaned. “Yes—Max—”
It was the hardest, fastest bout of lovemaking he’d ever had. Neither needed soft tender touches; Bianca clutched his arse and urged him to harder, deeper strokes. She writhed beneath him, tossing her head from side to side and whispering incoherent words of encouragement, passion, even something like love.
Love.
He fought back his own release until he felt her come. Her climax was a glorious sight to his eyes, and this morning it seemed tinged in shades of rose and gold, like everything about her.
The biggest gamble of his life had paid off beyond his wildest dreams. Not only had he proved himself capable of running a business, he had found Greta and rescued her from the hell Croach had cast her into. He was no longer a penniless rake, living from wager to wager; he was a gentleman of property and purpose. And he had Bianca—fiercely intelligent, passionate and loyal, a match for him in every way.
He had everything a man could ever ask for.
Even if she never loved him back.
Chapter Thirty-One
To the surprise of everyone at Perusia, Frances took Greta protectively under her wing in the next few days. She sent a stream of requests to Cook for various dishes she thought would be beneficial. She refused to allow Greta any spirits or wine, only strong tea—but in great quantities. She plied her with eggs and beef broth with fresh vegetables and fresh fish, but no pudding. When Bianca wondered where her great-aunt had gone one morning, she found both women in the kitchen, toasting bread on forks at the hearth.
“And when it’s nicely browned, we’ll put some of this lovely cheese on top,” Bianca heard her confide, sounding unusually warm and inviting. Greta, looking much better in a proper dress with her hair combed and braided, smiled slightly, swaying on her feet as she held out her fork.
Max looked askance when she relayed the scene. “Should they give Greta a toasting fork? She has a history of attacking—”
“Does she?” Bianca raised her brows. “Did you ever see it?”
He closed his mouth in chagrin. “Of course I didn’t.”
“If she hits Frances with the fork, it won’t be anything Aunt hasn’t had coming for years,” Bianca added. “But I expect my aunt can look after herself.”
Max laughed, his eyes warm and full of love.
Bianca smiled and looked away. She’d heard it, when he said he loved her, but she had not responded to it, and he had not repeated it.
She thought she loved him, but his secrecy had been a blow. Even worse, he had planned never to tell her about Greta at all. Part of her understood completely, and part of her was angry that he would think that way, even after their closeness. If he had said he meant to tell her later, if he had confessed that he hadn’t knownhowto tell her and that had kept him silent, she would have believed and forgiven all.
But he had saidnever, and that was a very long time to keep something so significant from her. She still didn’t know how to talk to him about it.
“I’m going to Poplar House,” she told him. They had remained at Perusia Hall, as had Frances, to avoid upsetting Greta again. Despite being closely monitored every hour of the day, so far Greta seemed more like someone who had survived a terrifying ordeal than a madwoman. Max had reminded her, grimly, that it guaranteed nothing, but even he agreed it was a promising sign that Greta hadn’t been violent or wild.
“Will you return before dinner?” Max asked, looking a little disappointed that she was leaving.
“Likely not. I have so many letters to write.” Not only had Lady Dalway and Mrs. Farquhar sent very gracious notes, she had decided to tell Cathy everything. Hopefully that would cause the wave of astonishment and dismay to break before Cathy came home, and spare Bianca the worst of it, but either way she had to be honest with her sister. After being so hurt by Max’s lies by omission, she had resolved not to commit the same sin herself.
“You could write them here,” he offered. “I promise to be very quiet and not rustle my papers.”
She laughed, but shook her head. She needed a little space from him, for what she had to write.
“Very well. I’ll be here.” He masked his disappointment gallantly, gesturing at his papers on the table. Bianca recognized his plan for Fortuna ware. They had discussed it often since London, and she knew he hoped to get her father’s approval soon.
