the sale price of a different horse.
Papa nodded once. “Excellent. Bianca, come with me.” And he pulled her from the room before she could say anything.
Cathy would have been in tears by now, incoherent with despair. Bianca felt only righteous fury as she stomped down the path with her father. All he cared was that someone marry St. James. He cared that much for St. James’s connections and business proposal, that he would marry any daughter of his to the man, one way or another.
Fine, then. Papa would have his distant-cousin-of-a-duke son-in-law. He would have his elegant new London manager, flattering lascivious countesses into buying some dinnerware so that Papa could boast of the aristocratic tables his soup tureens sat upon. He would be rid of both spinster daughters, and she hoped he reveled in having that big, empty house to himself.
As for St. James, he would have his share of Perusia and a wealthy bride. Bianca meant to make certain he bled for every farthing, though. If he could consider marriage purely a business arrangement, so could she.
The only thought that consoled her was that Cathy would be blissfully happy as Mrs. Mayne.
Papa opened the church door. Amelia was standing there, holding the posy of flowers she had offered to provide, craning her neck looking for Cathy.
Bianca snatched the flowers from her and started down the aisle. A confused murmur arose from the guests awaiting them outside as Cathy failed to materialize. Inside, Aunt Frances was all but falling from her pew, her face flushed with interest. Bianca ignored them all and fixed her eyes on the mercenary rogue at the altar.
And he, of all people, wasn’t even looking her way.
Chapter Five
There was a genuine possibility, growing stronger by the moment, that Max had lost his mind.
No more than ten minutes had elapsed since he had agreed to switch brides, and wed not the lovely, gentle Catherine Tate, but her fiery sister, Bianca.
You remember her, Max savaged himself mentally. The one who hates you.
He wondered if this had been Tate’s plan all along. Perhaps Max had been just as much the prey as the pursuer. Perhaps he’d been tricked, coerced into marrying the shrewish sister so Tate could win a better suitor for his more appealing daughter, and be rid of both in one neat trick. Max vaguely thought there was a similar case in the Bible itself. Tate could have got the idea right here in church.
Not, Max admitted, that Bianca wasn’t a beauty as well, in her own way. Her hair was somewhere between blond and brown, her eyes shifting from gray to blue. She was taller than her sister, and curvier, too. He had not missed the fact that she possessed a spectacular bosom. She moved with purpose and energy, not gentle grace, and her wit was as sharp and keen as a rapier.
She wielded it much the same way a swordsman might a rapier, too.
If he’d had more time to consider, would he have agreed to the switch? Max pondered the question in some remote, analytical portion of his brain as he took his place in the church, before the handful of whispering guests and the minister, who was still fumbling through his book of Common Prayer for the marriage service.
He would like to know if either, or both, ladies had been in on the scheme all along. Miss Tate had never refused his attentions; she’d appeared flattered by them, with her shy blushes and murmured thanks. He didn’t imagine that it meant her feelings were engaged, and frankly he had not hoped they were.
Now, of course, it was clear her feelings had been engaged . . . just not by him.
As for Bianca, her feelings toward him had always been crystal clear: disdain, disgust, and dislike being chief among them. At the time he’d been amused. He’d thought she might be jealous of her older sister, betrothed at last while she remained a spinster.
More fool you, he told himself. Perhaps he should have recognized the chance offered in the sacristy to reject this mad plan, and cut his losses.
But Max had learned to seize opportunity when it crossed his path. Dame Fortune hadn’t smiled upon him often in life, and she rarely allowed him the luxury of pondering and debating her offerings. He still half expected the Duchess of Carlyle to withdraw her support and cut him off without warning, which was why he had moved so swiftly to propose this arrangement to Tate.
No,