had been here long enough that this house was starting to feel familiar, and she supposed the same was true of Max. Her husband. He was starting to feel like hers, and the fact that these other women knew him better than she did, knew things about him that she did not, was strangely distressing.
It was a relief when the gentlemen came in and the card tables were set up. Lady Carswell asked to partner her, and Bianca agreed before noticing her husband heading her way. He had been in deep conversation with Lord Dalway, and now joined her.
“Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?”
Bianca realized it was relief flowing through her. She was glad he was beside her, conferring with her. He was still hers.
She shook off that thought. “Yes. Lady Dalway admired the dishes greatly, as did Lady Carswell.”
“I knew they would. Dalway plans to put in a large order on the morrow. Carswell may do the same.” Max gave her a conspiratorial glance, his dark eyes dancing. “Carswell follows Dalway’s lead, although at enough of a distance that he can protest he was not following at all, but simply reached the same destination of his own choosing.”
Bianca smiled. “Would that they all follow Lord Dalway’s lead and order complete services.”
He winked at her. “There’s still time. Will you partner me at the tables?”
“Oh—that is—” She tried not to gnash her teeth. “Lady Carswell has already asked me.”
“Quite right,” he said easily, after only the briefest pause. “A husband and wife should never partner at whist in company. Good luck.” He took a step away, then paused. “Lady Carswell can never remember the trump. Do your best to remind her if you want to win.”
She could only watch in chagrin as he strolled away, speaking to the guests with ease. She felt inexplicably annoyed at Lady Carswell for asking her before Max could. It was irrational, and left her feeling out of sorts, even though she enjoyed cards and always liked to win. Instead she had to watch Lady Dalway link her arm in Max’s, and trade cards with him, and clap her hands in glee as the pair of them won hand after hand. Even the pleasure of hearing the exclamations of delight over the coffee service, done in her new scarlet glaze and brought out as the candles grew short, was small consolation.
When the door finally closed behind the guests, she returned restlessly to the drawing room, pinching out the candles. The evening had been a success, and yet she felt out of sorts.
She did not want to admit the reason: jealousy. Not so much that Max was clearly at ease among these elegant people, these women adorned in diamonds and lace, these titled gentlemen of wealth and power. She had expected that.
No, it was something worse. It was that those people—those women—knew him. Her husband was a stranger to her, but not to them. And even if she tried to persuade herself that she didn’t want to know all his debauched secrets, she did not want to feel like an outsider in her own marriage.
“I would call that a rousing success,” said her husband behind her.
Bianca bit down on her lower lip and nodded. It was. She knew it. But she couldn’t stop thinking of those sparkling little glances between the ladies, about him, and the way she’d felt at seeing Lady Dalway take his arm.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
She turned to face him. He stood in the doorway, arms folded and one shoulder against the jamb. He was almost unbearably attractive, broad-shouldered—unlike the whippet-thin Lord Dalway—and lean-hipped—unlike the portly Nigel Farquhar. His unpowdered hair gave him the look of a panther, sleek and wild. And his dark eyes were fixed on her.
Bianca fiddled with a porcelain figurine—average craftsmanship, poorly painted, but still a charming depiction of a girl drawing a bucket up from a well—and set it down. She faced her husband, put up her chin, and said, “They all know you.”
“Yes.”
“Even the women,” she went on. “Rather well.” She paused. “Much better than I know you.”
He drew a deep breath, then pushed away from the door and started toward her. “I’ve been friends with Carswell since we were lads. Dalway, since university. Farquhar, nigh on six years.”
“They call you Maxim,” she retorted. “Lady Dalway and Lady Carswell.”
His mouth quirked. “They’re teasing when they do.”
“They know you well enough to tease.” She lifted one shoulder, angry at herself for being upset about this.