Page 7 of Much Ado About Margaret
Confusion flitted across Lane’s face as he chuckled at her reaction. “Why, yes, my greatest friend in the world. Have I never mentioned him? We fought together in France; the man saved my life more than once. I’m sure I’ve talked about Bridger before.”
“Maybe you have, and maybe his name never piqued my interest, but now it absolutely does.” Maggie groaned. This was impossible! “Say right now that he is not attending the wedding.”
Lane’s smile crumpled. “Margaret…”
“Lane.”
“Do not force me to lie.”
“Aunt Eliza has just made me swear to be good, made me promise to behave myself, and now I will be face-to-face with the rudest man in London again.”
Lane snorted. “That seems like somewhat of an exaggeration—”
“And everyone will be talking about us, which is all the more agitating! And Aunt Eliza will be watching me every moment, expecting me to tolerate it with perfect grace.”
“Or it could be a chance for reconciliation, even greater understanding. Bridger Darrow is usually quite sober in his judgments, a clear thinker, and not unreasonable—”
Maggie stumbled away, gripping her bonnet. “Lane, he called my book ‘overwrought.’ Not only that, but I’m also convinced he never even read past the opening chapter! That does not demonstrate reason or good judgment.”
“For certain, that is unkind, but it’s possible your style is simply not to his taste, or he was busy, distracted, if you prefer. He is often overrun trying to keep his brother in check,” said Lane. He reached for her, tugging her back into the shade beneath the arch. She could tell he was struggling to keep a straight face amidst her outburst. Perhaps she was being atouchdramatic. “And you couldn’t know this, but he has a history of, well, not handling women with the kind of delicacy they deserve. His mother died when he was quite young, and with no sisters or feminine influence in his life, then the war, he has lacked a woman’s perspective. Indeed, he’s had several ill-fated courtships, one in particular went spectacularly awry.”
“Courtships? You aren’t trying to imply that he and I would—”
“No!” Lane barked with laughter, swiftly waving the thought away with his hand. “No, God, no, simply saying—”
“Because that would be more ridiculous than anything I did at the salon, or any book I could devise—”
“No, Margaret, and in fact, I will do my best to see that you two are not seated near each other at any of our events, or rather, Ann will, because I don’t have a mind for these things,” said Lane. That did somewhat calm her. “And speaking of Ann, she is bound to attract far more gossip and scrutiny. Sadly, it seems to follow us wherever we go.” Ann was his wife-to-be, a woman of style and intelligence that Maggie had liked the moment they met. Lane’s eyes flitted to the drive, to the carriages, and for a moment he was far away, almost sad. Then he sniffed and shook off whatever troubling thought had descended. “Ann will be vexed to hear that you are under Aunt Eliza’s watchful eye. She and Emilia have been desperate to see you for weeks now. Ann speaks of nothing else.”
“Then, I will have my hands full trying to please both Aunt Eliza and Ann.” She truly was glad to be at Pressmore and to be with her dear cousin. “I wish Papa could be here to witness your happiness and to lend his blessing to the match, but I will not dwell on it, or on my book, or anything that might make me sink lower in Aunt Eliza’s estimations.”
Briefly, Lane nodded along with her, but once more his eye snagged on the stretch of road behind her and the steady clouds of dirt that rose there. His gaze lingered there so long, and his expression became so unreadable, that Maggie turned to see for herself. A rider had come charging up to the house, thrown his reins to a groom, and started across the lawn directly toward them. It took her a moment to recognize the man.
“That might prove difficult,” Lane murmured. “Unless you intend to hide in the wisteria.”
Maggie didn’t even have a moment to collect her wits before Mr. Bridger Darrow was upon them. Even sunburned and covered in road dust he cut a fine figure; Maggie wouldn’tallow herself to see it. He moved decisively, striding toward them with perfect confidence. She moved to Lane’s side just as Bridger Darrow dipped under the archway, noticed her presence, recoiled as if stumbling upon a nest of snakes, and bowed.
“Bridger!” Lane greeted him warmly, then glanced in Maggie’s direction. “I believe you’ve recently been acquainted with my cousin Miss Margaret Arden.”
With satisfaction, she watched the word “cousin” hit him like a slap. To his credit, he recovered neatly, schooling his face into a neutral, wooden expression before biting out a “Oh, I see, indeed. How do you do?”
“How do you do?” Maggie curtsied, offering nothing.
He tossed his head a little, ruffling his dark brown hair, as if that were an answer, then turned fully to Lane. “I did want to speak with you, Lane, about a matter of great urgency.” Darrow’s eyes flicked to her impatiently. “In private, madam, if that’s at all possible.”
“I’ll leave you, gentlemen,” Maggie said smoothly, coolly, before Lane could stammer out something else. She backed away, knowing the house well and hoping to enter by the veranda door to avoid all the guests milling about in the foyer while valets guided them this way and that. If she could turn into a spider and climb up to the windows, she would do that instead, anything to leave Darrow’s chilly aura. “It’s a fine day to sit in the sunshine and write another overwrought book.”
The little twitch in Darrow’s jaw pleased her very much.
His old friend Lane Richmond was visibly satisfied with himself.
“You deserved that,” said Lane, chuckling and touching Bridger lightly on the shoulder. “She is a sensitive creature, you know, even if she tries to hide it, and particularlyprotective of her work. I would scold you further for insulting my cousin to her face, but you already look like you’re suffering enough.”
Bridger brushed aside the desire to defend himself. There would be time for that later. What mattered now was making certain his brother, Pimm, hadn’t coaxed money out of Lane to cover his many shameful debts. He had ridden his horse half to death to make good time, and he allowed himself to consider that he had even beat his brother to Pressmore. When was the last time he had even seen Pimm Darrow in person? Christmas, maybe, when their paths had crossed briefly in London. Pimm kept to himself, or rather, kept to the gambling hells and brothels that still tolerated his presence, and emerged out of the city’s iniquitous shadows when he needed something from their father or, rarely, Bridger.
“Pimm was here,” said Lane, crushing Bridger’s hopes. He turned toward the back of the estate, going the way Miss Arden had fled. By and by, as they walked, they entered the eye of the storm. Pavilions were going up on the back lawn, strategically placed to give the best view of the pond, farther down the sweeping hill. Staff buzzed and conferred, carrying linens, chairs, lanterns, and all sorts to every corner of the estate. Typically, Lane wouldn’t indulge in such things, but it was extremely like him to indulge his pretty wife-to-be. Her tastes were extravagant and specific, and the staff would see them carried out to the letter.
“I was afraid of that.” Bridger squeezed both temples with one hand. “Whatever he asked of you, whatever he wanted, tell me you refused him.”
