Page 18 of Just a Little Daring

“Explain what?” her husband asked.

August narrowed his eyes, too well attuned to his friend’s knack for pretending he was oblivious to things exploding around him. He had the awful foreboding that things were about to do just that. “Yes, Laurie, explain what?”

“How do I know? I just asked her that,” Bainbridge protested.

Arabella sighed. “Oh, dear. Well, August, I do hope you will not let me down, for I feel certain I can rely upon you to act like a grownup, even if you find the situation a tad awkward.”

“Awkward?” August repeated, the sensation of impending doom growing stronger by the second.

“Only a little awkward, I’m sure. For I’m certain you’ve made your intentions clear, being a gentleman, and so there’s no possible way Miss Anson could misunderstand your presence here.”

“Misunderstand my…?” August shook his head. “Sorry, you’ve lost me. Why should my presence here matter to her, anyway?”

“Because Miss Anson and her brother are staying with us too,” Arabella said brightly, and took a neat bite out of a slice of plum cake.

“You sneaky bastard!” August exclaimed once he’d got his scheming friend on his own. He finally ran him to ground in his office, making out he was answering correspondence when he was only hiding from the inevitable.

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not secretly pleased,” Bainbridge said, waving his indignation aside like it was of little importance. “You’re dying to see her again.”

“That is entirely beside the point,” he protested, trying to ignore the way his heart was still pounding, or the fact he leapt out of his skin every time he heard the door knocker… which was often. The blasted house was bedlam, with visitors coming and going constantly.

“No, it ain’t. It’s entirely the point. You like her, she likes you. Do I need to have a little talk about the birds and the bees?” Bainbridge asked gently.

August glowered at him. “I’m leaving.”

Bainbridge’s expression became mutinous. “No! No, you are not. My lady wants you to stay. So, stay you will.”

“Oh, bloody hell, Laurie. Stop trying to manipulate me. It won’t work and it isn’t fair.”

Bainbridge sighed. “August, have you ever stopped to consider why we are friends?”

“Because you won’t take no for an answer?” August suggested, folding his arms and scowling at him.

“Partly,” Bainbridge acknowledged. “But it’s more than that. You’ve always been a part of our madness, but you never embraced it like we did. It was like your dirty secret. Something to keep hidden.”

“It was hardly anything to be proud of,” August objected, springing to his feet and stalking to the window. He glared out at a day shrouded in mist, grey and unwelcoming, unlike the cosy room he stood in.

Bainbridge laughed, shaking his head. “At twelve years old, it was. We were gods, August. Every boy at school admired us or feared us. They all wanted to be us. But you always kept your part in it secret, when you were the one who planned it all, nine times out of ten. Have you never wondered why?”

“Oh, my God.” August put his head in his hands and groaned. “You’ve got a theory, haven’t you? I swear, Laurie, if you start any sentimental nonsense, I shall run screaming from the house and never return.”

“Sentimental? Me?” Bainbridge repeated, obviously stunned by the accusation.

“Yes, you. You are sentimental, you big oaf, or at least you’re always the one that gets weepy when he’s in his cups.”

“I deny that!”

“Deny it all you like, it’s true,” August insisted.

Bainbridge narrowed his eyes at him. “I see what you’re doing, but it won’t work. You, my lad, have had to be the sensible one ever since your lying toad of a father kicked the bucket when you were a lad. Your mother went to pieces and your sisters were inconsolable, and you took all their problems on and sorted them out. You’re still sorting them out now, even though you know they don’t need or want you to do it—well, half the time. The other half, I admit they need you to bail them out, literally, but that is beside the point. Miss Anson isn’t needy, August. She’s….” Bainbridge hesitated, frowning, searching for the right word, which apparently eluded him. “She’s wanty.”

“She’s what?” August demanded.

“Wanty,” Bainbridge repeated, with all the assurance of a man raised to be a duke.

“That is not a word, Laurie.”

“It is now.”