Page 65 of Just a Little Daring

“Oh, drat you, Viv. Don’t… you’ll start me off. There you see, now you’ve done it,” he complained bitterly.

Viv laughed, fishing out a handkerchief and handing it to him.

“Such a watering pot,” she teased as he wiped his eyes. “I never knew a fellow for blubbing like you do.”

“I have a sensitive soul,” Ash retorted.

“And yet you wear that waistcoat,” Vivien observed, eyeing it with resignation. It was gold today and embroidered with a swirling black pattern that would likely induce a megrim if you stared at it for too long.

“There’s nothing wrong with my waistcoat. It is elegant and sophisticated, which you would know if you weren’t so lamentably gauche.”

Viv laughed, relieved he’d recovered his spirits sufficiently to bicker with her. “Oh, I shall miss you. Say you’ll come and stay in the summer, at least.”

“Of course I’ll come. Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away, though you’ll need to get me a chaperone or do something about Gwen. She’s trying to get me out of my clothes already.”

“What?” Vivien stared at him in alarm until she realised. “Oh, for her painting. They’re rather scandalous, apparently, though I’ve not seen any yet.”

“I should say so, if she wants me to stand before her in my skin. Asked without so much as a blush, too. Well, on her part, I can’t speak for myself.”

Vivien giggled. “Are you going to do it?”

“Certainly not!” He sounded aggrieved. “A man needs a little mystery, not his wares displayed for all and sundry. Besides, it would cause a riot. I’d have women beating down my door, begging me to make love to them.”

“Ridiculous creature,” Viv said with a sigh.

Ash shrugged, ignoring that. “Well, anyway. She’s bound to fall in love with me, so I’m only suggesting you prepare for the inevitable,” he said gravely.

Vivien pressed her quivering lips together and nodded, patting his arm. “Yes, dear. We’ll do that.”

Chapter 20

August,

Glad to hear you’ve come to your senses. Don’t like to say I told you so, but… well, I told you so. Should always listen to my advice. Becoming sensible in my old age.* Married life and all that. Makes a fellow grow up. My marchioness is reading over my shoulder and insists I have a mental age of around nine years. Shan’t argue. Life is far more pleasant if you just agree. *See sensible comment above.

Honoured to stand up with you. Pleased as punch you should ask.

Hope you like the wedding gift. You admired the new Brougham, so I’ve had it sent around. Your lady will need something dashing for jaunting about town. You too, come to that. Don’t complain about expense or I’ll be forced to pummel you. Please remember, I’m disgustingly wealthy.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Lawrence Grenville, Marquess of Bainbridge, to Mr August Lane-Fox.

27th April 1841, Cavendish House, The Strand, London.

They held the wedding at Cavendish House, a private affair followed by a lavish breakfast for friends and family that was expected to go on all day.

“Here.” Bainbridge handed August a silver hipflask, which August took with gratitude.

Several large swallows produced a pleasant glow in his belly, but did little to diminish the jittery sensation that was making him pace up and down whilst he awaited his bride. He was about to try another large swallow when Bainbridge snatched his flask back.

“That’s enough.”

“Tell my guts that,” August grumbled.

“There, there. All be over soon. You won’t feel a thing,” Bainbridge soothed him, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

August snorted, but felt oddly reassured by Bainbridge’s certainty. A peculiar thing that the big, brash fellow’s presence could be soothing, but somehow it was. Perhaps he really was behaving like a grown up at last.

“Last man standing,” Raphe said, coming up to shake August’s hand, with Dare beside him. “You didn’t hold out long.”