“It was a very strange journey,” she said, for some reason not wanting their conversation to end. “But you should be grateful to Sir Vernon.”
“Why is that?”
His dark eyes were fixed upon her, but the light was so low she couldn’t tell what expression he wore.
“Without him, we never would have ended up here, at the theater this evening.”
Together, she wanted to add. But that word felt too presumptuous to say aloud.
“You’re right,” he finally murmured. “I owe that gentleman a great deal of thanks, indeed.”
CHAPTER 17-BRADFORD
This is why I don’t care for London, Bradford thought as his carriage bumped and lurched its way down the long driveway.All of the lines one must wait in.The repeated starting and stopping was making him vaguely ill.
Finally, he could take it no longer. He thumped on the side of the conveyance and called, “I’ll walk from here.”
The carriage stopped and he jumped out, his polished boots crunching in the pea gravel. The crisp night air washed over him, and the pleasantness of the evening confirmed his decision to walk the rest of the way. The moon peeped through the trees overhead, giving enough light for Bradford to mark the way.
Ahead of him, over a dozen carriages waited their turn in the long, tree-lined drive. Bradford stalked toward the front steps, where several lanterns offered flickering light to the guests descending from their carriages.
“Psst,” a feminine voice hissed. “Lord Hayes.”
Bradford turned and found himself facing a polished black carriage boasting a familiar coat of arms. Margaret and Beatrice grinned at him from the open windows.
“Good evening, Lord Hayes,” Beatrice said. She half turned and swatted at someone out of view. “Quit it. We’ve already got his attention; it would be quite rude not to greet him now.”
Bradford couldn’t help but smile. Their carriage lumbered forward a few steps only to stop once more; he followed alongside.
“I’m dreadfully jealous that you get to walk,” Margaret said. “But Claire threatened us within an inch of our lives to actappropriately.”
“What on earth could be scandalous about walking?” he asked.
Margaret thought about it for a moment. “Why, nothing at all.” She turned and murmured something. “Claire isn’t even with us, Lily,” she finally said.
“Lord Hayes, do you know how to let down the steps?” Beatrice asked.
“Of course, though let me at least inform your groomsmen?—”
“No time for that,” Margaret said, thrusting open the door. “Lily means to stop us from leaving.”
Bradford’s eyes widened fractionally. He was frightened that Margaret intended to leap, thinking he would catch her. He jolted forward, his arms outstretched—to catch her or prevent her from jumping, he hardly knew.
“Please, allow me.” The Duke of Ettrick suddenly emerged from the shadows. Without waiting for invitation, he strode forward and picked Margaret up from the doorway.
“Put me down, you great lummox!”
Her outburst was instantly redundant, as the man deposited her neatly on her feet in a puff of silk.
She swatted him in the arm with her delicate fan; he smiled down at her. “Good evening, Margaret. You look more beautiful than ever.”
“How many times have I told you not to follow me around?” she hissed. “And it’sMiss Preston,as you well know.”
Though her tone was acerbic, Bradford couldn’t help but notice that she was blushing and fighting a smile. She even kept a firm hold of the man’s offered elbow as she chastised him. Bradford was grateful he wouldn’t be called upon to defend Margaret from the towering gentleman. That was a task appropriately sized only for Lord Cavendish and his fleet of cannon-armed ships.
Bradford quickly let down the steps and took hold of Beatrice’s outstretched hand. She descended the steps and grinned up at him. “I’ve always wondered what a prison break might feel like. I imagine it’s something much like this.”
Lily appeared in the doorway, shaking her head. “You must think we’re terribly uncouth.”
