Ed stepped closer. Just to confirm… “Was that Miss Larchmont? Miss Anne Larchmont? Eldest daughter of Lord Ballenger?”
“None other.” Frost grinned. “The taller, lighter-haired one, now. The darker-haired pixie with her? That is her younger sister, Miss Harriet.”
“Aye, that Harriet is a pickle! Be glad ’tis the older one you’re here for. Should relieve your lady wife, to know that Napoleon didn’t steal all your siring abilities, I am sure,” Warrick added.
“We are not married yet.” Not even close. Ed felt the need to caution his friends as well as himself, especially after that inauspicious beginning. The one he had a desperate need to make up for. “Cannot count my chickens and all that…”
“Who needs to count chickens,” Warrick said, “when there is tupping to be tallied?”
Ed had a hard time not laughing outright at the look on Frost’s usually bracket-faced visage. Not above the ribald remark himself, Frost wasn’t one to utter such in mixed company—unlike Warrick, who oft spoke bluntly, not above provoking his audience.
Sensing some of the worry behind the bawdy banter, Frost turned to Warrick and placed one hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture before releasing. “And you, my friend. From my observation, nerves are among some of the last bodily tissues to heal. Give yourself more time.”
“Aye. I shall continue to pray they come back to life and liven up my sorry spindle.” A quick wink accompanied Warrick’s outrageous words.
“It is beyond great to see you both,” Ed told them. “But I do have a potential wife to woo.”
“Aye. A wand to wield, you mean?” Warrick wasn’t ready to let the penile-focused conversation cease, it appeared.
Ed clasped one of Warrick’s hands and squeezed. “Thank—”
“Damn.” Warrick flipped his grip and squeezed back. “You’re stronger than you were even a week ago.”
The unexpected news gave him the boost of confidence he would need in the coming hours. “Thank you for that.” Ed turned to shake Frost’s hand, smiling at the nod of approval when his friend tested his renewed strength for himself (Ed hadn’t been above giving an extra-hearty shake). “See yourself fed and full, find a lass and entertain yourself on the dance floor”—that was directed at Frost—“or find a winsome wallflower and entertain her with your verbal flights of fancy,” he told Warrick.
He took solace in the nods of encouragement each man gave him as he bowed and took his leave, both reluctantly and eagerly ready to seek out the decisively unmerry Anne.
“You may berate me all you wish. I shall not entertain a speck of remorse.” Harriet was adamant, springing throughout the bedchamber as though her feet possessed wings. “He is to be family after all, Merry. My brother. Your husband.”
As if Anne needed reminded again.
Taking refuge after their—specifically her—escape up the stairs, Anne now reclined, fully clothed, upon her bed. Whilst her overly dramatic sister continued the spectacle begun at the dinner table. Only instead of complaining over dinner’s disastrous goose, the mettlesome youth now waxed over their latest dinner guest.
The one Anne valiantly wished to put from her mind.
And how would that be possible? At his very proximity—he breathes within the walls of your home even now—are your lips not tingling? Those monstrously annoying midges in your middle not turned to wondrous waltzing nuances of want?
“Are you not relieved?” the exuberant Harri demanded, her upheld fingers counting off each benefit. “He is handsome. And pleasant. Amusing, too.”
“Pfft.” A hearty dose of dismay prompted the disparaging sound.
“What?” Harriet halted her dizzying skips around the room.
“Amusing?” Anne spouted incredulously. “You think him so? After only a few seconds’ acquaintance?” Because she could not deny the other two, for he was handsome. And could be pleasant. But humorous? Not a characteristic she would have attributed to him. Not now, after the deceit. Could I make you my mistress? The insult.
Flattering insult. Or do you forget how very tempted you were? Have been? Curious beyond belief, as to the Warrick gamekeeper…
“Of a certainty,” her sister exclaimed, approaching the bed. “‘On the battlefield, I fear.’” Harriet did a decent imitation of the bold tones they’d both just heard. “What a wit!” A girl her age should not be nearly so pithy. Or astute. Or outlandish.
The breathless abandon of skipping started once again.
Anne lifted onto one elbow to watch her energetic sister. “’Twas beyond inappropriate, Harri, for you to come out and refer to it.”
“It?” Asked with all the false innocence of someone who belonged on the stage.
“His…” Deformity did not sit quite right. Neither did disgrace, nor disfavor. All words often applied to those who had suffered thus.
“Missing limb?” Harriet provided, turning serious as she jumped up on the bed and rolled to her side, propping her head on one bent arm. “’Tis a recent occurrence, is it not? His injuries? The severing of his arm?”