3. Christmas Joy?

3

Christmas Joy?

Nay! Christmas Complaints

“Do you really think you need another, and so soon on the heels of the last?”

The question came from about two feet above a sitting Warrick’s left shoulder as soon as he lifted his empty glass, nodding to a passing servant to indicate he needed another. Though the deep voice rumbled quietly, the criticism behind it only made Warrick want the requested beverage more.

His hand tightened around the one he held, in a grip so crushing, ’twas a wonder it didn’t shatter.

Late that afternoon, “sitting” in Lord and Lady Ballenger’s beautifully decorated drawing room brimming with fragrant and colorful reminders of the season should have brought Warrick a measure of joy.

It didn’t.

Hard to be joyful when one’s legs were broken.

Nay, broken would have been an improvement. Useless . Incompetent. Weak. Not, at the moment, worth the space they occupied.

Gripping the glass, he glanced beyond his torso, at the two thighs—withered and worthless—covered by buff pantaloons, and then angled his head three inches forward to look beyond to see his feet—aye, useless (utterly so), the pair of them—encased now in dress shoes. Dress shoes for what was supposed to be a jovial occasion.

Firming his lips against the sneer that threatened, he leaned back in the hated ambulatory chair he’d been confined to ever since the battle and craned his neck to meet Lord Frostwood’s grim gaze.

He scowled at Frost, pitching his voice as low as he could. “Counting my beverages? Now that’s the sort of thing I would expect from Ed, not you.”

“Ed didn’t journey with you the last four days.” The excruciatingly long—he meant leisurely—jaunt up from London in Frost’s fine carriage. Long because Frost proved a solicitous traveling companion, refusing to rush what should have taken a mere two days and fidgeting more over Warrick than even a paid nurse until finally, Warrick threatened a boxing bout if Frost needed to be reminded he still had some strength and the wherewithal to care for himself. (Which was an absolute clanker.) “I, more than most,” Frost continued, “know the pain is still there, but do you think smothering it with brandy is the best path?”

Sometimes he wished the pain was still there.

It wasn’t, though; couldn’t feel a damn blasted thing, not below his waist. Made taking a piss horribly uncomfortable. He could watch it come out but never quite knew when he needed to find a chamber pot—or a field while traveling—so he had a tendency to relieve himself as frequently as a breeding female.

He grunted. Didn’t tell Frost he’d switched to his host’s rich port.

Gave Frost a grimace that could have, another time, passed for a smile. “Are we not to celebrate? Was that not the purpose of our arduous, if uneventful, journey here?”

Raising his empty glass to his well-intentioned, if irritating at this moment, friend and fellow soldier, Warrick bit back the vitriol he wanted to spew. After chasing off the little governess, his mood had turned more downward than his south-facing prick.

“Glance around, Frost. What do you see?” After unclenching his grip, he placed the glass on the table alongside his chair, put there for his use no doubt, and answered before Frost could attempt a reply. “I shall tell you. You see smiling, laughing, holiday-minded folk engaging in banter and seasonal beverages while waiting to be called for a dinner that promises to be every bit as spectacular as the decor.”

Ribbons, tied about candleholders, bowed throughout swags of greenery draped over ornate frames and the paintings they housed. Mistletoe, nauseating heaps of it, threatening to sag the ceiling where it hung, strewn through with more red and gold ribbon.

Frost shifted, peered down at Warrick. “What of it? I do not see anyone else becoming tippled before dinner even commences.”

The servant neared with a tray and Warrick all but snatched the new glass to down the contents before the man had made it half a dozen steps away. He brought his empty fist up to his lips, knuckled away the remnants of port—no seasonal tulip-arse wassail for him.

“Nor do you see any other soldiers,” he stated. “Any other stalwart fellows who served their king.” And paid for it dearly didn’t need uttered; it still echoed between them.

Three seconds passed, then four more. Warrick and Frost each nodded at others as they walked by, many on their way to greet their hostess, Lady Ballenger. Once their assigned corner, the one that had been cleared for Warrick and his bulky conveyance near the drawing room door, emptied of other guests, Frost knelt—in a smooth folding of muscle and sinew, hearty bone and unblemished flesh Warrick envied so much he hated himself for the very thought.

Past the burgundy of his superfine tailcoat that now strained at the shoulders, given the months of maneuvering his entire body with naught but his arms, Frost’s strong fingers gripped his forearm. “We know not what trials others have borne. Not everyone’s sufferings are visible. I know that likely helps not at all for what amounts to your biggest, if not your first, foray back into society.”

With Frost’s reminder of invisible hurts, he felt lower than sewage. Selfish sewage at that. Though he knew that wasn’t his friend’s intention, regret slammed into his middle every bit as hard as he hit the floor any time he attempted to use his useless legs.

While his memories after the fighting ended had been a blessed murk of pain-and-angel-riddled insensibility, Frost had braved returning to the battlefield to search among the bloodied fallen, the destroyed, looking for Warrick, unwilling to retreat without ensuring his friends returned to England as well. And to hear Ed retell it (which he had, countless times during their months of convalescence), the agony Frost experienced seeing the aftermath up close—digging through piles and parts of people—compounded with a vehement argument with their field surgeon when the man wanted to cast Warrick aside to spend his time on others with greater chances. An argument whereupon Frost proved victorious, else Warrick would have surely perished back in Spain.

He pressed his eyes shut, ashamed. With an audible sigh, he faced his friend and, with his free hand, clipped Frost on the upper arm, a silent nod to all they’d been through, and were still learning how to cope with.

And then, as though he had just offered naught but holiday felicitations, Frost smiled—an uncommon, almost scary visage, that—and returned to his feet. A quick squeeze of Warrick’s shoulder and Frost retreated, giving Warrick a few moments alone while he approached their host and hostess and engaged the couple responsible for tonight’s gathering.

The ball to celebrate not only the return of his and Frost’s friend and fellow soldier, but also to commemorate the arranged betrothal to Lord and Lady Ballenger’s eldest daughter, remained in question. For Ed—Lord Redford—severely injured at Albuera (the same battle that felled Warrick) had yet to show his scraggly face. If Frost was the overly serious of their trio and Warrick—pre-war—the outrageous charmer, then Ed was the best of both of them.

Failing to show or send word wasn’t like the dependable man, and the hour marched ever closer to dinner.

Spying Lady Redford, Ed’s mother, through a cluster of young ladies, he breathed easily for the first time since exiting his assigned room. The wounded boy in him had responded to the maternal Lady Redford from the moment he’d met her at the regimental hospital months ago. Since then, she had proven her dedication to her son several times over, impressing Warrick and finding a place in his heart alongside her son.

Thank God and decent roads, she had arrived safely.

Through the unwelcome gaggle of giggling lasses, he watched as she was greeted by others. Though she avoided overly long conversations, she appeared to be traveling the perimeter of the room such that he could not catch her eye.

Tension rose in his chest and arms (it might have risen in his legs as well—that, he had no way of knowing) because he could not fail to notice how more than one of the irritatingly positioned females took turns glancing coyly over their shoulders, to seek out his attention only to turn back to the others and say something that spurred laughter. Louder giggles.

And he was bound by duty to find one of these brainless chits with a caravan of funds and woo her with his unresponsive frigger? Pfft.

Refusing to acknowledge them further, he angled one handle, turned his chair. Made no difference. Too many bits of fluff in their pastel best impeded his view. A light-colored skirt would shift, but a gloved elbow would block. A hip would cock just so, and he would catch a glimpse of Lady Redford, then another horde of giggles and a reticule upon a wrist would swing to obstruct the way once again.

If only he could stand.

He would tower over these impossibly young and cackling misses whose immature antics made him wish he could kick them right out the French windows. Already, their cloying perfumes battled with the more subtle allure of outdoor fragrances gracing the room’s horizontal planes thanks to the plethora of greenery placed about in honor of the season.

His heart beat harder, faster.

Dread assailed, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. His face flushed, only seconds away from an unwanted luster of sweat. Tongue thickened as he knew what he had to do.

“Damn it all.” The whisper scratched from a tight throat.

He had to draw attention to himself in order to obtain hers. Would rather just shat myself.

Nay. He’d rather return to earlier. To outside. To an unexpected flirt that?—

Means nothing.

“LdyRd—” The garbled syllables didn’t come close to the volume—nor command—he needed. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Lady Redford!”

That did it. Yanked everyone’s attention—not just the startled misses—right to his corner. Right to him. Right to his deficiencies.

As though he hadn’t just humiliated himself, he pretended ignorance of the stares he’d garnered and attempted to calm his disturbed breaths before she reached his side.

“Oh my dear boy.” She greeted him as one of her own, the gracious welcome allowing him to focus on her whilst the rest of the room faded. “I saw you out of the corner of my eye, but didn’t want to make a spectacle by rushing over.”

“And here I made a spectacle of the both of us.” Hidden at his side, his right hand fisted around an almost dry handkerchief, retrieved from the grounds, brushed clean and rinsed in his washbasin. “My apologies.”

“No apologies needed, Lord Warrick, never you fear.” She placed one hand on her chest. “I confess, the moment I realized you were here, I wanted to hug you.” The warmth from her greeting now battled the heat in his cheeks. “I know that isn’t the thing, not at all. Not?—”

“I would welcome a hug.” Shoving the wrinkled fabric in a pocket, he held out his arms, stopped bothering about what others might think and accepted the caring concern of the woman who had practically become a second mother to him the last few months.

For Ed’s mother and his had joined forces to create an impenetrable barrier between their sons and death, doing everything they could, from seeing them moved from the common room of the regimental hospital (where the Army had stashed them along with other wrecked soldiers), and into a private residence, to hiring hand-picked physicians and nurses to see to their care.

As she bent down and wrapped her arms about his neck, he curved his around her waist, if awkwardly, and breathed in that subtle maternal scent that seemed to cling to mothers the world over. He thought of the last time he’d seen his. Just five days ago, right before Frost showed up to whisk him from London, when he and Mama had quarreled. With thunderous results. At his city townhome, not at her cottage in the country, thank goodness, so at least his half-siblings were spared the barrage of ruffing words that blasted between the two of them.

You have all but given up! she’d cried. Literally cried, streams tracking down the gently aging face that was usually wreathed in laughter and smiles. Much like his own had been, before .

He’d thrust his jaw out and leaned forward until he nearly toppled off the rolling chair. Before pitching groundward, he whipped back, wobbling in place, infuriated all over again. At her. Because she was convenient. But in reality, maddened at the world. At God. The king. At that vile louse Napoleon who thought he could overtake every country for his own…

Nay! I have not, he’d gritted out between clenched teeth, hands coiled tight at his side so he wouldn’t bang them against the hated chair. What do you think I have been doing for months?

Trying until his will had just worn down. No progress, no feeling, no movement.

No hope.

But, Richard… She’d startled him with his first name, so seldom heard since he’d inherited the title—and everything along with it—before his ninth birthday. You do not understand. There is more at stake than either of us realized.

More at stake than ever walking? he’d spat. Ever swiving? he’d dared yell, expecting her to slap him for speaking thus in her presence, only to watch more tears slide down her cheeks as she slowly backed away.

The title. Is that what you think of? All you consider?

Of course it was. That and sinking deep into a welcoming woman, one who wanted him for himself and not just the brash charmer always eager for a rousing time. But now? He had nothing to sink. No working twanger to help win the right woman to his side and heart.

He had nothing but years and years in front of him: sitting. Sitting on his numb arse while he watched others walk. Ride. Dance.

Dancing. Something his mother ensured he learned at a young age, something he had always, always taken pleasure from. Dancing with a smiling lass, even with no intentions of aiming for more, had brought joy to his soul. And now? Now his soul felt mired back on the battlefield while the rest of him—the shell—pretended all was well here in England.

It hadn’t been until the second full day of his and Frost’s journey here that what his mother hadn’t said penetrated his garret: his younger siblings. That’s what concerned her beyond the title—and what tempted him to drink like a man deprived: his siblings , and how he had given no thought to them, nor their future. At least not verbally, not with his mother the last months. Nor had he once given thought to how their lives had changed since she rushed to his side, leaving them with their father.

Neither she nor her second husband had any living siblings. So as the eldest of her children, not to mention the title holder, it would fall to him to be the dependable, elder brother throughout what he hoped was their long lives. Older brother? He’d failed at?—

Lost in the past, it wasn’t until the second, softly voiced “Dear boy” reached his awareness that he loosened the embrace that had, so very quickly, brought back everything he sought to forget.

Lady Redford kissed his cheek as she pulled away, allowing him to see the moisture glistening in her eyes. “I did not expect to see you here. I daresay Ward will be as delighted as I am that you made the effort.”

Ward. What she called her son, Edward.

“Thank Frost.” Who had adamantly refused to accept Warrick’s irritable refusal. Who had practically packed his bag, his needed-but-hated wheeled chair, and then his complaining self straight into the carriage, ordering the coachman to be off before Warrick could load a pistol and bargain, threaten or cajole for his freedom. “He’s to”— blame —“thank.”

“And Ward?” she knelt to whisper, bracing one hand on his for balance and keeping the question between them. “Have you word of my son’s arrival?”

Nay, he did not. But could not help but notice the worried expressions and quiet murmurings between Lord and Lady Ballenger when they thought no one was watching (or listening)… Where was Lord Redford? Should he not have been here a week ago? Surely by yesterday. Had tragedy befallen the recovering soldier and new viscount now betrothed to their daughter?

“I believe I may be to blame for his tardiness,” Warrick admitted. “Forgive me, but I dangled the use of my hunting lodge to Ed, knowing he was anxious about the betrothal. About the gathering…” After indicating the throng, he gestured to his right arm, the one Ed no longer possessed. “I believe we can both understand his reluctance to appear in society.”

For it is taking every shred of bravery that wasn’t stomped out of me in Spain to appear here myself.

Blinking rapidly—to contain the moisture he suspected—she gave a nod. “I do. I can. Especially since even his remaining one”—she flexed the fingers of her left hand, giving rise to the image of the distorted mangle his friend had come home with—“still causes him significant difficulty.”

“Worry not, for if he doesn’t show his ugly face by the dancing hour, Frost and I will travel to my estate”—only a few hours away, but not something he had visited since returning to England—“and collect him posthaste. He may have simply neglected to mind the calendar.”

“Or he could be hurt, needing?—”

“We shall go now.” As soon as he touched the controls to move his chair, she stopped him with her gloved hand over his.

“Nay. I worry overmuch. A hearty meal may put things to rights. And we both know traveling in winter without the moon is asking for calamities, something none of us need court. If he isn’t here by morning, I shall go with you, if I may?”

“Absolutely.” If Ed wasn’t there by nightfall, he might learn firsthand just how much strength working this blasted chair and hauling the weight of his unresponsive lower half about had given Warrick’s shoulders and arms, for worrying her so.

Warrick caught Frost’s attention when he turned from their hosts, gave a tilt of his chin, indicating he was fine, and spent several more minutes in conversation with Lady Redford—but only after he’d summoned a servant and requested they bring her a chair.

A while later, after she moved off to chatter with an old friend, he and Frost exchanged another, more deliberate look, Warrick now making clear his goal of escaping.

Despite Frost’s frowning countenance—his customary expression, holidays and battles not withstanding—he understood Warrick’s need to vacate the crush before they were summoned to dinner. Understood his need to seek out seclusion, where he could fumble in private with his chair and the blasted chamber pot.