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“Fingernails. Missing five of those too, I fear.”
“Your sense of the absurd seems adequately intact.”
“Only adequately? I am wounded.” She left off watching the dancers and angled toward him. Her eyes drifted over his chest and shoulders, past his hips and legs, down to his feet before she lifted her gaze to his.
Hazel heated, her grey-green irises flaming with an inner fire he’d not seen from her before. “Nay. No longer wounded, my lord. I do believe you healed.”
Her words, her acceptance of all he was—and wasn’t—lifted his cheeks in a soft smile.
“Will you…” Her words so quiet, he had to lean forward to hear. “Will you tell me what happened?” Her meaning clear as crystal when she wrapped her fingers around the flesh above his cut bone wiping the contented smile free.
“Now?” It was a croak.
Because he knew she wasn’t asking for the flippant responses he might give Harriet.
Nothing so trivial for his merry Anne. Nay, she would require he bare his pain, his fears, his very soul, to tell her without demure all that had happened that tragic day—and afterward.
“Only when you’re ready to speak of it. Not before.”
“Then yes,” he told her, the truth of it sighing from deep within his chest. “I will.”
“I will as well.”
“Will what?”
“Don’t be obtuse.” She toasted him with her glass. “Marry you, you imbecile.”
“Really, my dear, your propensity to utter insults is one thing between us. But definitely not something I shall tolerate among others.”
Had he overstepped?
Apparently not, for instead of looking intimidated—or respectful, which is what he had been hoping for—she just laughed and took another sip.
