Whit didn’t bother to turn at the sound of Alex’s voice. His oldest friend didn’t need an invitation to come in and make himself comfortable in his favorite seat by the fire, would have laughed at the formality, in fact. Whit concentrated on pouring a full glass instead.
“The length of some days can be measured by how much time one feels has passed, rather than what the clock reads. And by my calculations, it is now”—Whit blew out a long breath—“tomorrow.”
He picked up the drink, but before he could take a sip, an image of his father, smelling of spirits before noon, sprang to mind. He put the glass back down. “Hell.”
“Why don’t you ring for something else?” Alex asked, taking a seat.
“Because I don’t want anything else.” He shot his friend an annoyed glance. “Aren’t you interested in Mirabelle’s condition?”
“I am, which is why I spoke to one of the maids. A sprained ankle, isn’t it?” Alex sent him a patronizing smile. “Overreacting a bit, don’t you think?”
Whit raised a brow at the mocking tone. “And how is Sophie this morning?”
A corner of Alex’s mouth’s twitched. “Touché. But Sophie is my wife. Mirabelle’s been little more to you than a nuisance.”
“And it follows I should enjoy the sight of her in pain?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Alex assured him easily. “But I’d have expected you to see a touch of humor in the situation.”
“You find her injury amusing?” Whit asked coolly.
“No, but I find the image of you carrying the imp up the side of a hill and halfway back to the house immensely entertaining. I can’t imagine a more reluctant knight in shining armor.”
Whit remembered just how unreluctant he’d been, and to his everlasting horror, he felt the heat of embarrassment spread in his chest and crawl up his neck.
Alex leaned forward in his chair. “Holy hell, are you…blushing, Whit?”
“I bloody well am not.” Please, God, make it true.
“You bloody well are,” Alex countered and threw his head back to roar with laughter. “I haven’t seen you redden like that since we were children.”
“I am not blushing,” Whit ground out. Men, by God, did not blush.
“I beg your pardon,” Alex offered with an exaggerated—and unconvincing as he was still chuckling—courtesy. “I haven’t seen you flushed, then, since childhood. Or would you prefer, ‘I haven’t seen your color up since—’?”
“I haven’t planted you a facer since childhood either. Would you care for a reminder of what that was like?”
Alex held a hand up in peace. “Tempting as it may be, your mother would have both our heads if we indulged in fisticuffs.”
“She’d have mine. There wouldn’t be enough left of yours to be of use to her.”
Competitive as only a brother could be, Alex sneered gamely. “A round at Jack’s, next time we’re in London,” he challenged. “A hundred pounds.”
“One-fifty.”
“Done.”
They shook on it, both of them grinning, as pleased with themselves as they were sure of their victory.
Feeling considerably better, Whit took a seat across from Alex and watched in some amusement as his friend made a guilty glance at the door. “I’d appreciate it if you’d not mention this little wager to Sophie.”
“Any particular reason?”
“You know how women can be about these sorts of things,” Alex replied, turning back. “And she has enough to occupy her mind at present. Which reminds me—she’s asked that Kate, Evie, and Mirabelle be present at the…er…event.”
“Present?” he asked, taken aback. “In the room, do you mean?”
“I don’t,” Alex assured him, “but it’s entirely possible that she does. She acquired some very strange ideas on her travels. Will you bring the girls?”
“Me? I—” He was going to offer to have his mother bring them, but stopped himself just in time. A man didn’t abandon a friend in need, and Alex, for all his jesting, was clearly anxious. And rightly so—birthing was a dangerous, and terrifyingly female, event. He had some clear memories of his sister’s birth—memories he contrived very hard not to dwell on.
“We’ll all be there. How long until…” He waved his hand about.
“A little under three months.”
“So soon?” It seemed as if it ought to be further away. Years and years away. “Only three months and then…”
“Yes, and then,” Alex responded grimly.
“I see.” Whit tapped a nervous finger on the chair.
Without being aware of it, Alex mimicked the movement. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Hmm.”
Alex shot a considering glance at the brandy.
“It’s not that early, really.”
“It certainly isn’t,” Whit agreed, and made a hasty trip to the sideboard.
Nine