The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection by Dorothy McFalls Page A

to sooth his friend’s ire. He then patiently listed the lady’s qualifications. She was young, soft-spoken, fair-haired, born into a respected family, and known throughout England as an accomplished horsewoman.
    “What else could a man want in a wife?” he asked.
    What else, indeed?
    To that question, Wynter simply could not give a coherent answer. And with them at such an impasse, they had parted ways.
    Today, they’d plans to meet for drinks before escorting Radford’s mother to a private concert the Duke of Newbury was hosting. The lovely Lady Lillian had penned the invitation with her own hand, Radford had been told. All was moving forward smoothly with his plans to woo her properly.
    Yet, this disagreement with Wynter left Radford feeling slightly askew. He wondered whether his friend would appear as planned or leave him to face the lovely lady and her mother on his own.
    But sure as the rains, always dependable Wynter arrived on time. When Radford growled his regular greeting, Wynter, quite uncharacteristically, growled back.
    Curse his foul moods. Try as he might, Radford couldn’t seem to settle his own flaring temper that evening. Perhaps it was because it wasn’t just his mood that pained him.
    Radford had hurt more than his pride with his near fall in the Pump Room the day before. His foot throbbed with a devil’s vengeance. He’d retreated to the parlor that evening and propped up his foot on the sofa cushions while waiting for Wynter’s arrival.
    “Once again, I find myself having to ask you to forgive me,” Radford said, grateful for the few friends who’d stayed with him despite his infirmities and sour moods. It wasn’t good form to snap at Wynter without a worthy cause. “It pleases me to see you willing to put up with a worthless blighter like me.”
    “That tone is even more pitiful than your growl,” Wynter said while tugging on his waistcoat—a sure sign he was on the verge of losing his temper. “If you don’t stop feeling sorry for yourself, I will feel compelled to bash your head into the ground.”
    “Bash his head—?” a missish voice preceded a delicately boned, fair-haired, willowy woman into the parlor. She was dressed in a pale peach silk sheath that hid how much weight she had lost in the past year. “I will allow no such violence in my home, young man.”
    Wynter bowed his head. So did Radford. His mother was a beguiling force no man could resist.
    “Lady Evers,” Wynter said. He swept across the room and took up her hand in his, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “May I say your beauty tonight puts the fragrant nosegay you hold to shame?”
    “Flatterer,” she hissed. A smile creased her thin lips as she batted him away with her silken fan. The stresses of the past year had etched deep lines on her slender features. To lose a husband and watch her only son crippled by war within a span of a few months had taken a harsh toll. Radford thought it a wonder she could find it in her to smile at all.
    “Are you certain you are up to the concert tonight, Mother?” Radford asked. He pulled his leg from its soft perch on the sofa and struggled to his feet.
    Lady Evers rushed to his assistance, tugging on his arms and fluttering her hands about him. “What have you done with your cane? The doctors say you should use it. Look at you, ready to fall. My word, you will be the death of me.”
    The fuss she made only pricked at his anger. But he could not turn his temper on her, not after all she had suffered and all the anguish his injuries had caused her so soon after his father’s death. So he once again turned his bitter tongue on his long-suffering friend.
    “Is there not but mush in your nob, Wynter? Can you not even wipe that grin from your dreadful face long enough to put yourself to use?” Radford roared.
    When he chanced a glance of his mother’s eyes after such an outburst he was horrified by what he saw. She never hid her feelings. Sorrow spilled over into