In the light of morning, he could always think more clearly. Today was a new day, and with the ghost of that nightmare still haunting his mind, he was determined to enact his plan of getting stronger in secret. He’d anticipated seeing Miss Blakewood yesterday. Her letter had charmed him, and he was eager to hear more of her travels. He hadn’t written to her again to let her rest and recuperate, but Sam was growing worried despite Miss Smith’s assurances that she was only mildly ill.
Miss Smith cleared his breakfast tray while Petrov finished stirring his shaving soap. He tucked a towel around Sam’s neck and lathered up his face. Sam tipped his head back and stared up at this canopy.
Bloody hell, he wished he had something better to look at. Maybe he should commission an artist to paint something on the cloth. Or Petrov could have one of the footmen rig a tapestry above him. Something naughty to entertain him while he was shackled here by his weak legs. Naked nymphs frolicking in a meadow?
Heavy footsteps entered the room. Measured, flat, sturdy practical boots. Sam didn’t have to look to know Blakewood was there.
“How is Miss Blakewood feeling this morning?” Sam asked.
A chair slid over the rug, and Blakewood sat. “Much better. Amelia is taking her for a walk in the park. How areyoufeeling this morning?”
Sam held still as Petrov started on the other side of his face, then paused so Sam could respond. It was a complicated question that Sam couldn’t answer. Scared, angry, helpless. What was he supposed to say that wouldn’t cause them to worry?
“Fine.”
“Fine? Is that all?” Blakewood asked with wariness.
“How am I supposed to feel? Put yourself in my boots. Boots that I can’t wear because my legs are weaker than bread loaves. I’m not allowed to move. I’m not allowed to drink whisky. I’m not allowed to leave this room. I’m not even allowed to perform my duties. Do you see the problem?” Sam ground his teeth, closing his eyes as his anger seethed in swells of fire in his belly. “Who’s been overseeing the ledgers, answering my correspondence, and monitoring my investments?”
“Amelia and I have—”
Sam groaned. “I am capable of managing those for myself. They don’t require legs.”
Blakewood remained silent for a moment. “You need rest. That includes not engaging in mental strain as well as physical.”
Sam didn’t respond while Petrov finished his shave. As soon as the blade lifted, Sam wiped his face. He gritted his teeth as he sat up, hugging his arm to his battered rib.
“I’m restless, Blakewood. I woke from the clutches of death incapable of even feeding myself. I’m being forced to marry a strange woman. My sister’s reputation is shattered, and I can’t even help her. I can’t move, breathe, or piss without someone’s assistance. Do you know what that does to a man’s pride? I am unable to even rest properly when it feels like I’ve lost control of everything.”
Blakewood held his stare.
“I happen to concur with his lordship,” Dr. Sloan said as he entered. “He is unduly restless because of his state of ennui.”
Without taking his gaze from Blakewood, Sam jabbed a finger in Sloan’s direction for emphasis.
Blakewood dropped his gaze. “I’ll talk to Amelia.”
Sam folded his arms. “You claim to want to help me, but you’re not listening to what I need. Why would Amelia understand my needs better than I?”
“What is it you need?” Blakewood asked.
His throat tightened as his nightmare came back to him. He was lying on the bed, dying, frozen with fear. He was helpless to fight, to yell. He’d never felt like this. Not even as a boy when illness took his father and an earldom was thrust upon his shoulders.
Sam cleared his throat. “I need to feel like I’m not powerless.”
Blakewood searched his face. “How can I do that for you?”
He couldn’t ask for what he truly wanted, which was to break the contract, not when it put Amelia at risk. Nor could he ask Blakewood to help him get stronger behind Amelia’s back. He wouldn’t put his friend in that position.
“Collect my ledgers and correspondence. It’s time I resumed my duties. I’ve been running the Alston estate since I came of age. I can do it from my bed chamber just as easily as from my study.”
“Alston . . .”
Sam held Blakewood’s stair, grinding his teeth in frustration. “You asked me what I needed. I need this. I need to feel like a man. Like myself. Look at me, Blakewood—I’m pathetic. You might not want to admit you agree, but deep down you do, and that is why you and Amelia are coddling me like I’m still hovering on the edge of death.”
Blakewood ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. “You’re right. I’m sorry. We just want you to get better.”
“I know. So do I.”
