Her mouth dropped open. “‘Well enough’ is not satisfactory for my brother.”
Sam sighed heavily, hitching slightly at his rib pain. “Amelia, I want a bath, and I will have one. Someone fetch Blakewood to manage his wife.”
She glared at him. “He isn’t here.”
“Where the devil is he?”
“Meeting with your new man of business. Mr. Crest was let go for aiding our enemies.”
Sam ground is teeth. “Let me have a damn bath.” He winced. He didn’t need her damn permission. “Amelia, leave me, please. I don’t want to argue. I just want to feel clean.”
Her eyes watered. She turned toward Dr. Sloan. “Could a bath hurt him?”
Sam narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m sitting right here and can decide that for myself. Do you think I’m incapable of making simple decisions now?”
Dr. Sloan looked between them, then addressed Amelia. “I don’t see how, other than him being weak, but I told him—”
“There, you’re too weak to leave the bed,” Amelia said. “You could drown in the bath.”
Sam fisted his hands in the sheet. He could feel his face turning hot. “I won’t drown in two feet of water, you over-bearing frog wart.”
She glared at him. “I won’t give you the opportunity, you knob-headed boil.”
“Leave, Amelia. Or so help me, I’ll stand from the bed, naked as the day we were born, and you’ll want to pluck out your own eyes.”
She folded her arms and smiled in challenge. “Try. I’m quite familiar with male nudity now.”
Sam growled. He actually growled, and if Blakewood were within strangling distance, Sam would have his hand around histhroat. Married or not, he did not want that knowledge floating about his brain. He flipped back the sheet, and just as he suspected, she yelped and turned away.
“You’re impossible!” she cried.
“A trait we share. Get out,” Sam said as she left his room and shut the door.
Sam replaced his sheet and while a parade of footmen entered and retreated, depositing bucket after bucket of hot water until the tub was full. Petrov had also moved the tub closer to the bed instead of placing it before the hearth. Sam’s bath wouldn’t be as warm, but he’d have less distance to travel and at least he’d feel cleaner. Wafts of steam and the scent of peppermint rose from the water.
Sam tried to shift his legs toward the edge of his bed, but they felt weighted with lead. Blast this weakness. He was as thin as a starved chimney sweep. His heart pounded from the effort, like he’d sprinted up the stairs. Every breath stretched his scar, each painful stab reminding him of his vulnerability.
“Petrov, help me. I’m as weak as a babe.”
Dr. Sloan didn’t bother to help as Petrov assisted Sam. Sam’s knees wobbled and his head went light. Sparks of light filled his vision as the room tilted. Sam gritted his teeth, his breathing labored, and his blasted rib screamed as he hobbled the few steps to the tub. By the time he lifted his leg and sank down into the soothing water, he was depleted of all strength. Devil take it, Amelia was right. He was pitifully helpless and might have drowned in this bath if the tub were bigger and deeper.
Normally he washed himself, too proud to let Petrov coddle him like a baby, but right now the pain in his side would not let him lift his left arm. Petrov didn’t have to ask. He lathered up Sam’s hair and face, while Sam closed his eyes.
Chapter Three
Miss Daisy Blakewoodsat under the morning sun, enjoying the warmth on her freckled cheeks in a rare moment of solitude. She sat on a stone bench tucked inside a small gazebo where she could open the letter from her brother in private. She smiled at his steady, neat penmanship and read, her smile slowly fading.
He was married. By special license? There had been a scandal? Lord Alston had nearly died? Daisy’s hand dropped to her lap as she stared at the dew-covered roses on the bushes around the gazebo in shock. Her parents must be shocked if they had received the same letter. What should she do? Go home?
Daisy stood, looking around as if her chaperone, Mrs. Miranda, might suddenly appear with an answer. Daisy hurriedly slipped on her gloves and bonnet and headed back toward the breakfast parlor where the other guests of the house party remained, sipping tea and opening their correspondence.
When she entered the room, it went silent. Miss Chloe Miranda, her traveling companion as well as her chaperone’s daughter, would not meet her gaze. Mrs. Miranda approached with pinched lips and wide eyes.
“Come with me,” she hissed.
Daisy followed her from the room, feeling like she was about to be chastised. Her feet were heavy as they climbed the stairs to her small room, and Mrs. Miranda closed the door and turned to face her.
“I dare say you’ve heard from your brother?”
