She laughed. “No broth.”
“Beef. With all the trimmings. And a glass of claret.”
She rose. “That might prove unwise.”
“I’ll settle for nothing less.”
“Very well.” She walked to the door. “I’ll come back later with Polly. You can bathe, and we’ll change the bed linens.”
“Polly isn’t to lay a hand on me, Olivia,” he barked.
She left the room giggling.
Once he was on his feet and could ride again, he would examine the area in the woods where he’d been shot. The gunman would turn up again, but this time, Dominic would be armed and ready for him. Couldn’t have the man wandering loose on the estate. It placed everyone in danger.
He groaned with helpless frustration. Who would want to harm him? A question he kept asking himself while finding no answer. The one person who would benefit from his death was George. Even if Dominic could contemplate such a distressing occurrence, George was in London.
And the intruder? Were they the same man? His head throbbed. This wouldn’t resolve itself while he was stuck here. He would get up tomorrow, come hell or high water. Or any objections from Olivia. Olivia. A far more pleasant subject, although an even more frustrating one.
At the end of the fifth long and tedious day, brightened only by Olivia’s welcome attentions, Dominic, frustrated beyond endurance, was determined this would be his last spent in bed.
When he awoke the next morning, he felt more himself. He picked up his pocket watch on the bedside table. Nine o’clock. He left the bed, and ignoring a slight weakness, rang for Cushing while testing his shoulder. It hurt, but satisfied it was manageable, he pulled the bell for hot water. Going to the window, he drew back the curtains. Rain threatened, dark clouds hovering low.
His valet hurried in minutes later. “Oh, your lordship, it is splendid to see you out of bed. We have all been dreadfully concerned.”
“Thank you, Cushing. I’m afraid I don’t deserve it. My riding clothes if you will.”
Cushing’s eyes widened. “But the weather, milord. It’s about to teem with rain.”
Dominic raised his eyebrows. “Not an unusual occurrence, is it? Hurry please, I will breakfast downstairs.”
Cushing, who never tarried when given an order, disappeared into the dressing room.
“I’ll dress myself, but you can help with my boots,” Dominic said when the valet returned.
“But your sling, milord?”
Dominic slipped it off. “Unnecessary.”
“Shall I choose your waistcoat?”
“No waistcoat, Cushing.”
His boots on, he dismissed Cushing, disliking how he fussed around him as if he were on his last legs. His shoulder nagged at him as he pulled on his riding coat, leaving it unbuttoned over his shirt. He checked to ensure he hadn’t caused the wound to bleed, then ignored it. He conceded he needed a neckcloth and was battling with it when someone knocked on the door.
“Enter.”
Olivia raised her eyebrows. “You’re up, my lord? They did not inform me the doctor had come.”
He smiled. “You know full well he hasn’t. Tie this for me? I’ve sent Cushing to have his breakfast.”
“Where is your sling?”
“Unnecessary.”
She frowned. “Shouldn’t you wait for Doctor Manners before venturing out?”
“If he arrives before I leave for my ride, direct him to me in the breakfast room.”
