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He had been fortunate to serve alongside Ashcombe with Radnor during the colonial campaigns. Ashcombe had only been a young officer then, but Arthur had recognised his character almost immediately. Courage was common enough amongst soldiers. Loyalty was not. It was Ashcombe who had helped drag Radnor from the field. Barely.

When Arthur reached him, the surgeon had already done everything possible. One glance told him the extent of the damage.

A shattered femur. Arthur had seen enough broken limbs to recognise competent surgery immediately. The splints had been secured tightly enough to prevent the fractured bone from shifting during transport, though every rut in the road threatened to undo days of careful work. The dressing around Radnor's upper thigh had been changed only that morning, clean linen replacing cloth saturated with blood, yet rusty stains had already begun creeping steadily through the bandages once more.

Arthur had replaced those dressings himself at least a dozen times during the journey home. Radnor had scarcely been conscious for most of it.

Sometimes his friend muttered incoherently. Sometimes he drifted into fever—more than once Arthur had leaned close simply to reassure himself that he was still breathing.

Though Arthur had saved Radnor's life upon the battlefield, Radnor had saved him countless times before.

When Arthur had first entered military service, determined to prove himself as more than a young duke wearing a uniform, few men had taken him seriously. At nineteen, he had been little more than an eager aristocratic boy desperate to stand beside the common soldiers rather than above them.

Many had mocked him. Others had tolerated him. Radnor was his commanding officer, and he had believed in Arthur, understanding perhaps better than anyone how desperately he needed the army.

He had judged Arthur not by his title but by his conduct, demanding the same standards of him as every other officer while never allowing the weight of his name to shield him from hardship. Together they had spent the better part of eight years campaigning across distant colonies, survived capture, and, when they were not marching or fighting, filled countless letters discussing tactics, politics, and the burdens of command.

It was why Arthur had refused every suggestion that he abandon the journey. The prognosis was grim. Without constant care, infection alone could claim Radnor before they ever reached England. Every mile became a race against death. Arthur drove the horses harder than he had ever dared before and pushed himself beyond exhaustion.

But this time, when he returned home from war, something had changed.

As he crossed the threshold of Winworth two days ago, he recalled another feeling settling over him. Longing. The house itself felt different.

The faint scent of lavender lingered in the corridors, replacing the familiar smell of polished oak and extinguished fires that had always greeted him before. Then he saw his wife. Once Radnor had finally been settled, Laurence assuming most of the responsibility with the quiet competence Arthur knew he possessed, Arthur had gone searching.

Not because duty required it. Because every weary part of him longed for her touch.

He found her in the drawing room.

She wore a simple white nightdress, its square neckline revealing the graceful line of her throat and collarbone that had tempted him more times than he cared to admit. She looked smaller than he remembered, worry having stolen some of the softness from her frame, yet the gentle hum escaping her lips remained the same.

He scarcely remembered crossing the room.

Only that suddenly she was in his arms. He buried his face against the warm olive skin of her neck, breathing her in as though she alone could quiet the ghosts of what he had endured. He kissed her neck softly, just once, drawing comfort from her warmth while it took every remaining ounce of self-control not to surrender entirely to the urge to kiss her again.

He had come home to a woman who wanted him rather than one who would recoil at his touch. For reasons he could not explain, that felt profoundly right. He remembered little after the kiss, beyond her hands gently cupping his face, her quiet insistence that he bathe, eat and sleep, in precisely that order.

He had obeyed.

That evening, Arthur lay awake once more, staring into the darkness above him. Weariness settled heavily in his bones, yet his mind refused him rest.

Instead, it wandered back over to the present day.

“The artillery caught him just above the knee," Laurence said earlier that morning in the study, quietly, approaching him and standing a pace behind as he stared out the window of his study. "The physician believes the bone shattered rather than broke cleanly. Had the shot landed an inch higher..." He stopped himself.

"Well, we're fortunate not to be discussing an amputation. At least for now. Right now, they’re focusing on dulling his fever"

Arthur nodded once. He visited Radnor that afternoon, though he knew it was unlikely his friend would be conscious yet. Fever had robbed him of what little strength remained, and each hour seemed to blur into the next. Dr Abraham had sent for a second physician to ensure he had 24-hour monitoring and care.

Circling the heavy oak desk, Arthur reached for his favourite crystal glass and poured himself a measure of whisky from the decanter. The amber liquid glinted in the morning light as he took a slow drink, letting the familiar burn settle the lingering weariness.

"Any news of Lady Radnor’s arrival?" he asked Laurence.

But Laurence’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. They were both aware of the rumours that she attended rather more than a few balls whilst Lord Radnor was away in recent years. Frequently with the company of others.

Disdain etched into his friend's features. Only the faintest trace of it, but enough that Arthur noticed immediately. Laurence rarely spoke ill of anyone. In all the years Arthur had known him, he had heard the man criticise poor judgement, dishonest conduct, and incompetence, but he never indulged in idle gossip, no matter how much he jested.

Laurence let out a quiet breath.