In Love With a Wicked Man by Liz Carlyle Page B

notions. He wondered if he’d always been such a sapskull or if the blow to his head had disordered him. He had the deep-seated certainty that he was not behaving like himself, at least not the self he had been. And what other sort of self was there?
    Irritated, Edward threw back the covers and, despite the discomfort of his bruises, did precisely what he was not supposed to do. He got out of bed. After the room stopped spinning—well, slowed—he went a little unsteadily to the tall mahogany wardrobe, already knowing what he would see. He threw the latch and pulled both doors wide.
    His riding coat, two waistcoats, and three freshly pressed shirts hung within. Folded neatly on the shelf below lay two pairs of breeches; one of them the pair he’d worn yesterday, now freshly brushed, along with a folded stack of cravats and drawers. Even his boots had been freshly polished.
    Yes, somehow he recalled what he’d worn yesterday. Why could he not recall where he’d been when he put it on? Or where he’d purchased it?
    In any case, it was time to get up and about. The deep bruising and pain would abate all the sooner, he reassured himself. And there must surely be water? He staggered his way into the antechamber that served as a sort of dressing and bathing room, clutching at pieces of furniture as he went. There he attended to nature’s call, then poured out an entire pitcher of water into the basin atop the washstand.
    It was his last clear thought.
    He didn’t hear the crash of the basin as it fell, nor the sound of his door bursting open a moment after that. And his next memory—by no means a clear one—was of hands, many of them, cool and competent, bearing him back into the soft, fresh bed.
    When he woke again, daylight blazed through the crack in his draperies. Woozily, he sat up to find a small cot had been placed beside his bed, and that a liveried servant—a young man of perhaps twenty—now sat just inside his door, his chin buried in his neck cloth as he drowsed.
    Well. His goddess had set spies upon him, it seemed.
    And wisely so, perhaps. A little irritated, he yanked the wire wrapped around his bedpost. To his surprise, Miss Wentworth came in, her wild, red-gold curls somewhat contained beneath a cap, and a feather duster in hand.
    “Jasper?” she said, looking around the door at the servant.
    “Let the poor boy rest,” Edward rasped.
    She turned to him brightly. “Good morning,” she said. “Are you feeling a bit steadier now?”
    “Thank you, yes.”
    Edward did not much care for being viewed in a nightshirt by so pretty a young lady. Which was not to say that many a female had not often seen him in far less, he sensed. But in this case, he felt awkward—and at a distinct disadvantage.
    That was what irritated him. He was not a man often caught at any sort of disadvantage. Of that he was quite certain.
    The footman had leapt from his chair to neaten his waistcoat in an attempt to pretend he had not been asleep.
    “Thank you, Jasper,” said Miss Wentworth. “Kindly go downstairs and ask Cook to send up a light breakfast for Mr. Edward.”
    He was hungry, dash it. But food, interestingly, was not foremost on his mind. “Where is Lady d’Allenay?” he asked.
    “She rode out early with Anstruther, her steward,” said Miss Wentworth. “She often does. But as you see, she altered your arrangements a bit before going.”
    Miss Wentworth had gestured toward the cot. “Blast,” he uttered under his breath. “Was she here when I fainted?” he said more audibly. “I did faint, did I not?”
    “Oh, you did, and she was,” said Miss Wentworth, eyes wide. “She ran across the passageway in her nightgown and helped Jasper and Fendershot lift you back into bed.”
    Edward felt a rush of mortification. “ Lifted me?”
    “She had only your feet, I believe, but Kate is surprisingly strong,” Miss Wentworth went on. “Jasper and the butler had a shoulder each. I came in just in time to mop up