The Woes of Wooing a Wife in 12 Days

Chapter 1 Surprise Guest

Chapter one

Surprise Guest

Willowbrook Manor, Hertfordshire

The wreath was lopsided.

Eleanor Egerton, Lady Madeley, if one were being formal, which no one in this godforsaken corner of Hertfordshire ever was, stood in the drawing room, hands on her hips, glaring at the offending decoration above the mantelpiece.

"A bit more to the left, Tom," she called to the footman teetering on the ladder.

Tom—nineteen, earnest, and approximately as coordinated as a newborn colt—shifted his weight. The ladder wobbled alarmingly. Mrs Williams, the housekeeper, made a strangled noise from her position near the doorway.

"Careful, you great lummox," Mary, the parlour maid, hissed from where she was draping gold ribbon over the window frames. "Break your neck and her ladyship will have to explain to your mother."

Her last Christmas at Willowbrook Manor deserved to be perfect, even if the wreath refused to cooperate.

Last Christmas. The thought should have brought relief. In three weeks, she would leave this house and its memories behind. On Boxing Day, she would travel to St. Catherine's Orphanage and never return.

Miss Penny had written last month, her usually steady handwriting shaking across the page:

The doctors say I have perhaps until spring. I must return to my family in Yorkshire for my final months. Dearest Eleanor, I hate to ask, but the children…

Eleanor had stopped reading there, tears blurring the words.

Miss Penny, who had been her mother's dearest friend.

Who had taught Eleanor to read and later, when Eleanor was twelve and managing a crumbling estate, had taught her to keep accounts.

Who had never married, had dedicated her life to orphans, and now was dying with no one to continue her work.

Eleanor had written back immediately: I will come. I will take care of everything. Do not worry about the children. And Miss Penny's response, a single line that had made Eleanor weep: Thank God. I can rest now.

"My lady," Mrs Williams interrupted, her voice carrying that particular note of gentle reproof that housekeepers reserved for mistresses who were perhaps being unreasonable, "might I have a word?"

Eleanor turned from her contemplation of the wreath, which Tom had now moved so far to the left it appeared to be attempting escape. "Yes, Mrs Williams?"

"The greengrocer has sent word requesting confirmation of the Christmas order. Holly, ivy, and mistletoe for the entrance hall, drawing room, and dining room. He suggests delivery on the twenty-second of December to ensure the greenery remains fresh through Twelfth Night."

"Yes, yes, confirm it." Eleanor waved her hand dismissively, her attention already returning to the decorations. "And tell him we shall require extra. I want the house to look..." She paused, searching for the word. "Festive. Warm. Welcoming."

Mrs Williams's expression softened almost imperceptibly. They both knew what Eleanor meant. The house had been silent as a tomb these past two years, its mistress living in elegant isolation while her husband resided in London and pretended she did not exist.

"Of course, my lady. The house will be beautiful for Christmas."

"And for my sister's arrival," Eleanor added, smoothing her grey wool dress with hands that were not quite steady. "Prepare the rose room and nursery."

“Yes, milady,” the housekeeper said softly, averting her gaze from her mistress. The nursery was supposed to be for Eleanor’s own child with her husband. She had it prepared back when she still held hope that he may come to his senses and return to her.

Eleanor straightened her back, forcing herself to snap out of it and focus on the present. Thinking about the house filling with her sister’s family brought that familiar flutter of anticipation mixed with something close to desperation.

One last Christmas with family before I leave for good, Eleanor thought. One last chance to see the children—Liz's children.

"They can only spare three days, perhaps four, before continuing to Derbyshire. Lord Midleton's family estate is a considerable distance, and they must arrive well before Christmas." She turned to survey the drawing room with critical eyes. "

"Tom, that will do," Eleanor called, though the wreath remained stubbornly asymmetrical.

"Mary, fetch the rest of the ribbon from the storeroom.

I want bows on every candelabra. Mrs Williams, have Cook prepare her spiced wine recipe—the one with the oranges.

And the dining room wants more candles. Many more candles. "

Mrs Williams made notes in her household book, her expression carefully neutral. "Shall I have the maids polish the silver again, my lady? It was done only last week."

"Yes. Polish everything." Eleanor heard the edge of mania in her own voice and tried to moderate it. "I simply want... that is..."

She was aware she was revealing too much. That she was decorating a house weeks too early because the silence had become unbearable. That she was trying desperately to create warmth and life in a house that had felt like a beautiful mausoleum since her wedding day.

"The house will be lovely, my lady," Mrs Williams said quietly. "Your sister and her family will be most comfortable."

"Thank you, Mrs Williams." Eleanor turned back to the window, blinking against the sudden burning in her eyes. "That will be—"

The sound of carriage wheels on gravel cut through her words.

The room went silent.

Eleanor turned slowly toward the window, that peculiar sixth sense that all wronged wives possessed prickling at the base of her skull. Mrs Williams had gone pale. Tom nearly tumbled from the ladder in his haste to see.

"Is that...?" Mary whispered, abandoning her ribbon.

"The Egerton coach," Mrs Williams confirmed, her voice faint. "Oh dear. Oh, my lady, I don't think—"

But Eleanor was already moving to the window, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs.

The massive, gleaming monstrosity of a coach—black lacquer, gold crest, large enough to transport a small army—dominated her drive. The matched greys stamped and snorted, vapor puffing from their nostrils in the cold December air.

The door opened.

Richard Egerton, Earl of Egerton, descended first. His face suggested he'd been sucking lemons. Possibly for several hours.

Then Lady Egerton, the Countess, resplendent in midnight blue silk and enough disapproval to sink a frigate.

And then…

"Oh my," breathed Mary.

They were extracting someone from the carriage. A man. Tall, dark haired, bent at an unnatural angle between two Egerton footmen like a particularly reluctant piece of furniture.

Eleanor's stomach dropped to her sensible boots.

Her husband.

Aubrey Egerton, Viscount Madeley. Who had not spoken to her since their nuptials two years ago.

Who had looked straight through her at the Michaelmas assembly one year past as though she were a boring patch of wallpaper.

Who was, even crumpled with obvious agony, still unfairly, devastatingly handsome.

She'd made her peace with being the plain wife of a beautiful husband. What she had not made peace with was being the invisible plain wife of a beautiful husband.

"My lady?" Mrs Williams's voice was small. "Should I... should we...?"

"Prepare refreshments, Mrs Williams." Eleanor's voice came out admirably steady. "It appears we're receiving callers."

Tom scrambled down from the ladder. Mary dropped the garland. The household staff arranged themselves in a nervous cluster near the stairs, trying to look professional while clearly desperate to witness whatever fresh disaster was about to unfold.

Mr Davies, the butler, opened the door without ceremony. Lord Egerton strode in, his wife behind him, followed by two footmen half-carrying, half-dragging Aubrey between them.

“Davies! The drawing room!” the earl hollered. The group swept past her into the parlour. Eleanor stood frozen in the hallway for a moment before following.

"Put him there," the earl ordered.

The footmen deposited Aubrey onto the cushions with more efficiency than gentleness. He bit back a sound, his face going grey, his hands clutching at the upholstery.

Eleanor stood frozen by the door, watching as her husband was arranged on her—no, his—furniture.

"Out," Lord Egerton barked at the footmen. Then, louder: "Davies! All servants to the kitchen. Now. Close the door behind you."

The rustle of confused servants retreating. The click of the door closing.

Silence.

Aubrey's eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing shallow and laboured. Eleanor could see the tension in every line of his body, the way his jaw was clenched so tightly the muscle jumped.

"Eleanor," Lady Egerton said, her voice cold and clipped.

"Lady Egerton." Eleanor kept her voice neutral, though her heart was racing. "To what do I owe this... visit?"

"Your husband has been injured."

Eleanor's gaze flicked to Aubrey, then back to her mother-in-law. "I can see that."

"Thrown from his horse three days ago. The doctor has attended him. Nothing broken, the injuries are... significant. Severe." The countess’ lips thinned.

Eleanor's eyes flicked to Aubrey, trying to gauge how "severe" from his grey face and the way he couldn't seem to find a comfortable position against the cushions.

"He requires constant nursing care," Lord Egerton added, his moustache bristling. "Round the clock attention. Intimate care that a servant cannot provide."

The way he said intimate made Eleanor's stomach clench. What exactly had happened in that fall?

"He's been staying with us," Lady Egerton continued, "but we're leaving for France in a fortnight to visit your sister-in-law. And there's no one suitable to provide the level of care he needs." She paused meaningfully. "He has a wife. A home. This is where he belongs."

"Father," Aubrey's voice was rough, pained, "you can't leave me here."

Despite the suffering, her husband managed to find the strength to object to her presence. As if her existence was worse than his pain. Eleanor's hands clenched in her skirts.

"I'll hire a nurse," her husband began.

"No woman will provide the level of care you need, and you've made it abundantly clear you won't accept a male attendant." The earl's voice was implacable. "You have a wife. She will care for you."

Aubrey's eyes opened, wild with something that looked almost like panic. "Mother, please—"

"This is not a discussion." Lady Egerton's tone cut through his protests.

"You've spent these years sulking like a child, living in London, pretending your marriage doesn't exist. Well, it does exist. She exists.

And now you're going to stay here and sort out whatever mess you've made of your life. "

"You can't leave me here." There was real desperation in Aubrey's voice now. "She’s the reason I’m miserable. I can’t possibly live here with her.”

Ice settled in her veins as Eleanor stared down at her hands. She’d known her husband despised her, that he’d loved another woman before he was forced into this marriage. But she’d never been so directly rejected by him.

Her vision blurred slightly. Two years of pitying looks and whispered gossip. Two years of wondering what she did wrong, what made her so unlovable that her own husband fled rather than spend a single day with her.

And she'd finally made peace with it. Finally accepted that she would spend her life aiming to be useful at St. Catherine's. And now he dares—DARES—to act as though being left in her care is a fate worse than death.

Eleanor's nails bit into her palms through the fabric of her skirts.

“I cannot possibly recover here. She'll make me pay for it. Every day. Every moment I'm helpless." Aubrey tried to push himself up, winced, fell back.

He was certainly making it tempting, she thought darkly.

"This is what you deserve," Lady Egerton said flatly. "You've treated her abominably. You've made a mockery of your marriage and embarrassed both families. If she chooses to make you suffer while she nurses you back to health, that is between the two of you. We wash our hands of it."

"I'll be murdered in my sleep—"

"Don't be dramatic." The countess spun around with a swoosh of her gown and moved toward the door.

Aubrey's head turned toward her. For the first time since entering, he really looked at her. His eyes were dark, feverish, and filled with something between resentment and fear.

"You don't want me here," he said flatly.

"No," Eleanor agreed. "I don't."

"Then tell them."

"I will do no such thing."

His jaw tightened. He looked away.

"You are home." Lord Egerton followed his wife to the door. "She is your wife. You'll stay here until you've sorted yourself out. Or until she throws you out."

They were leaving. Actually leaving. Panic threatened to take over as the realisation hit her.

She was going to be alone with her husband.

There was a time she’d prayed for this, cried over this, despaired because of his absence.

And recently, whenever she daydreamed about it, she thought she’d be numb, indifferent.

Not so. Her heart was thumping against her ribs, and she could hardly breathe.

"You made your bed, Aubrey," Lady Egerton said, pausing at the threshold. "Now lie in it. Literally, in this case."

The door opened.

"Dr Fielding will call tomorrow," Lord Egerton said, as the door closed behind them. "Good luck, my boy. You're going to need it!"

Footsteps. The front door opening. The sound of the carriage pulling away.

Silence.

Eleanor turned slowly to look at her husband.

He was staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his face the colour of ash. His hands were fisted in the cushions, knuckles white.

"So," Eleanor said quietly. “You are now completely at my mercy.”

She walked to the door and yanked it open, startling the servants who’d been standing nearby.

"Mrs Williams, summon the maids to prepare the blue bedroom immediately. My husband,” she emphasised the word and looked over the shoulder at him. His arm was draped across his eyes now, his breathing laboured, “will be staying with us."

Behind her, she heard Aubrey moan faintly. He'd need laudanum. She'd fetch it from the apothecary herself—any excuse to escape the house and catch her breath. She hurried toward the grand hallway.

She didn't look back.