Chapter 9 Wife’s Offending Attitude Toward His Ballocks
Chapter nine
Wife’s Offending Attitude Toward His Ballocks
They had developed a rhythm.
Aubrey had not realised it was happening until the morning of the seventh, when Eleanor entered his bedroom at precisely eight o'clock—as she had for the past five mornings—carrying the basin of warm water, fresh linens folded over her arm.
She did not ask if he was ready. Simply set down the basin, arranged her supplies, and began the routine they had both learned by necessity.
Turn first. The worst part, when his hip screamed in protest and his fingers found her wrist—more gently now, conscious of the bruises he had already left. She braced him without flinching, her small frame surprisingly strong, and eased him onto his side with practiced efficiency.
Check the dressings. Replace any that were soiled. Apply fresh salve to the abrasions that were thankfully beginning to heal.
Then the washing: face, neck, chest, arms. Her hands were no longer trembling as they had those first days. She worked with swift, impersonal competence, as though his body were simply another problem to be solved, another task on her endless list of duties.
Roll him back. More pillows. Check for fever—her hand cool against his forehead, lingering just a moment longer than strictly necessary.
Then the lower half. The part that still made his face burn, though less intensely now than it had at first.
She had reduced his laudanum two days ago. "The worst of the pain has passed," she had said, her voice matter of fact. "Dr Fielding said we should begin tapering the dose to prevent dependence."
Aubrey had wanted to argue. The laudanum blurred the edges of everything, made the hours pass more quickly, kept him from thinking too much, but she had been right. The pain was duller. Constant but bearable.
Which meant he was more alert, more aware.
More conscious of the dark circles under Eleanor's eyes that seemed to deepen each day despite her best efforts to hide them.
Of the way her hands sometimes trembled with exhaustion when she thought he was not watching.
Of the pallor of her skin, the thinness of her frame that suggested she was not eating properly.
She was running herself into the ground caring for him.
Aubrey did not understand it, this dedication. This relentless, exhausting care that she provided without complaint, day after day.
It touched him. Despite Rose, despite their history, despite his own resentment, he found himself moved by Eleanor's quiet competence, her gentle hands, the way she anticipated his needs before he could voice them.
And then he would catch himself and wonder if he was being a fool.
Perhaps she was simply biding her time. Perhaps the care was all a performance, designed to make him trust her before she slipped something into his tea.
Poison, perhaps, or simply an overdose of laudanum that could be explained away as an accident.
The devoted wife, driven to desperation by her husband's cruelty. Who could blame her?
But no. That was madness. Whatever else she might be, she was not mad.
Which left only one other possibility: that she was exactly what she appeared to be. An angel of mercy, tending to the worst husband in England with inexplicable grace.
Aubrey could not fathom it, could not reconcile the image of the manipulative woman Rose had described with the exhausted, determined creature who appeared at his bedside every four hours without fail.
"My lord?" Eleanor's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "I need to change your dressing. If you could just..."
Aubrey lifted the sheet without much thought. They had done this enough times now that modesty seemed pointless.
Eleanor set to work with her usual efficiency, cleaning the healing abrasions on his thigh. She no longer flinched away from the intimate nature of the task but simply treated it as she would any other wound.
Which should have been a relief.
Instead, Aubrey found himself almost... offended.
Here he was, a grown man in the prime of life, and his wife regarded his most private areas with the same clinical indifference one might show a particularly interesting fungus. Not even a flicker of awareness. Just professional detachment.
Though there was a hint of colour in her cheeks. A faint rosiness that betrayed some awareness of what she was doing, even if her hands remained steady.
Eleanor finished with the abrasion on his upper thigh and moved higher, adjusting the cloth covering his groin to access the worst of the bruising.
And then she chuckled.
It was quiet, barely more than a breath, but unmistakable. Eleanor's lips curved into a small smile as she peered at his groin, her hands gentle as she applied fresh salve.
Aubrey's entire body went rigid. "What," he said carefully, "is amusing?"
Eleanor startled slightly, her cheeks flushing darker. "Nothing, my lord. I apologise."
"You were laughing. While examining my..." He could not even finish the sentence. "You realise this is rather threatening to my male pride."
"I was not laughing at—" Eleanor stopped, pressing her lips together. "That is, it was nothing to do with..."
"With what?"
She was definitely blushing now. "With your anatomy, my lord. Which is perfectly... that is, the bruising is healing well and there is nothing whatsoever wrong..." She trailed off, clearly flustered. "I was simply remembering something Steven said at dinner."
The explanation landed like a stone in Aubrey's stomach.
"You were thinking about another man," he said slowly, "while touching my—"
"I was thinking about something funny he said!" Eleanor's voice rose slightly in defence. "It had nothing to do with... with this!"
"Steven Kedleston is not as dull as Robert described, then."
Eleanor's hands stilled. She looked up at him, her grey eyes meeting his directly for the first time in days. "No. He is not dull in the slightest. He is clever and kind and makes me laugh, which is more than I can say for most of the men of my acquaintance."
The words stung more than they should have.
"What did he say?" Aubrey heard himself ask. "That was so amusing?"
Eleanor returned to her work, but he could see the smile tugging at her lips.
"He was telling me about his mother's attempts to matchmake.
Apparently, she has arranged for him to meet Lady Alice Lathorn, whom Steven describes as having 'all the conversational charm of a decorative urn, and considerably less personality. '"
Despite himself, Aubrey felt his own lips twitch. "That is rather harsh."
"But apparently accurate. Steven says she spent the entire dinner discussing her embroidery in excruciating detail.
He now knows more about French knot technique than any bachelor should reasonably be expected to endure.
" Eleanor's smile widened. "He said if his mother arranges one more dinner with an eligible young lady, he will flee to Scotland and become a hermit. "
"He could simply marry," Aubrey pointed out. "That would solve his mother's matchmaking problem."
"He could." Eleanor's voice became softer. "But Steven believes in marrying for love. He will not settle for anything less, even if it means disappointing his parents."
Something in her tone made Aubrey look at her more closely. The wistfulness. The way her smile had transformed her face, making her almost... pretty. There was something in her expression when she spoke of Steven Kedleston that was nearly luminous.
A knot formed in Aubrey's chest.
Eleanor straightened suddenly with her brows furrowing, seemingly returning to her stark reality. "My sister is arriving next week," she said abruptly.
He blinked at the shift in conversation.
"Liz and her family. They will stay for a few days before continuing to her husband's family estate for Christmas."
"I do not recall meeting them at our wedding."
"You would not." There was a hint of bitterness in her voice. "You were not in the right state of mind. I was surprised you had shown up."
The reminder sat between them, uncomfortable and damning.
"I see," Aubrey said finally.
Eleanor finished with his dressing and pulled the sheet back up, her movements precise. "Liz is... she will be curious about you. About our arrangement. I thought I should warn you."
"What have you told her?"
"The truth. That we are married in name only.
That you have lived in London since our wedding day while I remained here.
That circumstances have now forced us into close quarters.
" Eleanor picked up the soiled bandages, not meeting his eyes.
"She knows not to expect... that is, she will not assume this situation is anything more than what it is. A temporary necessity."
"A temporary necessity," Aubrey repeated as something cold gripped his chest.
"Yes." Eleanor moved toward the door, then paused. "She will arrive in three days with her husband and three children. I hope their presence will not disturb your recovery."
"Children do not disturb me."
"Good." Something flickered across Eleanor's face—an expression he could not read.
"Liz's youngest is three. He can be rather.
.. enthusiastic. I do adore him, however.
" Eleanor beamed as she said so, and Aubrey stared at the sparkle in her eyes with astonishment. The transformation was rather striking.
"I shall manage," he said.
Eleanor nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.
Aubrey lay against his pillows, staring at the ceiling, his mind churning.
Steven believes in marrying for love. He will not settle for anything less.
The words echoed in his head, along with the memory of Eleanor's smile. The way her entire face had brightened when she spoke of her friend—the fondness in her voice, the wistfulness.
She had never smiled at Aubrey that way or looked at him with anything but careful neutrality or, more recently, exhausted competence.