Chapter 12 Family Arrival #2
"Even now?" Liz paused. "Even after living with him? After caring for him?"
"Especially after that." Eleanor's voice was firm. "Because I have seen what it is like, Liz. To have him here. To tend to him, to talk to him, to begin to know him, and it only makes it worse."
"Worse how?"
Eleanor closed her eyes. "Because I can see glimpses of what we might have been if he had tried, if Rose had not lied. And those glimpses make the reality unbearable."
"Oh, Ellie." Liz's voice was soft now, sad.
"I cannot stay here and watch him return to London and go back to pretending I do not exist. I cannot spend the rest of my life in this house, alone, wondering if perhaps he might return.
" Eleanor opened her eyes, meeting her sister's gaze in the mirror.
"I need to have purpose. I need children who need me even if they’re not my own.
I will have a life of meaning, Liz. Not the life I dreamed of but a life nonetheless. "
Liz was quiet for a long moment, her fingers working Eleanor's hair into an elegant twist. "And what if he does not want you to leave?"
"Then I’ll leave knowing he wanted me," Eleanor said. "Regardless of the circumstances, I am not ready to forgive him."
"You sound very certain."
"I am." Eleanor watched as Liz pinned the last curl into place. "He may not love me, but I will not be disrespected and discarded."
Because Eleanor had learned, over two long years, that she didn’t need him after all.
"There," Liz said, stepping back to survey her work. "You look beautiful. Or at least, less like a woman on the verge of collapse."
Eleanor studied her reflection. Liz had worked magic with her hair, softening the severe lines, bringing warmth to her pale face. The burgundy silk dress was simple but elegant, flattering despite her small frame.
She looked like a lady. A viscountess.
Not like someone planning to abandon her title and her marriage to work in an orphanage.
"Thank you," Eleanor said softly.
Liz bent down, wrapping her arms around Eleanor from behind, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "I love you, you stubborn, self-sacrificing fool. And I think you are making a terrible mistake. But I will support you regardless."
"When did you become so generous?" she teased.
Liz kissed the top of Eleanor's head. "When I learned from raising children that you have to make your own mistakes. Even the enormous ones that involve abandoning a husband who does not deserve you."
Eleanor managed a small smile. "He does not deserve me."
Liz straightened, her expression turning fierce again. "But that does not mean you can’t be happy with him. Men are fools, Ellie. Every single one of them. We can only pray that we attach ourselves to the least foolish one."
Eleanor laughed because as far as the level of stupidity went, she thought her husband might place firmly in the advanced level.
It felt nice to laugh and have distraction from her sorrow.
Once she composed herself, Eleanor stood, smoothed her skirts, and prepared to go down to dinner with her sister's family.
To pretend, for a few hours at least, that her life was not falling apart.
That her heart was not breaking.
That leaving on Boxing Day was the right choice, even though every day made her less certain that it was.
Eleanor paused outside Aubrey's door, smoothing her dress one final time. The dinner hour was approaching, and she needed to complete his evening care before joining Liz's family downstairs.
She knocked softly and entered.
Aubrey looked up from his book—and froze.
His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open slightly, the book nearly slipping from his hands.
Eleanor felt heat creep up her neck but kept her expression carefully neutral. "Good evening, my lord. Time for your evening care."
"You..." Aubrey seemed to struggle for words. "Your hair is different."
"My sister helped me." Eleanor moved to the washstand, focusing intently on preparing the water and cloths. "The children arrived safely. They are settled in the nursery."
"I see." His voice sounded strange. Strained.
Eleanor approached the bed with her basin and supplies, still not quite meeting his eyes.
The revelations about Rose sat between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
She did not know how to feel about him now—anger at his courtship of her lady's maid warring with sympathy for how thoroughly he had been deceived.
So, she focused on the routine. The familiar motions of care that required no words, no complicated emotions.
She helped him sit forward, washing his face, neck, and chest with her usual efficiency. But something felt different tonight. The air seemed thicker somehow. His breathing was shallow, uneven.
"Are you alright?" Eleanor paused, her hand on his shoulder. "Are you in pain?"
"I am fine." The words came out rough. "The pain is much less, actually. I was thinking... perhaps I could try turning myself tonight. Save you the trouble."
Eleanor's eyebrows rose. "This morning you grunted in pain even with my help. I do not think attempting it alone before bed is wise. Better not to aggravate the injury."
"Yes. Of course. You are right." Aubrey seemed to be staring fixedly at the ceiling now, his jaw tight.
“However, perhaps—" She hesitated, not meeting his gaze. "Perhaps it would be best if Morrison attended to you starting midnight. You are mending well, and it seems appropriate."
Aubrey’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak then closed it again.
Finally, he opened it again. "Of course, I think that would be perfectly suitable, but I can’t help wonder…
Is this punishment? If it is, I certainly deserve it, but…
" His voice broke, rough with regret. "I wish there was something I could do to make amends. "
Eleanor busied herself with the washstand, her hands trembling just enough to betray her emotion. "This isn’t about punishment. It’s about giving us both time to think. I hope you understand."
For a long moment, Aubrey didn’t speak. Finally, he nodded. "I do. But I hope you’ll let me try to earn your forgiveness."
Eleanor turned away, her composure barely holding.
The silence that followed felt charged with something Eleanor could not quite name. She was acutely aware of Aubrey's gaze following her movements. Of the way his breathing quickened when she leaned close. Of the tension in his body that seemed new.
"There," she said finally, setting aside the basin. "Now I just need to check your dressing."
Eleanor reached for the sheet covering his lower half.
"No!"
The word came out sharp, almost panicked. Eleanor's hand froze.
"My lord?"
"Do not. That is…" Aubrey's face was flushed now, his eyes squeezed shut. "Perhaps we could skip that tonight. The dressing is fine."
But Eleanor had already pulled back the sheet, and— Oh. She jumped back as though confronted by a snake, heat flooding her face.
Eleanor had tended his body for over a week now. Had washed every part of him with clinical detachment. Had seen him naked, vulnerable, helpless.
But she had never seen him like this.
"I am sorry." Aubrey's voice was strangled with mortification. "I did not—it is not—you looked so pretty when you came in, with your hair like that, and the dress, and then you were touching me, and I could not… I could not control it."
Eleanor stood frozen, her medical supplies clutched in her hands, staring at the evidence of his arousal with a mixture of shock, confusion, and something else. Something that felt dangerously like... power.
All through their marriage, she had been the one humiliated, the one made to feel inadequate, unwanted, invisible.
But Aubrey was not finding her invisible now.
"Does it..." Eleanor heard herself ask, her voice barely above a whisper. "Does it hurt? To grow like that with your injuries?"
"What?" Aubrey's eyes flew open, shock and mortification warring on his face. "I… No. It doesn’t cause pain… not in the way you’re thinking. But you should keep away."
But Eleanor had already moved closer, studying him with genuine curiosity now. She had spent over a week tending his body with professional detachment. This was simply... another aspect of his physical condition. Wasn't it?
She reached out with a piece of gauze, lightly touching.
"Do not!" Aubrey gasped, his entire body going rigid. "Please, Eleanor, for the love of God, do not—"
But she could see his reaction. The way his flesh hardened further at even that light touch. The way his breathing became ragged. The way his hands fisted in the sheets.
He was completely at her mercy.
And after being at his mercy all these years, Eleanor found she rather enjoyed the reversal.
"I am simply checking to ensure the swelling is not causing additional pain to your injuries," she said, her voice taking on a tone of exaggerated medical concern. "It would be negligent of me not to assess all aspects of your physical condition."
"Eleanor—" His voice was hoarse, almost pleading. "Please—"
She let her fingers trail along his thigh, ostensibly checking the bruising, but close enough to his arousal that he made a strangled sound.
"The bruising seems to be healing well," she observed clinically. "Though I notice your breathing has become quite laboured. Perhaps I should check for fever—"
"I do not have a fever." The words came out through gritted teeth. "I am perfectly… You know very well what it is."
Eleanor met his eyes then and had to suppress a smile at the mixture of lust and mortification she found there. His face was flushed, his pupils dilated, his jaw clenched with the effort of maintaining some semblance of control.
"Does this often happen during your care?" she asked innocently. "I have not noticed it before."
"You were not wearing that dress before." The admission seemed torn from him. "And your hair was not—you did not look so—" He stopped, closing his eyes again. "This is torture. You are torturing me."
"Am I?" Eleanor felt something shift in her chest. Something that felt like satisfaction mixed with a strange, heady sense of feminine power she had never experienced before. "I assure you, my lord, I am simply performing my duties as your nurse."
She returned her attention to his arousal, studying it with the same careful attention she had given his other injuries.
She had never seen a man in this state before.
Had barely understood what happened between married people beyond the vaguest explanations her mother had provided before the wedding.
But watching Aubrey's reaction—the way he grew harder under her gaze, the way his body betrayed him despite his obvious mortification—was oddly fascinating.
And empowering.
She reached out again with the gauze—
"Eleanor, I am begging you." His voice was ragged now. "If you touch me again, I will not be able to…"
She paused, looking up at his face. And what she saw there made her still for a moment.
His eyes had darkened with unmistakable lust. Raw. Desperate. Fixed on her with an intensity that made something low in her belly clench with a sensation she did not quite understand.
Eleanor pulled her hand back quickly, suddenly very aware that she was playing with fire. That she might have pushed too far. That the look in Aubrey's eyes was hungry in a way that both thrilled and terrified her.
"I should..." She cleared her throat, gathering her supplies with hands that trembled slightly. "I should check your dressing and let you rest. You need your strength."
She worked quickly now, keeping her eyes averted, trying to ignore the evidence of his arousal as she cleaned and re-bandaged his wounds with professional efficiency. Aubrey remained absolutely still, his breathing harsh, his body rigid with tension.
"There," Eleanor said finally, pulling the sheet back up—carefully, not looking. "All done. I shall return to check on you after dinner."
She moved toward the door, desperate to escape the charged atmosphere of the room.
"Eleanor, wait—"
But she was already gone, closing the door behind her and leaning against the corridor wall for a moment, her heart hammering.
He had wanted her. His body had responded to her. Not to Rose. Not to the memory of Rose. To her. To Eleanor.
To the wife he had spent two years ignoring.
The realisation sent a confusing mixture of emotions through her chest: triumph, fear, confusion, and something that felt dangerously like hope.
Eleanor pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks and tried to steady her breathing.
She had to go downstairs. Had to smile and make conversation with Liz’s family. Had to pretend that nothing had changed.
Even though something had changed.
She just was not certain what it meant.