Chapter 14 Brother-In-Law
Chapter fourteen
Brother-In-Law
Aubrey woke to mortification as the morning ray crisscrossed brightly over him through the crack in the drapes.
The dream had been vivid—devastatingly so.
Eleanor in that burgundy silk dress, except the dress had been falling from her shoulders.
Her hair loose around her face, chestnut waves catching candlelight.
Her small, delicate form pressed against his larger frame, fitting perfectly despite their difference in size. Her hands on his chest, his skin, his—
He was hard. Painfully, embarrassingly hard.
And Eleanor would arrive within minutes for his morning care.
Aubrey squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to think of something—anything—that would dampen his body's enthusiastic response to the dream. Parliamentary debates. The tedium of agricultural reports. His father's lectures on duty and responsibility.
Nothing worked.
The memory of last night kept intruding. The way Eleanor had looked in that dress, her hair softened from its usual severe style. The curiosity in her grey eyes as she studied his arousal. The light touch of gauze against his flesh that had nearly undone him completely.
The way she had teased him, enjoying his discomfort with a subtle cruelty that was somehow more arousing than anything he had ever experienced.
His body responded enthusiastically to the memory, and Aubrey cursed under his breath.
This was intolerable. He was a grown man, not some green boy who could not control his own—
He shifted in frustration, trying to find a position that was less uncomfortable. And froze.
That had not hurt.
Not nearly as much as it should have.
Carefully, Aubrey shifted again, testing his range of motion. There was still pain—a deep ache in his hip, tenderness in his bruised flesh—but it was manageable. Significantly better than even yesterday.
He pushed himself more upright against the pillows, using muscles he had barely been able to engage a week ago. The effort made him breathe harder, but he managed it without gasping. Without needing Eleanor's hands on his shoulders, her body close to his, her breath warm against his neck while she—
No. He was not thinking about that.
Aubrey was still trying to master his unruly body when there was a knock at the door. Aubrey's stomach dropped, but he had the presence of the mind to quickly gather more blanket over his groin.
Eleanor entered with her usual brisk efficiency, medical supplies in hand, her hair already pinned severely back for the day. She paused when she saw him sitting more upright than usual.
"You've managed better this morning."
"Yes." Aubrey kept his gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder. "The pain is... improved."
She approached the bed, setting down her supplies. "That's excellent progress."
"Eleanor." The name came out embarrassingly breathlessly. "Before you begin. I need to speak with you."
She stilled, wariness crossing her face. He forced himself to meet her eyes. "I need to apologise. Properly."
Eleanor's expression remained guarded.
He took a breath. "I was wrong. About everything.
About you. About our marriage. About—" He stopped, trying to find words that would actually reach her.
"You saved my family's estate while I was too stubborn and too proud to see what was right in front of me.
You've cared for me these past weeks with more patience and competence than I deserve.
And before that, you managed everything I should have been managing while I. .."
"Sulked in London?" Her tone was sharp but not cruel.
"Yes." The admission hurt, but it was also a relief. "I blamed you for our fathers’ choices. For my own failures. And that was... that was cowardice."
Eleanor said nothing at first. Then she moved to the window, adjusting the drapes unnecessarily. "Why now?"
"What?"
"Why apologise now? Because you're trapped here and need someone to care for you? Because Morrison told you to try harder?" She turned back, and her eyes were too knowing. "Or because you've finally noticed I'm female and your body has decided to cooperate?"
Heat flooded his face. "That's not—"
"Isn't it?" She crossed her arms. "You've been here two weeks, Aubrey. Two weeks of me tending you, dressing you, moving you. And suddenly you want to apologise properly. Forgive me if I'm sceptical about the timing."
"The timing is terrible," he admitted. "You're right.
But that doesn't make it less true." He met her gaze directly, despite his embarrassment.
"Last night, when you stood over Morrison and me, telling us we were being ridiculous—you were magnificent.
Exasperated and commanding and absolutely right.
And it made me realise I've spent two years not seeing you at all. "
"And now you see me."
"Yes."
"How convenient." But her voice had lost some of its edge.
"It's not convenient at all." Aubrey shifted against the pillows, wincing slightly. "It's bloody inconvenient, actually. Because now I know exactly what I've lost, and I have no idea how to—" He stopped, frustrated with his own inability to articulate what he meant.
Eleanor studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—brief and humourless. "You know what the worst part is? I don't even hate you anymore."
"You don't?"
"I'm too tired to hate you." She moved back toward the bed, but slowly, as though approaching something unpredictable. "I spent years being angry. And then you nearly died, and I realised the anger was just... exhausting. And pointless."
"That's not forgiveness."
"No," she agreed. "It's not." She picked up the salve, her movements automatic. "But it's something. I don't know what yet."
Aubrey caught her wrist—gently this time, carefully. "I know I don't deserve another chance. But if you would give me one... if you would stay, even just long enough for me to prove I'm not the man I was..." He released her reluctantly. "I'm asking. Not demanding. Not expecting. Just... asking."
Eleanor looked down at where his hand had been, then back at his face. Something in her expression had softened, though she was clearly fighting it.
"I haven't decided yet," she said finally. "About any of it."
"That's more than I hoped for."
"Don't hope too much." But there was the slightest hint of warmth in her voice. "Now lie back and let me check your wound before you aggravate it with all this sitting up."
As she worked—professional, efficient, but perhaps slightly less distant than before—Aubrey found himself watching her face. The concentration in her grey eyes. The competent movements of her small hands. The way a few strands of chestnut hair had escaped her severe styling.
Eleanor glanced up, and for just a moment, he saw the ghost of a smile.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't even close to what he wanted, but it was something.
A beginning, perhaps.
Aubrey was still contemplating what had just passed between them when there was another knock at the door—far too soon for Eleanor to have returned.
"Come in," Aubrey called, grateful that at least his voice worked properly even if other parts of him were being decidedly uncooperative.
The door opened, and Michael Midleton entered with the easy confidence of a man completely comfortable in his own skin.
"Lord Madeley." Michael's smile was warm and friendly. "I hope I am not disturbing your rest. I thought we might have a chat. Man to man. Brother-in-law to brother-in-law."
Aubrey had known Michael for several years through Parliament and their gentleman's club.
He had always found him intelligent, affable, and excellent company.
But there was something about the man that had always set Aubrey slightly on edge—a sense that beneath the easy manner lay a sharp mind that missed very little.
And right now, that sharp mind was focused entirely on Aubrey.
"Of course." Aubrey gestured to the chair beside his bed, acutely aware that he was at a disadvantage. Trapped in bed. Unable to stand or shake hands properly. Still fighting the lingering evidence of his dream. "Please, sit."
Michael settled into the chair. "You are looking better than I expected. Liz made it sound as though you were at death's door. But here you are, sitting up, colour returning to your face. Quite a remarkable recovery."
"I have had excellent care."
"Yes. My sister-in-law is nothing if not dedicated." Michael's pleasant smile took on an edge. "Even when caring for someone who perhaps does not deserve such dedication."
Aubrey felt that like a blade between the ribs. "You are right, of course."
"At least you are honest about your shortcomings.
That is more than many men manage." Michael crossed his legs.
"I have been hearing some interesting things, Madeley.
About your marriage. Your... absence from it.
Your recent forced proximity with the wife you have been studiously ignoring for two years. "
"May I—"
"No, let me finish." The smile remained, but Aubrey could see steel beneath it now.
"You see, I am rather fond of Eleanor. She is kind, intelligent, remarkably competent, and possessed of a dry sense of humour she hides from most people.
In short, she is exactly the sort of woman any man should be proud to call his wife. "
Aubrey's throat tightened. "I know."
"Do you?" Michael leaned forward slightly. "Because from where I sit, it appears you have spent two years treating her as an inconvenience. A burden foisted upon you by circumstance rather than choice."
"I was a fool."
"Yes, you were. The question is whether you still are."
Aubrey met Michael's gaze directly. "I admire her. I know you have no reason to believe me, but it's true. And I intend to spend the rest of my life proving it to her."
"Pretty words."
"Not just words. I've been—" Aubrey struggled to find the right phrasing. "These past weeks have forced me to see what I've been too blind and stupid to recognise before. Eleanor is... everything. And I nearly lost her through my own negligence."
Michael studied him for a long moment. "You did lose her, in many ways. The question is whether she'll give you the opportunity to find her again."
"I know I don't deserve it."
"No, you don't. But Eleanor has a generous heart, far more generous than you've earned the right to.
" Michael's voice hardened. "Which brings me to why I'm really here.
If you hurt her again, Madeley—if you revert to your old ways once this forced proximity ends—I will make it my personal mission to ensure you regret it. "
"I won't—"
"Let me be clear." Michael's smile had vanished entirely. "I am a patient man. A civilised man. But I would not hesitate to use my cultivated relationships to ruin you if you hurt her again."
The threat hung in the air between them.
"I understand," Aubrey said quietly.
"Good." Michael leaned back, his pleasant expression returning like a mask being replaced. "Eleanor deserves happiness, Madeley. Real happiness, not the scraps of attention you deign to toss her way when it's convenient."
"She'll have it. I swear to you."
Michael studied him again, then stood. "I suppose time will tell. Though I must say, you do seem... different. Perhaps your injury knocked some sense into you."
"Perhaps it did."
Michael nodded slowly and left without further comment, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow felt more ominous than if he'd slammed it.
Aubrey sank back against his pillows, his earlier arousal forgotten entirely, replaced by a cold knot of dread in his stomach.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of Midleton’s threats.
It was that he didn’t know how he would possibly gain her trust and stop her from leaving because…
The realisation gripped his chest in a tight knot: he did not want to lose her.
As soon as his pain had dulled enough to allow him to think clearly, he’d known she was worth more than what he could ever give her.
But he was a selfish rascal. He wanted her for himself. And he had two years of her suffering to make up for.
Aubrey looked down at his hands, thinking of how they had gripped Eleanor's wrist hard enough to bruise. How he had never once held her gently. Never touched her with kindness. Never given her any reason to believe he could be a real husband.
And he had absolutely no idea how to win his wife's heart. But he was going to try.
He had to try.
Because the alternative—letting Eleanor walk away, losing her forever—was suddenly, devastatingly unacceptable.