Chapter 18 Second Day of Wooing a Wife
Chapter eighteen
Second Day of Wooing a Wife
"Arms up, if you please, my lady."
Eleanor raised her arms obediently as the modiste, a brisk Frenchwoman named Madame Laurent, draped shimmering fabric across her shoulders. The woman had arrived precisely at nine o'clock with two assistants and enough fabric samples to clothe half of Hertfordshire.
"The emerald silk would be lovely for the ball gown," Madame Laurent mused, stepping back to assess the effect. "It brings out the green in your eyes. And for the walking dress, perhaps this soft grey wool? Very elegant. Very refined."
"I really don't need a ball gown," Eleanor said for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. "I don't attend balls."
"Every lady needs a ball gown," Madame Laurent said firmly, as though this were an incontrovertible law of nature. "You never know when the occasion might arise. A neighbour’s celebration. A family wedding. Your husband might wish to host a gathering."
Eleanor opened her mouth to explain that her husband would be returning to London and there would be no gatherings, but Madame Laurent continued before she could speak.
"Besides, a lady should have at least one gown that makes her feel beautiful. Not practical. Not sensible. Beautiful." The modiste's eyes were kind. "When was the last time you wore something simply because it pleased you to wear it, my lady?"
Eleanor couldn't remember. Everything in her wardrobe was practical, serviceable, designed for estate management and charity work.
"The ball gown is not for anyone else," Madame Laurent said softly. "It is for you. So that when you look in the mirror, you see a woman worthy of admiration. A woman who deserves beautiful things."
Eleanor's throat felt tight. "The expense—"
"Has already been approved by Lord Madeley." Madame Laurent smiled. "He was quite specific in his instructions. I am to provide you with whatever you desire, cost be damned. His exact words, my lady."
Eleanor felt her face flush. Aubrey had done this, had told the modiste to spare no expense.
For her.
"Very well," Eleanor heard herself say. "The emerald silk for the ball gown. And the grey wool for the walking dress. And perhaps..." She hesitated. "Perhaps one more day dress? Something in blue?"
Madame Laurent's smile widened. "Excellent choice, my lady. I have the perfect shade, like a winter sky at twilight."
The fitting continued for another hour. Eleanor was measured, pinned, draped in various fabrics while Madame Laurent and her assistants discussed hem lengths and necklines and sleeve styles in rapid French.
By the time they finished, Eleanor felt simultaneously exhausted and oddly exhilarated. She had just been fitted for three new gowns. Beautiful gowns. Gowns that had nothing to do with practicality and everything to do with making her feel lovely.
She was just seeing Madame Laurent to the door when Mrs Williams appeared, slightly breathless.
"My lady, Lord Madeley has requested that you join him for luncheon. In his bedchamber. We've set up a small table."
Eleanor blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Luncheon, my lady. His lordship was quite insistent that you dine together today. Everyday."
"But I…" Eleanor stopped. "I always take luncheon in my sitting room."
"Yes, my lady, but his lordship specifically requested your company." Mrs Williams' expression was all knowing. "The table is already prepared."
Eleanor felt a flash of irritation. She had agreed to the lady's maid and the gowns, but now Aubrey was encroaching on her daily routine, demanding her presence for meals as though they were a normal married couple.
"Mrs. Duncan is waiting to help you freshen up before luncheon," Mrs Williams added.
"I don't need to freshen up for luncheon in a sickroom," Eleanor said sharply.
But Mrs Williams was already retreating, and Mrs. Duncan, her new lady's maid, appeared as though summoned, her expression pleasant but firm.
"Just a quick tidy, my lady. Won't take but a moment."
Eleanor found herself being ushered to her bedroom, where Mrs. Duncan quickly rearranged her hair, smoothed her dress, and added a touch of rose water to her wrists.
"There," Mrs. Duncan said, stepping back with satisfaction. "Perfect."
Eleanor studied her reflection. She did look better, more put together. More like a viscountess about to dine with her husband should.
"Is there a conspiracy?" Eleanor asked abruptly. "Among the household staff? To get the viscount and me together? Because I should tell you now, there's no chance of that happening. Not in the remaining days. Not ever."
Mrs. Duncan's eyes widened with what appeared to be genuine shock. "Oh no, my lady! Nothing of the sort. We simply want you to be comfortable. To look your best. That's all."
"Mrs Williams?"
"Would never presume, my lady," Mrs. Duncan assured her.
Eleanor studied the woman's face for signs of deception and found none. Perhaps she was being paranoid. Perhaps the staff simply wanted to be helpful.
Or perhaps they could all see something Eleanor was desperately trying not to acknowledge.
Aubrey's bedchamber had been transformed. A small table had been set up beside his bed, complete with linens, proper china, and what appeared to be an entire roasted chicken with all the accompaniments.
Aubrey himself was propped against his pillows, freshly shaved—Eleanor noted with surprise—his hair combed, wearing a clean nightshirt that made him look less like an invalid and more like a gentleman receiving guests.
"Eleanor!" His face lit up when she entered. "Thank you for joining me. I thought it might be pleasant to dine together rather than separately in our respective rooms like monks in cells."
Eleanor moved to the table stiffly, sitting in the chair that had been positioned across from him. "This seems like a great deal of trouble for the staff."
"Nonsense. They were delighted to arrange it." Aubrey gestured to the food. "Please, allow me to serve you. I've been assured this chicken is Cook's finest work."
Eleanor took a small bite of the chicken, acutely aware of Aubrey watching her. The silence stretched awkwardly until Aubrey, apparently sensing her discomfort, launched into a story about his valet's arrival the first afternoon.
"Poor man nearly fainted when he saw my unruly stubble. Started muttering in French about savages and barbarism. I had to assure him I hadn't completely abandoned civilisation." Aubrey grinned.
Despite herself, Eleanor felt her lips twitch. "You’ve always been cleanshaven, I didn’t know you could grow a beard."
Aubrey rubbed his smooth jaw ruefully. "I am glad I set the record straight before I gave you yet another reason to regret marrying me."
Eleanor almost choked on chicken at his casual mention of what has been the biggest heartache of her life. She looked up and was surprised to see his sheepish expression. He appeared remorseful, completely devoid of arrogance.
"I’m certain I shall find more before Sunday," Eleanor said, then immediately wished she could take the words back. That was too familiar. Too playful.
But Aubrey laughed; a genuine, delighted sound. "Well, that would serve me right. Just as I’m discovering how lovely my wife is, she finds more reasons to leave me."
Eleanor didn’t taste the food after that. Her heart fluttered in her chest and blood thumped in her temples. What was he about? Why was he saying things like that? She tried desperately not to hope, but it was no use. She was hoping. Pathetically.
He continued talking, weaving stories about his valet, about the letters he'd been writing, about the gamekeeper interview he'd arranged for tomorrow. His manner was light, entertaining, designed, Eleanor suspected, to put her at ease.
And it was working.
She found herself relaxing, laughing at his observations, contributing her own stories about estate management mishaps. The awkwardness faded, replaced by something almost comfortable. Almost natural.
Eleanor studied Aubrey as he spoke, really looked at him for perhaps the first time since he'd arrived.
Even with the week's growth of beard he had been beautiful.
Now, with his strong jawline visible and the thick column of his neck exposed, he was devastatingly handsome.
The thick brows, the expressive blue eyes, the way his face animated when he smiled, all mesmerised her.
Eleanor realised she was staring when Aubrey paused mid-sentence, his smile widening.
"What?" he asked softly.
"Nothing." Eleanor dropped her gaze to her plate, heat flooding her cheeks. "I was simply... listening."
But she could feel his eyes on her, warm and amused, and when she dared glance up again, his blue eyes were twinkling with something that looked almost like pleasure.
After luncheon, Eleanor cleared the dishes while Aubrey watched with obvious reluctance.
"You don't have to do that. Mrs Williams will be here shortly."
"She is busy managing the household," Eleanor said briskly. "I'm perfectly capable of carrying dishes."
"I know you are. But you shouldn't have to."
Eleanor ignored him, stacking plates with practiced ease. When she returned from delivering the dishes to a waiting maid, she laid out her medical supplies on the bedside table.
"Time for your dressing change," she said, forcing herself back into the detached mode.
Aubrey shifted against his pillows, the movement almost effortless now. Eleanor moved to the bedside. "Let me help you turn."
She manoeuvred him with relative ease, Aubrey now having considerably less pain and more movement in his hips. He cooperated with more grace than he had in the early days.
As Eleanor examined the healing wounds, she noticed—and carefully did not react to—the evidence of his semi-arousal beneath the sheet.
She kept her touch efficient, her expression neutral, even as heat crept up her neck. It was natural, she told herself. A physical response. It didn't necessarily mean anything about his thoughts or feelings.