Chapter 20 Fourth Day of Wooing a Wife
Chapter twenty
Fourth Day of Wooing A Wife
Eleanor sat at her dressing table, the music box open before her, winding it again for what must have been the tenth time that morning. Her mother's favourite melody filled the quiet room; a soft, melancholy tune that made her chest ache with memories she'd locked away years ago.
The other gifts were arranged carefully on her escritoire.
The porcelain doll with her sweet painted smile.
The leather-bound novels, their spines still stiff and new.
The watercolour paints she'd already opened twice just to admire the pristine colours.
The candied violets she couldn't quite bring herself to taste yet, as though opening the jar would break some spell.
Is this enough? Eleanor wondered, watching the tiny mechanism turn inside the music box. Is this enough to forgive him?
But even as she asked the question, she realised the answer had already formed sometime in the past few days, perhaps even the moment her husband had told her about Rose's lies.
She had forgiven him.
Not because of the gifts, though they touched her deeply. Not because of his tears or his apologies, though those mattered.
She had forgiven him because she understood now that he had been deceived just as thoroughly as she had.
He had believed his wife to be vindictive, manipulative, cruel.
He’d believed it with the same certainty she had believed herself unloved and unwanted.
They had both been Rose's victims, puppets dancing to strings they hadn't even known existed.
Aubrey had been wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. But he had been wrong for reasons she could finally understand.
Eleanor closed the music box with a soft click.
But forgiveness wasn't enough, was it?
Understanding why he had hurt her didn't erase the hurt itself. Didn't remove the scars from two years of loneliness and public humiliation. Didn't automatically restore the trust he had shattered before it ever had a chance to form.
He would need to earn that back. Slowly. Carefully. With more than gifts and pretty words.
And she needed to be certain—absolutely certain—that his sudden devotion stemmed from genuine feeling and not from misguided gratitude. She had nursed him back to health, yes, but that was duty. He might be confusing relief and appreciation with something deeper.
Or worse, far worse, his interest might be purely physical. He hadn't been with anyone for at least two years by his own admission. Perhaps any woman's touch would have provoked the same reaction. Perhaps she was simply... convenient.
Eleanor pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, remembering the night before.
She had wanted to kiss him. God help her, she had wanted it desperately.
When he had leaned toward her, his eyes dark and intent, his hand warm around hers, it would have been so easy to close that last bit of distance.
To forget everything—all the pain, all the reasons to protect herself—and simply give in to the desire that had been building between them.
But she had been through too much. Had suffered too deeply. She couldn't afford to be vulnerable again, to open her heart fully, only to have it crushed when he left for London. When the gratitude faded. When the lust cooled into indifference.
She needed to be sure.
And until she was, she would have to—
Voices from Aubrey's bedchamber interrupted her thoughts. Male voices, one of them distinctly jovial.
Eleanor frowned, moving to the connecting door, the door she'd never used before. The door that had remained closed and locked for two years.
Who would be visiting at this hour?
She knocked softly, then entered.
And stopped short at the scene before her.
Aubrey was propped against his pillows, stripped to the waist, while Dr Fielding prodded at his hip with the cheerful enthusiasm of a man thoroughly enjoying his work.
"Ah, Lady Madeley!" Dr Fielding beamed at her. "Perfect timing! I was just telling your husband that he's healing remarkably well. Quite remarkably. I've seen younger men recover more slowly from less severe injuries."
"That's... good news." Eleanor moved closer, trying not to notice the way the morning light highlighted the planes of Aubrey's chest and abdomen.
"Excellent news!" Dr Fielding pressed on Aubrey's hip, making him wince.
"See? Pain, yes, but manageable pain. Not the excruciating agony of two weeks ago.
The bruising is fading beautifully. The abrasions are nearly healed.
And the hip joint itself—" He manipulated Aubrey's leg gently.
"No signs of permanent damage. You, my lord, have been extraordinarily lucky. "
"I feel extraordinarily lucky," Aubrey said dryly, though his eyes found Eleanor's with an intensity that made her stomach flutter.
"Can he walk?" Eleanor asked, forcing herself to focus on the practical matter at hand.
"Not yet. But soon!" Dr Fielding's enthusiasm was almost comical. "With a cane or crutch, perhaps by Christmas. A few steps at first, building gradually. But no putting weight on it for at least another week."
"What about sitting?" Aubrey asked. "Can I sit in a chair? Move to a different room?"
"Ah, yes! We can try that today. Carefully, mind you. With support. But yes, I think a chair would do you good. Get you out of this bed for a few hours. Stimulate circulation. Very important, circulation." Dr Fielding nodded sagely, as though he'd just imparted profound wisdom.
Aubrey's expression brightened considerably. "And the water closet? Surely I can hop there without support."
"Absolutely not." Dr Fielding's cheerfulness didn't waver. "One wrong move, one slip, and you could undo weeks of healing. The chamber pot, I'm afraid, remains your closest companion."
Aubrey let out a frustrated grunt that might have been amusing if Eleanor hadn't seen the genuine embarrassment in his expression.
"Now, regarding the dressings," Dr Fielding continued, apparently oblivious to Aubrey's mortification.
"I'm pleased to report that the wounds have progressed to the point where we can discontinue the bandaging.
The abrasions have formed nice, healthy scabs.
As long as Lord Madeley isn't rolling about in mud or engaging in vigorous activities, which I trust he is not, clean linen against the skin should suffice. "
"So, no more daily care?" Eleanor heard herself ask and was surprised by the disappointment in her voice.
Dr Fielding smiled kindly. "No longer necessary. You've done splendidly. Absolutely splendidly. Your husband owes his recovery to your excellent care."
Eleanor felt something sink in her chest. No more daily visits. No more intimate moments of caring for him. No more opportunities to tease him with careful touches and watch him struggle for composure.
She should be relieved. Instead, she felt oddly... bereft.
"Now then," Dr Fielding said, snapping his medical bag closed with finality. "Regarding travel, it's far too early for carriage journeys. The jostling alone could aggravate the healing muscles and ligaments. I'd recommend remaining here through the New Year at minimum."
Aubrey's eyes cut to Eleanor, searching her face. She kept her expression neutral.
"Any other restrictions?" Aubrey asked.
"Nothing you're not already doing. Rest. Gentle movement as tolerated.
Good food. And that excellent nursing care, though as I said, less intensive now.
" Dr Fielding beamed at them both. "I'll call again after Christmas unless you need me sooner.
Send me a missive if there's any fever, swelling, or increased pain.
Otherwise, you're progressing wonderfully, my lord. Simply wonderfully."
The doctor took his leave with the same cheerful energy he'd displayed throughout, leaving Eleanor and Aubrey alone in sudden, awkward silence.
"So," Aubrey said finally. "I'm improving."
"Yes." Eleanor moved to collect his breakfast tray from earlier, needing something to do with her hands. "You are."
"You don't sound pleased."
Eleanor paused, her back to him. "I am pleased. Of course, I am. You're healing. That's what matters."
"Eleanor—"
"I should let you rest," she said, turning toward the door. "Now that the doctor's finished—"
"I need a bath."
Eleanor stopped. "I beg your pardon?"
"A bath. I haven’t bathed in twenty-four hours. I’m filthy." Aubrey's tone was matter of fact, but Eleanor caught the slight gleam in his eyes. "And Dr Fielding's hands were less than perfectly clean, and I feel positively grimy."
"I can have two strong footmen carry you to the water closet," Eleanor said. "They can help you bathe properly—"
"No." Aubrey shook his head. "The movement would be too painful. Lifting, carrying, manoeuvring around doorframes." He met her eyes directly. "A bed bath would be preferable, if you don't mind."
Eleanor's pulse quickened. He was lying. She could see it in the way he wouldn't quite meet her gaze, in the tension around his mouth that suggested he was suppressing a smile.
He wanted her hands on him again.
And God help her; she wanted it too.
"Very well," Eleanor heard herself say. "Let me fetch fresh water."
She took her time preparing, warming the water to the perfect temperature, gathering soft cloths, fresh soap that smelled of sandalwood. She gave herself space to steady her breathing, to remind herself that this was simply nursing care. Nothing more.
Even if they both knew better.
When she returned, Aubrey had removed his nightshirt without help and lay against the pillows completely bare from the waist up.
The morning light streaming through the windows highlighted every angle of his torso, the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the dark hair scattered across his skin.
Eleanor had seen him unclothed dozens of times over the past two weeks. Had washed every inch of him with clinical detachment.