Chapter 20 Fourth Day of Wooing a Wife #2
But this morning, with no medical necessity to justify her presence, with his eyes following her every movement, it felt different. Charged. Deliberate.
She set down the basin and wrung out a cloth, her hands steady through sheer force of will.
"Eleanor," Aubrey said softly. "Thank you. For everything. For the nursing, the care, for not letting me die of my own stupidity."
"You were never going to die," Eleanor said, beginning to wash his face with gentle strokes. "The injuries were serious but not life threatening."
"I might have, without you." His eyes were serious now. "I might have given up or simply wasted away from misery. You saved me. In more ways than you know."
Eleanor said nothing, moving to his neck, his shoulders, trying to ignore the way his muscles tensed under her touch.
She worked in silence, washing his chest carefully while observing the growing evidence beneath the sheet. He was, once again, responding to her proximity. Eleanor kept her eyes averted, her touch professional, even as heat bloomed in her own body.
"I've been thinking," Aubrey said as she rinsed the cloth, "about St. Catherine's Orphanage."
Eleanor's hands paused. "Oh?"
"I'd like to make a donation. A substantial one." Aubrey's voice was casual, but Eleanor sensed the importance beneath it. "How much do you think would be appropriate? To make a real difference?"
Eleanor's throat tightened. "Any amount would be appreciated, my lord."
"I'm serious, Eleanor. I want to help. What do they need most?"
She thought of the leaking roof. The inadequate winter supplies. The children who needed warm clothes and proper shoes and books that weren't falling apart.
"Five hundred pounds," she said quietly. "With five hundred pounds, they could repair the roof, restock the kitchens, and purchase everything the children need for the next two years."
"Done." Aubrey said it without hesitation. "I'll write the check today."
Eleanor's hands stilled on his chest. "That's... that's incredibly generous."
"And I have another thought." Aubrey caught her hand gently, stilling it against his skin. "What if we invited the children here? For dinner? And gave them gifts? Made it a real celebration?"
Eleanor stared at him, her heart suddenly hammering so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. "You want to host the orphans? Here?"
"Why not? We have space. We have resources. And—" His smile was soft. "I've seen your face when you talk about those children. You love them. So, let's give them a Christmas they'll remember."
Something inside Eleanor broke open—all the careful walls, all the protective distance she'd been maintaining. Before she could think, before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around Aubrey's neck.
"Thank you," she gasped against his shoulder, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you, thank you."
Aubrey's arms came around her immediately, pulling her close despite the awkward angle, despite his injuries. One hand cradled the back of her head while the other pressed against her back, holding her against his bare chest.
"Eleanor," he whispered into her hair. "My Eleanor."
She was crying in earnest now—messy, grateful tears that soaked his skin—because she was pressed against his bare chest, his arms around her, nothing between them but her dress and their rapidly thinning self-control.
They held each other like that for a long time, Aubrey's arms strong around her, both of them breathing hard.
"I'll write as many checks as you want," Aubrey murmured against her hair, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "For anything. Everything. If it means keeping you in my arms like this."
The words broke the spell. Eleanor pulled back, suddenly aware of how improper this was. How she could feel every defined muscle of his chest against her body. How his arousal was now unmistakably evident between them.
"I should…" Eleanor scrambled off the bed, nearly knocking over the basin in her haste. "I should summon Morrison. To dress you. You'll need proper clothes if you're going to sit in a chair today."
"Eleanor—"
But she was already at the door, pulling it open, her face burning. "Morrison! Lord Madeley requires assistance!"
The valet appeared almost instantly, as though he'd been hovering nearby.
His eyes widened in horror at the scene before him: his master, naked from the waist up and clearly aroused, the bed linens in disarray, Lady Madeley flushed.
"My lord," Morrison said faintly. "I see you require... assistance."
"Yes," Aubrey said, not taking his eyes off Eleanor. "Though I was rather enjoying the assistance I was already receiving."
Morrison's face went scarlet. "I shall... I shall fetch proper attire. Immediately."
He fled, leaving Eleanor and Aubrey alone once more.
"Eleanor," Aubrey said softly. "Don't leave. Not yet."
"I must." Eleanor couldn't meet his eyes. "Morrison will be back any moment, and I need to…"
"Think?" Aubrey supplied gently. "About what just happened?"
"Nothing happened," Eleanor said, too quickly. "I was simply overcome with gratitude. For the donation. For the invitation to the children. That's all."
"Of course." Aubrey's smile was knowing. "Nothing at all."
Morrison returned at that moment, laden with clothing and wearing an expression of extreme suffering. "My lord, if you could perhaps... that is..."
He gestured vaguely at Aubrey's lower half, where the evidence of his arousal was impossible to ignore.
"Morrison," Aubrey said with amusement, "it’s nothing you haven’t seen."
"Not to this extent, my lord." Morrison's voice was pained. "It seems most undignified. Perhaps we should wait a few moments for the, ah, situation to resolve itself naturally?"
"That could take some time," Aubrey said, his eyes still on Eleanor. "Given the lovely company I've been keeping."
Morrison looked as though he might faint.
Eleanor pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. "I'll leave you to it, then. Good day, my lord."
She fled before either man could respond, practically running down the corridor to her own chambers.
Only when she was safely behind her closed door did she let herself collapse onto her bed, her heart racing, her entire body trembling with a mixture of embarrassment and something that felt dangerously like desire.
He had held her. Against his naked chest. Had buried his face in her hair and called her "my Eleanor."
And she had wanted, desperately wanted, to stay there. To forget all her careful reasons and defences and simply let herself be held by the man she had loved for so long.
The man who was, perhaps, beginning to heal her wounds.
Through the walls, she could hear Morrison's pained voice: "My lord, the fabric simply won't accommodate… Perhaps if you would simply think of something unpleasant?"
Eleanor pressed her face into her pillow and laughed despite herself.
Eight days left until Christmas.
Eight days to decide whether to stay or go.
Eight days to determine if hope was courage or simply another form of self-destruction.