Chapter 21 Fifth Day of Wooing a Wife #2
"Remarkable." Lord Egerton muttered, studying Eleanor with open interest. "According to your husband, you are quite skilled in managing both the patient and the estate. Impressive work. Very impressive."
Eleanor's cheeks flushed with pleasure. "Thank you, my lord. I've tried to maintain proper standards."
"You've exceeded them." Lord Egerton's voice was firm. "I can tell just by looking that the estate is in better condition than when my son inherited it. You should be proud of what you've accomplished."
"While dealing with an absent husband," Lady Egerton added pointedly. "Which makes it even more impressive."
Eleanor's flush deepened. "I simply did what needed to be done."
"That's what makes you remarkable, my dear.
" Lady Egerton patted Eleanor's hand. "Most women in your position would have given up.
Or caused a scandal. Or made everyone around them miserable.
You simply... carried on. With grace and competence.
" She shot a look at Aubrey. "More than our son deserved. "
"Much more," Lord Egerton agreed.
"Mother, Father, perhaps—" Aubrey tried to intervene.
"Now then," his mother continued, ignoring him completely. "I'm going to give you some advice, my dear. Woman to woman. My husband and I are leaving for France to visit our daughter, your sister-in-law, whom you’ve met briefly. But before we go, I want to share something important."
Eleanor leaned forward slightly, clearly intrigued.
"Men," Lady Egerton said solemnly, "never grow up. They pretend to. They wear fancy clothes and hold positions of power and manage estates. But inside, they're all still boys. Impulsive, emotional, prone to spectacular acts of stupidity."
"I say," Lord Egerton protested mildly.
"You fell off your horse during a grouse hunt last autumn because you were racing George Peters," Lady Egerton said without looking at her husband.
"I won the race."
"You broke your wrist."
"But I won."
Lady Egerton turned back to Eleanor. "See? Boys. All of them. The key to a successful marriage is accepting this fundamental truth and managing accordingly."
Eleanor's lips twitched. "I see."
"And here's the second piece of advice." Lady Egerton's voice dropped conspiratorially.
"Men respond remarkably well to praise. Ridiculous amounts of praise.
For the smallest accomplishments. 'Oh darling, you opened that jar so cleverly!
' 'My, what a thoughtful letter you wrote!
' They preen like peacocks and then try to do more things worthy of praise. It's quite effective."
"That seems rather manipulative," Eleanor said, though her eyes were dancing.
"It's not manipulation if it makes everyone happier." Lady Egerton smiled. "My husband has been trying to earn my praise for thirty years. It's kept him remarkably motivated."
"I dis—" Lord Egerton stopped at his wife's raised eyebrow. "Well. Perhaps a bit."
"Now then." Lord Egerton cleared his throat, clearly eager to regain some dignity. "My advice for managing my son specifically: he responds well to direct confrontation. Don't hint. Don't suggest. Tell him exactly what you think and what you need. He's dense as a post when it comes to women."
"Father!"
Eleanor was openly smiling now. "Thank you. That's very helpful."
"We try." Lady Egerton stood, pulling on her gloves with brisk efficiency.
"Now, we really must be going. The ship to France leaves tomorrow, and we still need to reach Dover.
But my dear daughter…" She paused, her expression softening slightly.
"Take care of him. And more importantly, take care of yourself. "
"I will," Eleanor said quietly.
"Good girl." Lady Egerton squeezed Eleanor's shoulder. "You are far too good for him, but perhaps he will grow into deserving you. If you are patient. And if he works very, very hard."
"Every day," Aubrey said from the bed.
"Hmm." But Lady Egerton was smiling slightly. "Come along, Richard. France awaits."
Lord Egerton paused at the door. "Try not to fall off any more horses, son. It's embarrassing for the family."
"Yes, Father."
"Good." His father's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "We are proud of you, son."
"Thank you, Father."
And then they were gone, sweeping out of the room with the same energy they'd brought, leaving Aubrey and Eleanor alone in sudden silence.
Eleanor stood by the door, staring after them with an expression of bemused wonder.
"Your parents," she said finally, "are extraordinary."
"They're terrible," Aubrey corrected. "Absolutely terrible at showing affection or saying anything kind without wrapping it in seventeen layers of insult. To me, at least."
"But they love you." Eleanor moved back to the chair beside his bed. "I can see it. In their own strange way. They love you very much."
"I suppose they do." Aubrey looked down at the velvet box still clutched in his hand. His hand tightened on the box.
Then he looked up at Eleanor and saw something in her expression that made his chest ache. A wistfulness. A longing for something she'd lost long ago.
"You haven't had that since you were twelve," he said quietly. "Parents who tease you and embarrass you and love you. Parents who are there."
Eleanor dropped her gaze.
"And I—" Aubrey's voice roughened. "I took it for granted.
All of it. While you were managing an estate with no one to help you.
No mother to guide you. No father present enough to care.
You've been alone, Eleanor, for so long.
And I made you more alone by abandoning you when I should have been.
.." He stopped, swallowed hard. "When I should have been your family. "
A tear slipped down Eleanor's cheek.
"I can't give you the last two years back," Aubrey continued, his hand reaching out to gently cup her face, his thumb brushing away the tear.
"But my parents already love you. Did you see how they looked at you?
You're not alone anymore, Eleanor. You have them, and you have me. If you'll let us be your family."
Eleanor's eyes filled with more tears, but she was smiling through them—a tremulous, beautiful smile that made Aubrey's heart stutter.
"Aubrey," she whispered.
And then, before he could say anything more, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
It was soft. Tentative. The lightest brush of her mouth against his—barely more than a whisper of contact. But it sent electricity racing through his entire body.
Eleanor pulled back, her eyes searching his face as though looking for permission or confirmation or something.
And then she leaned in again.
This time the kiss was less tentative. Her lips pressed more firmly against his, lingering, and Aubrey felt something break open in his chest. His free hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair, and he deepened the kiss.
His mouth moved against hers with gentle insistence, teaching her, guiding her. Eleanor made a small sound—surprise or pleasure, he wasn't certain—and her hands came up to grip his shoulders for balance.
The kiss was still chaste by most standards—no scandalous use of tongues or teeth—but it was real; intimate and full of barely restrained desire finally given voice.
When Aubrey's tongue barely traced the seam of her lips, Eleanor gasped and jerked back as though burned.
Her eyes were wide, her face flushed crimson, her breathing rapid and shallow. She pressed her fingers to her lips, looking shocked by what had just happened—by what she had initiated.
"I—" Her voice came out as barely a whisper. "I shouldn't have—"
"Eleanor—" Aubrey's voice was rough with need.
"I need to go." She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the chair in her haste. "There's so much to prepare. For tomorrow. The orphans. I need to go."
"Eleanor, wait—"
But she was already fleeing, her skirts rustling as she practically ran to the door. She paused for just a moment at the threshold, her back to him, her hand on the doorframe as though steadying herself.
"That shouldn't have happened," she said, her voice unsteady.
"Yes, it should have," Aubrey countered. "Eleanor—"
But she was gone, the door closing behind her with more force than necessary, her footsteps quick and uneven in the corridor beyond.
Aubrey sat alone in the sudden silence, one hand touching his lips where Eleanor had kissed him, where he had kissed her back.
His heart was racing. His body was responding predictably and inconveniently to what had just happened. But more than that, his chest felt full to bursting with hope. Joy. Desire. Love.
She had kissed him. Twice.
And when he'd deepened the kiss, she hadn't pulled away immediately. She'd responded, however briefly, before fear or propriety or self-preservation had made her flee.
She wanted him. Not just physically, though that much was now abundantly clear, but emotionally. She was letting him in, bit by bit, despite all her reasons not to.
Aubrey found the ring box under the covers and opened it one more time, studying the sapphire that caught the winter light.
One week until Christmas.
One week until Eleanor left.
But she had kissed him. Let him kiss her back.
And when she'd fled, he didn’t think it had been from disgust or rejection. She’d been afraid of how much she wanted to stay.
That, Aubrey thought, was progress. Remarkable, terrifying, wonderful progress.
He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath his palm, and smiled.