Chapter 22 Sixth Day of Wooing a Wife
Chapter twenty-two
Sixth Day of Wooing a Wife
Eleanor sat at her dressing table while Mrs. Duncan brushed out her hair with long, soothing strokes. The routine had become familiar over the past few days, comforting in a way Eleanor hadn't expected.
"You seem troubled, my lady," Mrs. Duncan said quietly, her hands gentle as they worked through a tangle. "If you'll forgive my saying so."
Eleanor met the older woman's eyes in the mirror. Mrs. Duncan had a kind face. Weathered but warm with eyes that suggested she'd seen much of life and understood its complications.
"I'm not sure what I'm doing," Eleanor admitted softly. "With my husband. Everything is changing so quickly, and I—" She stopped, unsure how to continue without revealing too much.
Mrs. Duncan smiled knowingly. "Ah. Matters of the heart are never simple, my lady. Especially when there's been pain involved."
"How do you know when to trust again?" Eleanor's voice was barely above a whisper. "When someone has hurt you deeply, how do you know if it's safe to let them close again?"
Mrs. Duncan was quiet for a moment, her hands continuing their steady rhythm through Eleanor's hair. "I don't think you ever know for certain, my lady. Trust isn't about certainty. It's about choosing to be brave even when you're frightened."
"But what if I'm wrong? What if I let him in and he hurts me again?"
"Then you'll survive it," Mrs. Duncan said gently. "Just as you survived before. But my lady, if I may speak plainly, you're already letting him in. The question isn't whether to trust him. It's whether to admit to yourself that you're already doing it."
Eleanor stared at her reflection, her throat tight. "I’m so scared."
"Of course, you are. Who wouldn’t be?" Mrs. Duncan's smile was sad but fond. "Love is always a risk. Always a leap of faith. The only question is whether the person is worth the risk."
"And if I think he might be?"
"Then you leap, my lady." Mrs. Duncan began braiding Eleanor's hair loosely for sleep. "And you pray the landing is soft."
Eleanor lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, Mrs. Duncan's words echoing in her mind.
You're already letting him in.
Was she?
Yes. God help her, she was.
She'd kissed him. Not once but twice. And when he'd deepened that second kiss, when his mouth had moved against hers with such hunger and tenderness, she hadn't wanted to pull away. She'd wanted to stay there forever, learning the taste and texture of him, feeling desired and cherished.
Eleanor pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.
She'd never been kissed like that before.
Had never imagined being kissed like that.
The romance novels in Aubrey's library had attempted to describe such things, but the reality was so much more intense.
The way his hand had cradled her head. The way his lips had coaxed hers open.
The brief, shocking touch of his tongue that had sent heat flooding through her entire body.
She wanted it again. Wanted more of it. Wanted things she barely understood but felt in the ache low in her belly, in the restless energy that made sleep impossible.
Eleanor turned onto her side, punching her pillow into a more comfortable shape.
This was madness. She was leaving, wasn’t she? She needed to be certain this was real before—
A sound came through the wall. The connecting wall between her bedroom and Aubrey's.
A moan. Low and pained.
Eleanor sat up immediately, her heart racing. Was he hurt? Had he tried to move and injured himself? He'd moved too much, trying to be presentable. Had that aggravated his wounds?
She threw back her covers and grabbed her wrapper, not bothering with slippers as she hurried through the connecting door.
Another moan, slightly louder.
Eleanor didn't knock. She pushed open the door and rushed to his bedside in the darkness, her hands reaching for him instinctively.
"Aubrey? Are you alright? Are you in pain?"
Her hand found his forehead, warm but not feverish. He moaned again, and Eleanor realised with a start that it wasn't a sound of pain.
It was something else entirely.
His hand shot out and caught her wrist, his grip strong. His eyes opened, dark and unfocused in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains.
And then, before Eleanor could react, he pulled her down and kissed her.
Not gently. Not tentatively. But with fierce, hungry passion that stole her breath and made her head spin.
His mouth was hot and demanding against hers, his free hand coming up to tangle in her loose braid, holding her exactly where he wanted her. Eleanor gasped against his lips, and Aubrey took immediate advantage, deepening the kiss in a way that made her knees weak.
This was nothing like the chaste kiss she'd given him earlier. This was raw need, barely controlled desire.
Eleanor kissed him back without thinking, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance as the world tilted around her.
This was the man she'd loved since she was seventeen.
The man who had just declared his love for her.
The man who was kissing her as though she were precious, necessary, the answer to every question she'd ever asked.
When Aubrey finally released her mouth to draw breath, Eleanor's head was spinning. She could barely think, could barely remember her own name.
"Do you—" Her voice came out breathless, trembling. "Do you know who I am?"
Aubrey's laugh was rough, his breath warm on her lips. "Of course I do, Beth."
Eleanor gasped and tried to pull back, but Aubrey's arms tightened around her, his laugh deepening.
"I'm joking," he murmured, pressing kisses along her jaw, down her neck. "Of course, I know who you are, Eleanor. My Eleanor. My beautiful, infuriating, perfect wife."
His hand slid down from her waist to cup her bottom through the thin fabric of her nightgown and wrapper, pulling her closer against the edge of the bed. Eleanor's breath caught at the intimate touch, at the moisture between her legs.
"I know exactly who you are," Aubrey whispered against her ear, his voice dark with promise. "And I know exactly what I want to do to you. Want to strip away this nightgown. Want to kiss every inch of your skin. Want to make you moan my name the way I was moaning yours."
Eleanor's entire body flushed hot, desire and shock warring in her chest. "I came to… to check if you needed help turning."
"I no longer need help turning." Aubrey's mouth found hers again, the kiss slower now but no less heated. "But I need you, Eleanor. God, how I need you."
"I heard you moan through the wall," Eleanor managed between kisses. "I thought you were in pain."
"I was dreaming about you." Aubrey's hand traced up her spine, making her shiver. "About this afternoon. About you kissing me. And then I opened my eyes, and you were actually here, and for a moment I thought I was still dreaming."
He kissed her again, more deeply this time, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made Eleanor's toes curl. His hands roamed over her back, her waist, learning the shape of her through the thin barrier of fabric.
Eleanor felt powerful in a way she'd never experienced before.
This beautiful, impossible man wanted her.
Not just physically, though the evidence of that was unmistakable, but in every way that mattered.
She could feel it in the reverence of his touch, hear it in the desperate sounds he made when she kissed him back.
She was driving him mad with want. And she liked it.
Her hand slid down his chest, over the hard planes of his abdomen, lower…
Aubrey gasped when her fingers found his erection through his nightshirt. His hips jerked involuntarily, and the sound he made was something between a groan and a plea.
"Eleanor…" His voice was ragged. "You're playing with fire."
"I know." Eleanor's hand moved experimentally, feeling the heat and hardness of him, confirming what she already knew. He wanted her. Desperately. Completely.
Aubrey's breathing became more laboured, his hands gripping her tighter, his mouth finding hers with increasing hunger. He was losing control, she realised, coming undone beneath her touch.
And suddenly Eleanor understood the danger.
She was in his bedroom in the middle of the night, wearing only her nightgown, touching him intimately while he kissed her with barely restrained passion.
If she stayed here another minute, there would be no more thinking. No more sense. Just this overwhelming need that threatened to consume them both.
Eleanor pulled back abruptly, stumbling away from the bed. Her lips were swollen, her body trembling, her breathing as ragged as his.
"I have to go," she gasped.
"Eleanor." Aubrey pushed himself up slightly, reaching for her. "Stay."
"I'm sorry. I can't." She was already backing toward the door, her hands shaking. "Goodnight, Aubrey."
She fled before he could respond, practically running back to her own room. Only when she'd closed and locked the door behind her did she allow herself to collapse against it, her heart racing so fast she thought it might burst from her chest.
She could still taste him. Could still feel the imprint of his hands on her body, the heat of his mouth on hers, the hard evidence of his desire beneath her fingers.
Eleanor pressed trembling hands to her burning face and tried to catch her breath.
Six more days until she left, until she could think clearly, away from his presence, away from the overwhelming need he inspired in her.
Six more days. If she could survive them.
Behind her locked door, Eleanor climbed back into bed with shaking legs and closed her eyes.
But sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of blue eyes and skilled hands and a voice whispering her name like a prayer.
And in the morning, she would have to face him again.
Pretend that nothing had changed.
Even though everything had.