Chapter 23 Seventh Day of Wooing a Wife
Chapter twenty-three
Seventh Day of Wooing a Wife
Eleanor entered her private parlour for breakfast, expecting to find it empty as usual. Instead, she stopped short in the doorway.
Aubrey sat in one of the armchairs near the window, fully dressed, or as fully dressed as propriety would allow.
He wore trousers and a white shirt open at the collar, no cravat, no jacket.
His hair was tousled as though he'd run his hands through it repeatedly, and he looked rumpled and impossibly handsome in the morning light.
His face lit up when he saw her with an unguarded smile of pure joy that made her heart flip.
"Good morning," he said, extending his hand toward her in clear invitation. "Come here."
Eleanor approached slowly, her pulse quickening with each step. "How did you get here? You shouldn't have walked."
"Two footmen carried me like a piece of furniture. Morrison complained I’d ruin his hair and refused to carry me." Aubrey's smile widened. "It was profoundly undignified, but worth it to have breakfast with you. Come." He gestured to his outstretched hand again. "You can trust me."
"I know I can trust you." Eleanor placed her hand in his, her voice soft. "I'm not sure you can trust me."
Aubrey laughed—a rich, warm sound that filled the small room—and pulled her gently onto his right leg, the uninjured side. His arms came around her waist, holding her securely against him.
"Eleanor." His voice was serious now, though his eyes still danced with amusement. "Tell me how you feel. About last night. About the kiss. About all of this." His hand moved in a gentle circle on her back. "I don't want to scare you or overwhelm you. I need to know what you need from me."
Eleanor's throat tightened. She could feel the warmth of him through the thin layers of fabric separating them, could smell the sandalwood soap he used. "I don't know what I feel. Everything is moving so fast. So suddenly."
"I know." Aubrey's other hand came up to stroke the tender flesh on her throat, the gesture achingly tender.
"But Eleanor, I need you to understand something. What I feel for you, it transcends the physical. Yes, I want you. God knows I want you. But I would feel exactly the same way if we didn’t touch at all.
If you asked me to wait years before—" He stopped, swallowed hard.
"I want you for your mind, your heart, your strength.
The physical desire is just... a symptom of admiring all of you. "
Eleanor's eyes burned with tears. "You say that now—"
"I'll say it every day." His thumb stroked her cheek. "I pray you'll let me touch you. Let me kiss you. Let me show you how much I want you. But if you need more time, I'll wait. However long it takes."
"Everything is happening so quickly," Eleanor whispered. "I don't know how to feel about finding you here, in our parlour, wanting to touch me and talk to me. And there's so much to do. The orphans’ dinner, our family dinner, and—"
"The Davies have served my family for decades," Aubrey interrupted gently. "They can handle everything if you want to leave it to them. Including the family and friends’ dinner on Christmas Day."
Eleanor blinked. "Family and friends?"
"I invited a few people." Aubrey's expression was almost sheepish.
"Steven Kedleston and his family. Michael and Liz with the children, if they can return in time, your father, some neighbours.
I thought—" He stopped, gauging her reaction.
"I thought you might like to have a proper Christmas.
With people who care about you. About us. "
"You invited Steven?" Eleanor couldn't keep the surprise from her voice.
"He loves you. He's been your friend through everything. He deserves to see that you're happy." Aubrey's voice was steady despite the flicker of something that might have been possessiveness in his eyes. "And I want to show him, show everyone, that I'm trying to be worthy of you."
Eleanor stared at him, her chest tight with emotions she couldn't name. "You invited all those people. Planned a Christmas dinner. While bedridden."
"I had help. Mrs Williams has been surprisingly enthusiastic about the arrangements." Aubrey smiled. "I think she's pleased to see the house full again. To see you happy."
"I'm not…" Eleanor stopped. "I don't know if I'm happy. I don't know what I am."
"Then let's find out together." Aubrey reached for the covered dishes on the nearby table, placed within his reach. "Starting with breakfast."
"I’ll sit beside you."
"Let me." Aubrey uncovered a plate of eggs and toast, picked up a fork, and proceeded to cut a small piece of egg. He brought it to Eleanor's lips with a smile. "Open."
Eleanor opened her mouth automatically, too surprised to protest. The egg was perfectly prepared, still warm, seasoned exactly as she liked it.
Aubrey fed her another bite, then took one himself from the same fork. The gesture was incredibly intimate—sharing utensils, sharing food, his arm around her waist while she sat on his lap in the morning sunlight.
"This is improper," Eleanor said after swallowing. "Sitting on your lap and sharing breakfast like this."
"We're married." Aubrey offered her a piece of toast with butter. "And alone in our private parlour. I think we're allowed to do whatever we want."
"I suppose I forget that you are my husband."
Aubrey's expression grew serious. "Eleanor, I don't want to lose another moment. Not to propriety, not to fear, not to anything."
He fed her another bite, his movements gentle and unhurried. They ate in silence for several minutes, trading bites of eggs and toast and even sharing a cup of tea.
"Tell me about the orphans," Aubrey said finally. "What have you planned?"
Eleanor relaxed slightly, grateful for the safe topic.
"There are twenty-three children, ages four to fourteen.
I thought we could let them play in the drawing room, play games, serve them tea and Christmas biscuits.
And then," she paused to take a sip of tea from the cup Aubrey held against her lips, "and then on the morning of Christmas eve, we'll have gifts for each of them. "
"What kind of gifts?"
"Practical things, mostly. Warm clothes, boots, books. But also," Eleanor smiled despite herself, "toys. Dolls for the girls. Tin soldiers for the boys. Things they want rather than just need."
"Perfect." Aubrey pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "You have a gift for knowing what people need, Eleanor. For truly seeing them."
The compliment made Eleanor's chest warm. "You're doing it again."
"What?"
"Saying things that make me…" She stopped, unsure how to finish. "That make it hard to protect myself."
"Good." Aubrey's voice was soft. "I don't want you to protect yourself from me. I want you to let me in. All the way in."
Eleanor turned to look at him, their faces suddenly very close. She could see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly as his gaze dropped to her mouth.
A sharp knock at the door made them both jump. Morrison's voice came through the wood, pained and disapproving.
"My lord, you've been sitting for nearly forty minutes. The physician said no more than half an hour at a time. You must return to bed before you aggravate your injuries."
Aubrey groaned, his forehead dropping against Eleanor's shoulder. "Morrison has the worst timing of any valet in England."
"He's trying to take care of you," Eleanor said, though she made no move to stand. "And he's right. You shouldn't sit too long."
"I know." Aubrey pulled back to look at her. "But I'm not ready to let you go yet."
Another knock, more insistent this time. "My lord, I must insist—"
"Coming, Morrison!" Aubrey called, then lowered his voice. "Will you stay? After they move me back to bed? We could read together or just talk. I'll be perfectly proper, I swear it."
Eleanor searched his face, seeing the hope there, the vulnerability beneath his playful tone. "Alright. Yes."
Aubrey's smile was brilliant. "Help me stand? My left side is still too weak to bear much weight."
Eleanor stood first, then braced herself to help Aubrey to his feet. Morrison entered with two footmen, and both servants wore matching expressions of disapproval.
"My lord," Morrison said with pained formality, "your hair is a disgrace. And your shirt, completely wrinkled. I prepared proper attire for breakfast, and you insisted on this... this casual disarray."
"I was comfortable," Aubrey said, leaning heavily on the footmen as they made their slow way toward his bedroom.
"You look like you've been tumbled in a haystack," Morrison muttered. "What will Lady Madeley think?"
"Lady Madeley," Eleanor interjected, biting back a smile, "thinks her husband looks quite handsome even with wrinkled shirts and messy hair."
Morrison looked scandalised. The footman coughed to hide what might have been a laugh.
They manoeuvred Aubrey back into his bed with considerable effort and several moments where he had to pause and breathe through pain. By the time he was settled against his pillows, his face was pale, and a light sheen of sweat covered his forehead.
"I overdid it," Aubrey admitted when Morrison fussed over him with a damp cloth. "But it was worth it."
"You'll set back your recovery with this nonsense," Morrison grumbled.
"Morrison," Aubrey said gently. "You may leave us now. Lady Madeley has agreed to keep me company."
Morrison's eyes darted between them, concern etched on his face. Finally, he bowed stiffly. "Please do take care. Ring if you require anything."
He withdrew with the footmen, closing the door.
Eleanor stood awkwardly beside the bed, suddenly unsure. Sitting on his lap in the parlour had felt natural somehow. But being alone with him in his bedroom felt different. More dangerous.
"Come here." Aubrey patted the bed beside him, his voice coaxing. "I promised to be proper, remember? We'll just read. Or talk. Nothing scandalous."
"Last night was scandalous enough for both of us," Eleanor said, but she moved to the bed anyway.
"Last night was perfect," Aubrey corrected. "But I understand if you need to go slower."
Eleanor climbed onto the bed—carefully, maintaining a respectable distance—and settled against the pillows beside him. Aubrey reached for a book from his bedside table and opened it between them.
"Jane Eyre?" Eleanor asked, her eyes wide. “You actually read it?”
"I surmised you brought it to me for a reason," Aubrey admitted, a good-natured smile spreading across his face. "Turns out there are lessons to be learned." He paused, suddenly looking uncertain. "I thought we could read it together. Take turns. Unless you'd prefer something else?"
"I brought it to offend you, if I’m being honest.”
A grin brightened his handsome features, momentarily mesmerising her.
“I figured as much. It looked well loved, so I read it out of curiosity.
" Eleanor couldn't keep the surprise from her expression.
"It's a romance novel about a governess, about two people who are terrible at communicating," he began as if to prove the truth of his claim.
"About a man too proud and stubborn to admit his feelings until he's nearly lost everything.
About a woman who refuses to compromise her self-respect even when she's desperately in love.
" His eyes met hers. "I see now how it might be. .. relevant."
Eleanor swallowed although her throat felt dry suddenly.
Aubrey opened to a marked page. "I may have developed opinions about Rochester. Mostly that he's a fool who doesn't deserve Jane. But then—" His smile turned self-deprecating. "I suppose I'm not one to judge."
"No," Eleanor agreed softly. "You're not."
"So?" Aubrey held up the book. "Will you read with me? I promise to let you defend Rochester when I call him a fool."
"He is a fool," Eleanor said, but she was smiling as she leaned closer to see the text, their shoulders touching. Neither of them moved away. "But he loves her. In the end, that's what matters."
Aubrey began to read aloud, his voice rich and expressive: "I have for the first time found what I can truly love, I have found you.
You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel.
I am bound to you with a strong attachment.
I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one. "
His voice had dropped lower on the last words, and when Eleanor looked up, she found him watching her instead of the page.
"Rochester was rather eloquent," Eleanor whispered. "For a fool."
"Even fools can speak the truth sometimes," Aubrey murmured. "When they finally find it."
They read like that for over an hour, taking turns with passages, occasionally pausing to discuss what they'd read.
Aubrey's hand found hers at some point, their fingers intertwining naturally.
Eleanor's head eventually came to rest against his shoulder, her body relaxing into the warmth and safety of his presence.
Outside, winter sunlight streamed through the windows. Downstairs, servants bustled about preparing for the orphans' arrival.
But for this moment, this perfect, impossible moment, Eleanor let herself simply be. Here. With him. Safe and wanted and cherished.