Chapter 27 Christmas Eve
Chapter twenty-seven
Christmas Eve
Aubrey
Aubrey was in the drawing room reviewing the seating arrangements for tomorrow's ball when the commotion in the entrance hall announced the arrival of his London friends—a full day early.
"Madeley!" Lord Waverly's voice boomed through the corridor. "We've come to rescue you from this pastoral purgatory!"
Aubrey rose with a smile as three gentlemen burst into the room: Waverly, tall and ruddy-faced; Cartwright, perpetually dishevelled despite his expensive tailoring; and Avon, whose cravat was tied with such mathematical precision it looked painful.
"A day early, I see," Aubrey said, clasping each man's hand in turn.
"We left London at dawn," Cartwright announced, flinging himself into a chair. "Couldn't bear to think of you rotting away in the countryside a moment longer. No clubs, no theatre, no decent conversation. How have you survived?"
"The question," Avon interjected, accepting a glass of brandy from the footman, "is has he survived at all? We heard you took quite the tumble, old boy. Horse threw you?"
"Something like that," Aubrey murmured.
Waverly snorted. "More importantly—" He leaned forward conspiratorially. "How goes the campaign with the wife? Has she attempted to poison you yet? Smother you with a pillow? We heard she was... less than pleased with the marriage arrangement."
"I'm quite alive, as you can see."
"That's because he's been sleeping with one eye open," Cartwright said sagely. "Smart man. Never trust a woman scorned. They're far more creative than we give them credit for."
"Eleanor hasn't tried to poison me," Aubrey said firmly.
"That you know of," Avon muttered into his brandy. "The good ones are subtle. A bit of arsenic in the soup, slowly over time. You wouldn't even notice until—"
"Eleanor is not trying to kill me."
"Of course not," Waverly said in the tone of someone humouring a delusional patient. "Tell me, are you at least maintaining separate bedchambers? Essential for marital survival, that. Can't have her creeping about while you sleep."
Aubrey pinched the bridge of his nose. "We occasionally share a bedchamber."
The three men exchanged glances.
"Brave," Cartwright said. "Foolish, but brave."
"Gentlemen," Aubrey said, his patience wearing thin, "Eleanor is a wonderful person. She's intelligent, witty, compassionate—"
"Good God," Waverly interrupted, his face going pale. "It's worse than we thought."
"What are you talking about?"
"She has poisoned you," Avon breathed. "Just not with arsenic."
Cartwright was nodding vigorously. "The symptoms are all there. Praising her intelligence? Her wit? Next you'll be telling us you actually enjoy her company."
"I do enjoy her company."
"Fatal," Waverly declared. "Absolutely fatal. How long have you been experiencing these... feelings?"
"They're not symptoms of—"
"Have you written her poetry?" Avon demanded.
Aubrey hesitated a fraction too long.
"He has!" Cartwright leapt to his feet. "The man's written poetry! Someone fetch a physician!"
"I haven't written her poetry," Aubrey protested. Though he had, in fact, attempted several verses. They were terrible, which was why they remained hidden in his desk drawer.
"Madeley," Waverly said gravely, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Listen to me. We've seen this before. My cousin Gerald fell victim to the same affliction.
Married some country miss, started going on about her 'remarkable mind' and 'kind heart.
' Within six months, he was attending church voluntarily.
Church, Madeley. On days that weren't even Sunday. "
"The horror," Aubrey said dryly.
"You mock," Avon said, "but we're here to save you from yourself. What you need is a distraction. A hunting party perhaps. Or better yet, a few nights at the local tavern. Remind yourself what freedom tastes like."
"I don't want freedom from my wife."
The three men stared at him as if he'd announced plans to take up needlepoint.
"She's bewitched him," Cartwright whispered.
"Utterly," Waverly agreed.
"I prefer the term 'in love,'" Aubrey said, unable to suppress his smile.
"Same thing," Avon muttered darkly. "Both lead to matching embroidered cushions and giving up one's club membership."
"I haven't given up my club membership."
"Yet," Waverly said ominously. "It always starts with 'yet.'"
Aubrey sank back into his chair, accepting that this conversation was beyond redemption. "You'll meet Eleanor at dinner. Perhaps then you'll understand."
"Oh, we'll meet her," Cartwright said. "And we'll determine exactly what sort of witchcraft she's employed to reduce you to this... domesticated creature."
"I'm not domesticated."
"You're hosting a Christmas ball," Avon pointed out. "With decorations. And, I'm told, dancing."
"Good God, there's dancing?" Waverly looked genuinely alarmed.
"It's a ball. Of course there's dancing."
The three men exchanged another round of significant looks.
"Gentlemen," Waverly said solemnly, "we have our work cut out for us. Operation Rescue Madeley begins tonight."
"There's no operation—"
"Step one," Cartwright interrupted, "billiards and brandy. Lots of brandy. We'll remind him what masculine pursuits feel like."
"Step two," Avon added, "carefully observe this wife of his. Identify her methods."
"And step three," Waverly concluded, "extract him from this madness before he starts talking about feelings in public."
Aubrey couldn't help but laugh. His friends meant well, in their own misguided way. And perhaps it would do them good to see what an actual marriage could be—not the cold arrangements they'd all been raised to expect, but something with warmth and companionship and yes, love.
"Very well," he said. "Commence your rescue operation. But I warn you—you may find yourselves envying the patient rather than curing him."
"Impossible," Waverly scoffed. "We're confirmed bachelors. Well, Cartwright's engaged, but that's different. He hasn't actually married the girl yet."
"There's still time for him to escape," Avon agreed cheerfully.
Aubrey threw a cushion at him.
As the afternoon dissolved into the comfortable chaos of male companionship—brandy flowing, insults traded, outrageous stories told—Aubrey found himself only half-listening.
Part of his mind was already planning how to introduce Eleanor to these fools, how to show them what they were all missing by clinging to their bachelor ways.
They thought she'd bewitched him.
Perhaps she had.
But if this was witchcraft, Aubrey never wanted to break the spell.
Eleanor
Eleanor approached the drawing room with the tea tray, her new gown in royal blue silk draped elegantly over her figure. She'd dressed carefully for this meeting with Aubrey's London friends.
As she neared the door, a voice carried into the corridor—Aubrey's voice, warm and certain:
"I prefer the term 'in love.'"
Air seemed to abandon her.
In love.
The tea tray trembled in her hands.
She composed herself, counted to ten, then swept into the room.
The effect was immediate.
The three unknown gentlemen looked up—and their expressions shifted from casual interest to surprised appreciation. But Eleanor barely noticed them. Her attention was caught and held by Aubrey, who had turned at her entrance and gone utterly still.
His gaze travelled over her from the elegant upsweep of her hair to the way the royal blue silk draped across her shoulders and waist, and the naked admiration in his eyes made heat bloom across her skin.
His lips parted slightly, and for a moment, he looked as though he'd forgotten his friends were in the room.
Eleanor felt herself flush, warmth spreading from her cheeks down her throat.
"Gentlemen," Aubrey said, his voice slightly rougher than usual, his eyes never leaving her, "may I present my wife, Lady Madeley."
The three men scrambled to their feet with varying degrees of grace.
"Lady Madeley," the tallest one said, executing a bow. "Lord Waverly, at your service. We've heard... much about you."
"Nothing good, I hope," Eleanor said lightly, setting down the tea tray. "I do so hate to disappoint expectations."
Waverly blinked, then grinned. "Oh, I like her already."
"Lord Cartwright," a dishevelled gentleman announced. "Delighted to make your acquaintance. That's quite a stunning gown, if I may say so."
"You may," Eleanor replied, "though I suspect you would have said so regardless of whether I granted permission."
Cartwright laughed outright.
The third man, whose cravat looked as though it were strangling him, bowed with mathematical precision. "Avon, my lady. We apologise for arriving early. We couldn't bear to think of poor Madeley languishing in the countryside without proper companionship."
"How thoughtful," Eleanor said, pouring tea with practiced ease. "Though I confess, he's seemed rather... occupied lately. Haven't you, darling?"
She glanced at Aubrey as she said it, and the heat in his gaze intensified. His friends noticed.
"Occupied," Waverly repeated slowly. "Yes. I'm sure he has been."
"We were just discussing," Cartwright said with a roguish grin, "the dangers of country living. Poisoned soup, suffocating pillows, that sort of thing."
"Ah yes," Eleanor said serenely, handing him a teacup. "The usual marital hazards. Though I prefer more subtle methods myself. Arsenic is so pedestrian."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then Avon let out a bark of laughter. "Good God, Madeley, you didn't mention she was dangerous."
"I did try to warn you," Aubrey murmured, accepting his own teacup from Eleanor. Their fingers brushed, and she felt the touch all the way to her toes.
"So tell us, Lady Madeley," Waverly said, settling back into his chair with obvious delight, "how have you managed to domesticate our friend here? He used to be quite the bachelor about town."
"Domesticate?" Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware I was housing a wild animal. Though he does growl before his morning coffee."