Chapter 27 Christmas Eve #2
Aubrey nearly choked on his tea.
"And the poetry?" Cartwright pressed. "Has he subjected you to amateur verses?"
Eleanor's gaze cut to Aubrey, whose ears had gone slightly pink. "Poetry?" she said innocently. "No, I can't say he has. Should I be expecting some?"
"Absolutely not," Aubrey said quickly.
"Pity," Eleanor mused. "I do enjoy a good sonnet. Or even a mediocre one, really. The effort is what counts."
"She's magnificent," Waverly announced. "Madeley, I take back everything I said. If I'd known your wife was this entertaining, we would have visited weeks ago."
"We were rather hoping," Avon said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "that you might help us cure him of this... affliction he's developed."
"Affliction?" Eleanor repeated.
"He's gone soft," Cartwright explained. "Talks about feelings. Plans Christmas balls. Next thing you know, he'll be hosting tea parties and discussing curtain fabrics."
"I see," Eleanor said gravely. "And you believe this softness is contagious?"
"Highly," Waverly confirmed.
Eleanor pretended to consider this, tapping one finger against her teacup.
"Well then, I'm afraid you've come to entirely the wrong place.
This house is absolutely riddled with domesticity.
Why, just this morning, I caught Lord Madeley actually smiling at breakfast. Without being prompted. The condition may be terminal."
Aubrey was watching her with such open affection that Eleanor almost forgot there were others in the room.
"You're all doomed," she continued cheerfully. "By the end of your visit, you'll be discussing flower arrangements and the proper way to fold napkins. I give it two days before one of you asks for knitting needles."
"Never," Avon declared.
"We're made of sterner stuff," Cartwright agreed.
"That's what they all say," Eleanor said ominously. "Then they see a well-appointed drawing room and it's over. The feminine touches simply overwhelm their masculine sensibilities."
"Is she always like this?" Waverly asked Aubrey.
"Always," Aubrey confirmed, his voice warm with affection.
"Wonderful," Waverly said. "Madeley, I owe you an apology. We thought you'd lost your mind. Turns out you've simply found it."
"Though we still maintain," Cartwright added, "that matching embroidered cushions are a bridge too far."
"Very well. I'll settle for making you all dance at tomorrow's ball."
The three men exchanged looks of horror.
"Why must there be dancing?" Avon asked weakly.
"So you can experience marital bliss like Lord Madeley and myself," Eleanor said. "I've planned a waltz specifically for this purpose. You'll all participate, naturally."
"Naturally," Waverly echoed faintly.
Eleanor caught Aubrey's eye, and the look they shared was full of warmth and private amusement—the look of two people who understood each other perfectly.
His friends noticed that too.
"Right," Cartwright said, setting down his teacup with a decisive click. "Operation Rescue Madeley is officially cancelled. The patient is exactly where he wants to be."
"And where he should be," Avon added, raising his cup in a small salute.
"To Lord and Lady Madeley," Waverly declared. "May the rest of us be so fortunate in our afflictions."
They drank to that.
It was well past midnight by the time Aubrey dismissed Morrison. Dinner had stretched long, followed by port and tobacco with his friends—hours of comfortable masculine camaraderie that he'd once thought essential to his happiness.
Now, as Morrison helped him into his nightshirt and dressing gown, all Aubrey could think about was the woman in the next room.
"Will that be all, my lord?" Morrison asked.
"Yes, thank you."
The valet departed, and Aubrey made his slow way to the washstand, grateful that his leg was strong enough now for one cane. He washed his face and hands, then caught sight of himself in the mirror—hair disheveled, eyes bright despite the late hour, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips.
He looked like a man in love.
He was a man in love.
Light glowed beneath the connecting door to Eleanor's chamber. Aubrey's heart kicked against his ribs. She was still awake.
He knocked softly, heard her call for him to enter, and found her propped against the pillows with a book in her lap. She'd changed into a white nightgown, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, and the sight of her—soft and warm and waiting—made his breath catch.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said.
"Never." She set the book aside, watching as he limped toward the bed with his canes. "Did your friends survive dinner with the terrifying Lady Madeley?"
Aubrey settled onto the edge of the bed, propping his cane against the nightstand. "They're utterly besotted with you. Waverly told me I was the luckiest bastard in England. His exact words."
"High praise from a man who thought I'd poisoned you."
"About that—" Aubrey turned to face her fully, reaching for her hand. "I must confess, that sly, playful side of you this afternoon... it was unexpected. Delightful, but unexpected."
Eleanor's cheeks pinkened. "I wasn't certain you'd appreciate me trading barbs with your friends."
"Appreciate it? Eleanor, you were magnificent.
" He traced his thumb across her knuckles.
"I hadn't known my wife possessed the ability to hold her own with a room full of rogues.
Their approval means introducing you to the ton will be far easier than I'd anticipated.
Not that their opinion was ever necessary—but it certainly helps. "
"I'm glad I didn't embarrass you."
"Embarrass me?" Aubrey shifted closer, lifting his legs onto the bed with a slight grimace. "Eleanor, I was so proud I could barely sit still. Every witty retort, every sharp observation—I kept thinking, 'Yes, that's my wife. My brilliant, clever wife.'"
She ducked her head, smiling. "You're being generous."
"I'm being honest." He reached out, cupping her face to tilt it toward him. "And I'm also being remiss in not telling you how exquisite you looked today. That blue gown..."
"You noticed?"
"Noticed?" His voice dropped. "Eleanor, I nearly forgot how to form complete sentences. You walked into that room and every thought in my head scattered like leaves in a storm."
Her breath hitched. "Oh."
"Yes. Oh." He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers—softly at first, then deeper when she sighed into the kiss. "Though I must confess," he murmured against her mouth, "as beautiful as you were in that gown, I much prefer you like this."
"In my nightgown?"
"Without any clothing at all."
Eleanor felt blood pool between her thighs. "Aubrey—"
He kissed her again, more insistently this time, and she responded with an eagerness that sent heat flooding through him. Her fingers found his hair, tangling in the strands as she pulled him closer. The book tumbled forgotten to the floor.
He helped her lie back against the pillows, his hands trembling slightly as he untied the ribbons of her nightgown. She watched him with trust and desire mingled in her eyes, and the combination nearly undid him.
When he finally eased the fabric aside, revealing the curve of her breasts, he forgot his pain and paused simply to breathe.
"You're so beautiful," he said hoarsely. "So damned beautiful."
He kissed her throat, her collarbone, then lower, taking his time, learning what made her gasp and arch beneath him. Her skin was impossibly soft, warm and fragrant, and when he drew one nipple into his mouth, she made a sound that shot straight through him.
"Aubrey," she breathed, her fingers tightening in his hair.
He lavished attention on her breasts, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer caresses, until she was writhing against the sheets. Then his hand drifted lower, skimming over her stomach, her hip, the curve of her thigh.
He touched her through the fabric of her nightgown first, feeling the heat of her, and she gasped at the contact. Then he gathered the hem in his fist, drawing it up slowly, giving her time to stop him if she wished.
She didn't stop him.
When his fingers finally found bare skin—slick and hot and wanting—they both groaned.
"Eleanor," he breathed, kissing her deeply as he began to explore. "God, you’re so wet."
"Don't stop," she gasped against his mouth. "Please don't stop."
He didn't. He stroked and circled and teased, paying attention to what made her moan, what made her hips lift seeking more. She was responsive and uninhibited in a way that drove him wild, her hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere she could reach.
"I want—" Eleanor's breath caught. "I want to touch you too."
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
Aubrey shifted, giving her access, and nearly lost his mind when her hand slipped beneath his nightshirt, her small fingers wrapping around him with tentative confidence. He was already hard, had been since he'd entered her room, and her touch was exquisite torture.
"Like this?" she asked.
"Yes. God, yes, exactly like that."
They found a rhythm together—her hand moving over him while his fingers worked her toward release. It was clumsy and urgent and absolutely perfect. Aubrey watched her face, memorising every expression, every flush of pleasure that crossed her features.
When she suddenly tensed, her eyes going wide, he kissed her through it, swallowing her cry as she shattered. The feel of her wet heat against his hand, the way she clung to him, nearly pushed him over the edge.
"Eleanor," he groaned. "Faster—"
"Yes, like this?" she whispered fiercely.
Her hand quickened, and the combination of her touch and her words and the aftershocks still trembling through her body proved too much. Release crashed through him with stunning intensity, and he buried his face in her neck, gasping her name like a prayer.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Aubrey could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, could hear Eleanor's ragged breathing gradually slowing. When he finally lifted his head, she was looking at him with such tenderness it made his chest ache.
"Come here," she whispered, tugging him down beside her.
He went willingly, gathering her against his chest despite the awkwardness of his injured leg. She fit perfectly there, warm and soft and impossibly real.
"I can't believe you're mine," he said quietly, pressing a kiss to her hair. "That this—us—is real."
Eleanor tilted her face up to his. "I can’t believe it either."
"I don't deserve you."
"Probably not," she agreed with a small smile.
They lay tangled together, sharing soft kisses and softer words, until Aubrey felt Eleanor begin to drift toward sleep. He should return to his own bed—propriety demanded it, even between husband and wife.
But propriety, he decided, could go hang.
"Stay," Eleanor murmured, as if reading his thoughts.
"Wild horses couldn't drag me away."
She smiled against his shoulder, and Aubrey closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he felt.
Outside, snow began to fall, blanketing Willowbrook Manor in white. But inside, wrapped in each other's arms, Aubrey and Eleanor had found something infinitely warmer.