"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?"
