Eleanor dipped the cloth in warm water and began to wash his face and neck with brisk, impersonal movements. Like washing a child, she told herself. Like caring for one of the orphans at St. Catherine's. Nothing intimate. Nothing personal.
Except it was personal. Devastatingly so.
This was her husband's skin beneath her hands. His throat moving as he swallowed. His breathing quickening when the cloth moved across his collarbone.
She worked in silence, washing his arms, his chest, his abdomen, keeping her touch clinical and her eyes downcast. Aubrey remained rigid, not helping but not resisting either, his hands fisted in the sheets.
"Your back," Eleanor said quietly. "I shall need to turn you slightly."
"No—"
"Yes." Her voice was firm. "Dr Fielding said you must be turned regularly. And your back needs washing."
"Eleanor—"
"Lady Madeley," she corrected automatically. "Or Mrs. Hartwick, if you prefer. We are not familiar enough for Christian names."
He clenched his teeth. "You cannot possibly… the pain when I move—"
"I know." She did know. She had seen his face when Dr Fielding examined him. "But it must be done."
For a long moment, he simply stared at her. Then, with obvious reluctance: "Very well."
Eleanor positioned herself carefully, placing one hand on his shoulder and one on his hip—the right hip, the uninjured side. "On three. One... two... three."
She pulled gently, rolling him toward her. Aubrey made a sound that was half gasp, half groan, his fingers clutching at her forearm hard enough to bruise.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I know it hurts—"
"Just—finish it—"
She worked as quickly as she could, washing his back with efficient strokes, then easing him back down onto fresh linens she had somehow managed to slide beneath him. Aubrey was breathing hard, his face grey, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Eleanor dampened a fresh cloth and wiped his brow. "The worst is over. Just the dressings now, and—" She paused. "And the lower portion."
Aubrey's eyes flew open. "No."
"I assure you, my lord, I take no pleasure in this,” her voice was filled with bitterness, “and I’m frankly tired of having this argument with you. Stop being a child and do as you’re told. It’s for your own wellbeing."
"You do not understand what you are asking." His voice cracked.
"I understand perfectly." Eleanor's hands were shaking now. "But there is no one else. There is only me, and if I’m willing to care for you while you glare at me with hatred, then surely you can lie still for a few minutes."
The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.
Finally, Aubrey closed his eyes. "I beg your pardon."
Eleanor's hands trembled as she reached for the sheet covering his lower half. She folded it back with careful precision, exposing his legs while keeping his groin area covered as much as possiblewith a towel.
The bruising was worse here. Terrible blooms of purple and black spreading across his left thigh, disappearing upward in ways that made her stomach clench.
She dampened the cloth again and began to wash his legs, starting at his feet and working upward. Clinical. Impersonal. She was a nurse. Nothing more.
When she reached his upper thigh, Aubrey's entire body went rigid.
"My lord," Eleanor said softly, "I need you to... the towel must be moved. Just for a moment."
Eleanor reached for the sheet with trembling hands. She pulled it back slowly, forcing herself to look as a mature married woman would. At least she would die knowing what a male member looked like, no matter how discoloured or disfigured.
