When she really looked, the bruising was worse than she'd glimpsed before.
Eleanor forced herself to look properly, to assess what needed tending. The bruising extended into his groin, mottled purple and black against pale skin. She could see the worst of it—one testicle nearly black, exactly as Dr Fielding had said, swollen to almost double the size as the other one and clearly painful. The other bore lighter bruising but was equally vulnerable in its exposure.
Her face burned. This was her husband's body, laid bare before her not in passion or intimacy, but in humiliation and necessity. She could see everything—the dark hair, the vulnerable flesh, the evidence of his masculinity reduced to a medical problem that needed cleaning.
Aubrey had gone completely rigid, every muscle in his body tense. His hands were fisted in the sheets beside him, his knuckles white. She could hear his breathing—harsh, rapid, fighting for control.
"I'm sorry," Eleanor whispered, though she wasn't sure if she was apologising for looking or for what she was about to do.
She dampened a cloth in fresh soapy water and began with the abrasions on his inner thigh, several inches below the worst of it. The skin was scraped raw in places, the surrounding flesh swollen and hot to the touch. She worked with swift efficiency, keeping her touch as light and clinical as possible.
But there was no way to make this anything but intimate.
Her hands were inches from the most private parts of him. She could feel the heat of his skin, could see the way his stomach muscles clenched when her fingers moved closer to the truly delicate areas. When she had to clean near the bruised testicle, her knuckles accidentally brushed against his inner thigh, and Aubrey made a sound—half gasp, half groan—that might have been pain or might have been something worse.
Eleanor kept her eyes fixed on the wounds, nothing else, working as quickly as possible. But she couldn't help seeing everything in her peripheral vision. His manhood limp except for the occasional twitching. The vulnerability of his position. The terrible intimacy of touching her husband in this awful way.
She applied the salve with shaking fingers, trying to ignore how his breathing quickened when she had to work around the worst of the bruising. Trying not to think about how other women must have seen her husband in health and desire.
"Almost done," she murmured, her voiceunsteady.
She cleaned the final abrasion and then quickly, gratefully, pulled the sheet back up.
They were both trembling.
Eleanor turned away immediately, busying herself with disposing of the soiled cloths, giving them both a moment to recover some semblance of dignity.
"There," she said to the wall, unable to look at him. "Dr Fielding said once daily is sufficient unless there are signs of infection."
Behind her, Aubrey said nothing. She could hear his ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.
"I'll return in four hours to help you turn," Eleanor continued, still not turning around. "Try to rest, my lord."
She fled before he could respond, before the tears burning behind her eyes could fall. Was this the extent of their marriage? This clinical necessity and mutual humiliation were worse than when they’d been complete strangers.
This was one way to end their marriage irrevocably.
Worse, this was just the beginning.
This was going to destroy them both.
The afternoon stretched endlessly. Eleanor kept to her room, claiming a headache to Mrs Williams, though in truth she simply could not face the thought of going downstairs and pretending everything was normal.
Nothing about this situation was normal.
She tried to read but could not focus on the words. Tried to write letters but could think of nothing to say. Finally, she simply sat by the window and watched the grey December sky darken toward evening, counting the hours until she would have to return to Aubrey's room.
Which meant she would have to touch him again. Roll him onto his side. Press her hands against his skin. Feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his body beneath her palms.
The clock on her mantel chimed four.
Too soon. Far too soon.
Eleanor stood, smoothed her dress, and forced steel into her spine.
When she entered Aubrey's bedroom, he was staring at nothing, expression as hard as a stone. He did not acknowledge her entrance.
"I need to turn you," Eleanor said quietly.
