Could she have been deceiving him all along?
Perhaps Rose had been mistaken about the identity of Eleanor's supposed lover. Perhaps she had heard gossip about Eleanor and Steven Kedleston and assumed it meant more than it did.
That was possible but unlikely. Unless she had misinterpreted innocent friendship as something more scandalous.
Yes. That made sense.
Aubrey felt his certainty settling back into place. Rose had not lied. She had simply been mistaken about certain details. The core truth remained: Eleanor had wanted Rose gone and had threatened her family.
"You've gone very quiet," Robert observed. "Are you in pain? Should I call for a servant?"
"No. I am... thinking."
"Dangerous occupation in your condition." Robert stood, brushing off his coat. "I should be going. Mother will have my head if I'm late for dinner. But I'm glad you're not dead, old boy. Would have been a terrible waste."
"Your concern is touching."
"Isn't it?" Robert moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh, I’m hosting a New Year’s Eve dinner. Come. Bring your wife."
After Robert left, Aubrey lay in the darkness, trying to sort through his thoughts.
He did not care about Eleanor's relationship with Steven Kedleston. He did not.
Aubrey had married her under duress, had never wanted her, would never want her. What she did with her time, who she dined with, was no concern of his.
Except...
Except he was still her husband. And she was still his wife. And regardless of his personal feelings, he had a reputation to maintain. A position in society. A husband’s dalliance was tolerated, but a wife’s?
If Eleanor were to conduct an affair openly, that would reflect poorly on him. On his family. On their name.
It was not about Eleanor specifically. It was about principle and male pride. Yes, that was all it was. Nothing more.
Because caring about Eleanor beyond the basic territorial instinct of any husband would mean admitting he might have been wrong about her.
Which meant he’d been wrong about Rose.
And Aubrey was not ready to admit that.
Chapter nine
Wife’s Offending Attitude Toward His Ballocks
They had developed a rhythm.
Aubrey had not realised it was happening until the morning of the seventh, when Eleanor entered his bedroom at precisely eight o'clock—as she had for the past five mornings—carrying the basin of warm water, fresh linens folded over her arm.
She did not ask if he was ready. Simply set down the basin, arranged her supplies, and began the routine they had both learned by necessity.
Turn first. The worst part, when his hip screamed in protest and his fingers found her wrist—more gently now, conscious of the bruises he had already left. She braced him without flinching, her small frame surprisingly strong, and eased him onto his side with practiced efficiency.
Check the dressings. Replace any that were soiled. Apply fresh salve to the abrasions that were thankfully beginning to heal.
Then the washing: face, neck, chest, arms. Her hands were no longer trembling as they had those first days. She worked with swift, impersonal competence, as though his body were simply another problem to be solved, another task on her endless list of duties.
Roll him back. More pillows. Check for fever—her hand cool against his forehead, lingering just a moment longer than strictly necessary.
Then the lower half. The part that still made his face burn, though less intensely now than it had at first.
