She had never smiled at Aubrey that way or looked at him with anything but careful neutrality or, more recently, exhausted competence.
Why should she? He had given her nothing. Not kindness, not companionship, not even basic courtesy.
Robert said Kedleston has been carrying a torch for her since childhood.
Aubrey shifted against the pillows, wincing at the pull in his hip.
He did not care. He should not care. Eleanor's friendships, her sources of comfort, were none of his concern. Except they were starting to become his concern, whether he wanted them to be or not. Because somewhere in the past five days—between the turnings and the washings and the quiet devotion of her care—Aubrey had begun to see Eleanor not as an obstacle or an enemy, but as a person.
A person he might have wronged far more terribly than he had ever believed. The thought was deeply troubling.
Aubrey closed his eyes and tried to summon Rose's face. Rose, who had loved him. Rose, who had been driven away. But all he could see was Eleanor's pale, exhausted face in the candlelight. The dark circles under her grey eyes.
The smile she gave to someone else but never to him.
Aubrey woke to pain.
Not the sharp, immediate agony of those first days, but a deep, throbbing ache that radiated from his hip through his entire left side. He had been lying in the same position too long and needed to be turned.
He squinted at the clock on the mantel. Half past midnight. Eleanor was late.
He could wait, should wait. But the discomfort was growing with each passing moment, making it impossible to settle back into sleep. Aubrey shifted slightly, testing whether he could ease the pressure himself, and gasped as pain lanced through his hip.
No, he would need help.
He was reaching for the bell pull to summon a servant when his bedroom door opened.
Eleanor entered carrying a single candle, her hair—
Aubrey's breath caught.
He had grown accustomed to seeing her in the mornings, her hair already pinned up in that severe style she favoured, wearing one of her practical day dresses. Or late at night, when exhaustion made him barely register her appearance beyondthe basics.
But this...
Her hair was loose. Falling over her shoulders in soft waves, the candlelight catching hints of auburn in what he had always dismissed as merely brown. Caramel brown, he realised now. Rich and warm in the flickering light. The orange glow of the candle made her pale skin seem almost glowing, casting shadows that softened the sharp angles of her face and brought colour to her cheeks.
She had thrown on her dressing gown hastily—he could see lace peeking out from beneath it. Something white and delicate that suggested the nightgown underneath. The wrapper itself was simple, dark blue, but it draped differently than her usual severe dresses, following the lines of her small frame rather than hiding them.
She was beautiful.
The thought struck him like a well-timed hook, and Aubrey felt his entire body go rigid with shock at his own reaction.
No. She was not beautiful. She was Eleanor. Plain, practical Eleanor with her unfortunate colouring and boyish figure. The woman he had been forced to marry. The obstacle between him and happiness.
Except... in this moment, with her hair loose and the candlelight warm on her skin and something almost soft in her grey eyes as she approached the bed…
"You're awake," Eleanor said quietly, setting the candle on the bedside table. "Are you in pain? I apologise for my tardiness. I slept in."
"Not to worry. The pain is tolerable." His voice rumbled low and husky.
Eleanor nodded, immediately moving into action. She set about arranging the pillows, preparing to turn him, her movements efficient.
But Aubrey could not stop watching her. The concentration on her face as she worked. The surprising grace in her small, competent hands. The small curves as she turned him towards her, his eyes aligned directly with her chest.
"There," she said softly after she had eased him onto his side and tucked pillows behind his back. "Is that better?"
"Yes. Thank you."
