"I do not have a fever." The words came out through gritted teeth. "I am perfectly… You know very well what it is."
Eleanor met his eyes then and had to suppress a smile at the mixture of lust and mortification she found there. His face was flushed, his pupils dilated, his jaw clenched with the effort of maintaining some semblance of control.
"Does this often happen during your care?" she asked innocently. "I have not noticed it before."
"You were not wearing that dress before." The admission seemed torn from him. "And your hair was not—you did not look so—" He stopped, closing his eyes again. "This is torture. You are torturing me."
"Am I?" Eleanor felt something shift in her chest. Something that felt like satisfaction mixed with a strange, heady sense of feminine power she had never experienced before. "I assure you, my lord, I am simply performing my duties as your nurse."
She returned her attention to his arousal, studying it with the same careful attention she had given his other injuries. She had never seen a man in this state before. Had barely understood what happened between married people beyond the vaguest explanations her mother had provided before the wedding.
But watching Aubrey's reaction—the way he grew harder under her gaze, the way his body betrayed him despite his obvious mortification—was oddly fascinating.
And empowering.
She reached out again with the gauze—
"Eleanor, I am begging you." His voice was ragged now. "If you touch me again, I will not be able to…"
She paused, looking up at his face. And what she saw there made her still for a moment.
His eyes had darkened with unmistakable lust. Raw. Desperate. Fixed on her with an intensity that made something low in her belly clench with a sensation she did not quite understand.
Eleanor pulled her hand back quickly, suddenly very aware that she was playing with fire. That she might have pushed too far. That the look in Aubrey's eyes was hungry in a way that both thrilled and terrified her.
"I should..." She cleared her throat, gathering her supplies with hands that trembled slightly. "I should check your dressing and let you rest. You need your strength."
She worked quickly now, keeping her eyes averted, trying to ignore the evidence of his arousal as she cleaned and re-bandaged his wounds with professional efficiency. Aubrey remained absolutely still, his breathing harsh, his body rigid withtension.
"There," Eleanor said finally, pulling the sheet back up—carefully, not looking. "All done. I shall return to check on you after dinner."
She moved toward the door, desperate to escape the charged atmosphere of the room.
"Eleanor, wait—"
But she was already gone, closing the door behind her and leaning against the corridor wall for a moment, her heart hammering.
He had wanted her. His body had responded to her. Not to Rose. Not to the memory of Rose. To her. To Eleanor.
To the wife he had spent two years ignoring.
The realisation sent a confusing mixture of emotions through her chest: triumph, fear, confusion, and something that felt dangerously like hope.
Eleanor pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks and tried to steady her breathing.
She had to go downstairs. Had to smile and make conversation with Liz’s family. Had to pretend that nothing had changed.
Even though something had changed.
She just was not certain what it meant.
Chapter thirteen
Distance
Aubrey woke to the familiar ache in his hip that signalled it was time to be turned. He squinted at the clock on his mantel—midnight. Right on schedule.
Eleanor had ensured he had everything he needed before she retired to bed, looking just as lovely as she had before dinner. He’d readily agreed to delegating night turnings to Morrison as she needed her rest, but he missed her hands on him; her soft and competent hands efficiently rearranging the blanket and pillows around him, the gentle brush of her hands against his body.
