"What?"
"Why apologise now? Because you're trapped here and need someone to care for you? Because Morrison told you to try harder?" She turned back, and her eyes were too knowing. "Or because you've finally noticed I'm female and your body has decided to cooperate?"
Heat flooded his face. "That's not—"
"Isn't it?" She crossed her arms. "You've been here two weeks, Aubrey. Two weeks of me tending you, dressing you, moving you. And suddenly you want to apologise properly. Forgive me if I'm sceptical about the timing."
"The timing is terrible," he admitted. "You're right. But that doesn't make it less true." He met her gaze directly, despite his embarrassment. "Last night, when you stood over Morrison and me, telling us we were being ridiculous—you were magnificent. Exasperated and commanding and absolutely right. And it made me realise I've spent two years not seeing you at all."
"And now you see me."
"Yes."
"How convenient." But her voice had lost some of its edge.
"It's not convenient at all." Aubrey shifted against the pillows, wincing slightly. "It's bloody inconvenient, actually. Because now I know exactly what I've lost, and I have no idea how to—" He stopped, frustrated with his own inability to articulate what he meant.
Eleanor studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—brief and humourless. "You know what the worst part is? I don't even hate you anymore."
"You don't?"
"I'm too tired to hate you." She moved back toward the bed, but slowly, as though approaching something unpredictable. "I spent years being angry. And then you nearly died, and I realised the anger was just... exhausting. And pointless."
"That's not forgiveness."
"No," she agreed. "It's not." She picked up the salve, her movements automatic. "But it's something. I don't know what yet."
Aubrey caught her wrist—gently this time, carefully. "I know I don't deserve another chance. But if you would give me one... if you would stay, even just long enough for me to prove I'm not the man I was..." He released her reluctantly. "I'm asking. Not demanding. Not expecting. Just... asking."
Eleanor looked down at where his hand had been, then back at his face. Something in her expression had softened, though she was clearly fighting it.
"I haven't decided yet," she said finally. "About any of it."
"That's more than I hoped for."
"Don't hope too much." But there was the slightest hint of warmth in her voice. "Now lie back and let me check your wound before you aggravate it with all this sitting up."
As she worked—professional, efficient, but perhaps slightly less distant than before—Aubrey found himself watching her face. The concentration in her grey eyes. The competent movements of her small hands. The way a few strands of chestnut hair had escaped her severe styling.
Eleanor glanced up, and for just a moment, he saw the ghost of a smile.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't even close to what he wanted, but it wassomething.
A beginning, perhaps.
Aubrey was still contemplating what had just passed between them when there was another knock at the door—far too soon for Eleanor to have returned.
"Come in," Aubrey called, grateful that at least his voice worked properly even if other parts of him were being decidedly uncooperative.
The door opened, and Michael Midleton entered with the easy confidence of a man completely comfortable in his own skin.
"Lord Madeley." Michael's smile was warm and friendly. "I hope I am not disturbing your rest. I thought we might have a chat. Man to man. Brother-in-law to brother-in-law."
Aubrey had known Michael for several years through Parliament and their gentleman's club. He had always found him intelligent, affable, and excellent company. But there was something about the man that had always set Aubrey slightly on edge—a sense that beneath the easy manner lay a sharp mind that missed very little.
And right now, that sharp mind was focused entirely on Aubrey.
"Of course." Aubrey gestured to the chair beside his bed, acutely aware that he was at a disadvantage. Trapped in bed. Unable to stand or shake hands properly. Still fighting the lingering evidence of his dream. "Please, sit."
