Eleanor set down her fork with a sharp click and closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temples where a headache was beginning to form.
The problem was, she was already hoping. Despite her best efforts, despite all her carefully constructed walls and reasonable resolutions, she was hoping.
Hoping that his tears had been real.
Hoping that his desire was more than simple physical attraction.
Hoping that perhaps, impossibly, he might actually want her to stay.
And that hope terrified her more than anything else.
Because if she let herself hope—truly hope—and then he left anyway?
She wasn't certain she would surviveit.
Eleanor pressed her hands to her face and thought about Aubrey's arms around her, his voice breaking as he apologised for two years of neglect.
About the way he'd said he wished he could hold her properly.
It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean he would stay in Hertfordshire. Didn't mean he would acknowledge her as his wife once he healed and returned to London. Didn't mean—
Female voices in the corridor interrupted her spiralling thoughts.
Eleanor froze, her teacup halfway to her lips.
Women's voices. Multiple women. In the family wing. At this hour of the morning.
And the knocking, when it came, was not on her door.
It was on his.
Eleanor's stomach plummeted so violently she thought she might be sick. No. He wouldn't. He couldn't possibly be entertaining women in their home. While she was in residence. While his wife was mere yards away, separated only by a sitting room and two doors.
But then she remembered Rose. Remembered eight years of friendship betrayed. Remembered that she clearly knew very little about her husband.
Except he'd said he'd been faithful. He had looked her in the eye and told her he'd upheld that aspect of their vows, even if he'd failed at everything else.
She needed to know, needed to see for herself. She would not allow him to humiliate her like this. Not in her own home. Not when she was trying so desperately to maintain some shred of dignity before she left.
Eleanor stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. She crossed through the sitting room, her heart hammering, and knocked sharply on the door to the master's suite.
"Come in!" Aubrey's voice was cheerful. Far too cheerful for a man caught entertaining paramours.
Eleanor pushed open the door, her spine rigid, prepared for—
Three women stood around Aubrey's bed. All middle-aged or elderly, dressed in respectable dark gowns, their expressions pleasant and professional.
Not paramours.
"Eleanor!" Aubrey's face lit up when he saw her, and the transformation was so genuine, so warm, that Eleanor felt something in her chest stutter. "Perfect timing. Come in, please. I'd like you to meet these ladies."
Eleanor stepped into the room cautiously, her earlier panic giving way to confusion.
"May I introduce my wife, Lady Madeley," Aubrey said, and Eleanor forgot to breathe.
My wife.
He'd called her his wife. He’d introduced her as such to these women with pride in his voice, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
