The laudanum was beginning to work, dulling the sharp edges of pain into something more bearable.
Aubrey closed his eyes and tried not to think about the woman who had prepared it.
The woman who was his wife.
The woman in whose power he now lay, completely and utterly helpless.
Chapter three
Tone Deaf Physician
Eleanor stood in her morning room, hands wrapped around a cup of tea gone cold, staring at nothing.
She had administered the laudanum, prepared his tea, arranged his pillows, and then fled to this room like a coward, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might crack her ribs.
He looked just as he had on their wedding day.
No—that was not quite true. On their wedding day, Aubrey had been beautiful in his fury, his jaw tight with resentment as he spoke his vows. Now he was beautiful in his suffering, grey-faced and vulnerable, his dark eyes fever-bright and something that looked almost like curiosity when he looked at her.
She should hate him. Should revel in his suffering.
Instead, she had found herself smoothing pillows and remembering how he took his tea.
Fool. Sentimental fool.
"My lady?" Mrs Williams appeared in the doorway, her expression concerned. "Are you quite well? You've been standing there this quarter hour."
Eleanor blinked, setting down the cold tea. "Yes. Yes, I'm perfectly well." She straightened her shoulders. "Has the guest wing been prepared for my sister's arrival?"
"Yes, my lady. The nursery is aired and warmed, and—" Mrs Williams hesitated. "Forgive me, but should we inform Lady Dartrey of... of Lord Madeley's presence? It may come as something of a shock."
Eleanor had not thought of that. Liz knew of the estrangement, of course. The entire county knew but to arrive expecting a quiet visit and find Eleanor nursing her husband...
"I’ll send a note in the morning," Eleanor decided. "If Liz wishes to alter her plans, she may do so without embarrassment."
Though please, she thought desperately,please do not alter them. I need you. I need the children's laughter and your practical conversation and something, anything, to remind me that there is a world beyond this house and the man lying upstairs in what should have been our bed.
"Very good, my lady. And... his lordship? Does he require anything further this evening?"
"No." The word came out too sharp. Eleanor softened her tone. "No, Mrs Williams. I've given him laudanum. He should sleep. I shall... I shall check on him before retiring."
The housekeeper nodded and withdrew.
Eleanor remained standing in the darkening room, watching the last light fade from the winter sky.
Tomorrow the doctor would call, and she would learn precisely what "intimate care" entailed. She would have to face Aubrey in daylight and decide whether she was strong enough to nurse a man who despised her.
A man who did not know—could not know—that on their wedding day, when he had fled the breakfast, she had sat alone at the table for another hour, watching his untouched plate grow cold, and memorised every detail about him she could gather from the servants' whispered conversations.
How he took his tea. How he preferred his eggs. How he liked to ride soon after dawn.
All the pathetic preparations of a girl who had believed, despite everything, that perhaps she might find some way to make him happy.
She had been such a fool.
Eleanor closed her eyes. Just until Boxing Day, and she could leave all of this—the memories, the loneliness, the husband who hated her—behind forever.
The next morning dawned grey and cold. Eleanor rose early, dressed in her plainest gown—dark blue wool, high-necked, eminently practical—and forced herself to eat breakfast though her stomach churned with nerves.
