Eleanor felt a flash of irritation. She had agreed to the lady's maid and the gowns, but now Aubrey was encroaching on her daily routine, demanding her presence for meals as though they were a normal married couple.
"Mrs. Duncan is waiting to help you freshen up before luncheon," Mrs Williams added.
"I don't need to freshen up for luncheon in a sickroom," Eleanor said sharply.
But Mrs Williams was already retreating, and Mrs. Duncan, her new lady's maid, appeared as though summoned, her expression pleasant but firm.
"Just a quick tidy, my lady. Won't take but a moment."
Eleanor found herself being ushered to her bedroom, where Mrs. Duncan quickly rearranged her hair, smoothed her dress, and added a touch of rose water to her wrists.
"There," Mrs. Duncan said, stepping back with satisfaction. "Perfect."
Eleanor studied her reflection. She did look better, more put together. More like a viscountess about to dine with her husband should.
"Is there a conspiracy?" Eleanor asked abruptly. "Among the household staff? To get the viscount and me together? Because I should tell you now, there's no chance of that happening. Not in the remaining days. Not ever."
Mrs. Duncan's eyes widened with what appeared to be genuine shock. "Oh no, my lady! Nothing of the sort. We simply want you to be comfortable. To look your best. That's all."
"Mrs Williams?"
"Would never presume, my lady," Mrs. Duncan assured her.
Eleanor studied the woman's face for signs of deception and found none. Perhaps she was being paranoid. Perhaps the staff simply wanted to be helpful.
Or perhaps they could all see something Eleanor was desperately trying not to acknowledge.
Aubrey's bedchamber had been transformed. A small table had been set up beside his bed, complete with linens, proper china, and what appeared to be an entire roasted chicken with all the accompaniments.
Aubreyhimself was propped against his pillows, freshly shaved—Eleanor noted with surprise—his hair combed, wearing a clean nightshirt that made him look less like an invalid and more like a gentleman receiving guests.
"Eleanor!" His face lit up when she entered. "Thank you for joining me. I thought it might be pleasant to dine together rather than separately in our respective rooms like monks in cells."
Eleanor moved to the table stiffly, sitting in the chair that had been positioned across from him. "This seems like a great deal of trouble for the staff."
"Nonsense. They were delighted to arrange it." Aubrey gestured to the food. "Please, allow me to serve you. I've been assured this chicken is Cook's finest work."
Eleanor took a small bite of the chicken, acutely aware of Aubrey watching her. The silence stretched awkwardly until Aubrey, apparently sensing her discomfort, launched into a story about his valet's arrival the first afternoon.
"Poor man nearly fainted when he saw my unruly stubble. Started muttering in French about savages and barbarism. I had to assure him I hadn't completely abandoned civilisation." Aubrey grinned.
Despite herself, Eleanor felt her lips twitch. "You’ve always been cleanshaven, I didn’t know you could grow a beard."
Aubrey rubbed his smooth jaw ruefully. "I am glad I set the record straight before I gave you yet another reason to regret marrying me."
Eleanor almost choked on chicken at his casual mention of what has been the biggest heartache of her life. She looked up and was surprised tosee his sheepish expression. He appeared remorseful, completely devoid of arrogance.
"I’m certain I shall find more before Sunday," Eleanor said, then immediately wished she could take the words back. That was too familiar. Too playful.
But Aubrey laughed; a genuine, delighted sound. "Well, that would serve me right. Just as I’m discovering how lovely my wife is, she finds more reasons to leave me."
Eleanor didn’t taste the food after that. Her heart fluttered in her chest and blood thumped in her temples. What was he about? Why was he saying things like that? She tried desperately not to hope, but it was no use. She was hoping. Pathetically.
He continued talking, weaving stories about his valet, about the letters he'd been writing, about the gamekeeper interview he'd arranged for tomorrow. His manner was light, entertaining, designed, Eleanor suspected, to put her at ease.
And it was working.
She found herself relaxing, laughing at his observations, contributing her own stories about estate management mishaps. The awkwardness faded, replaced by something almost comfortable. Almost natural.
