It didn't mean he loved her, didn't mean he would stay, didn't change the fundamental problems between them. But for the first time since their time on the terrace all those years ago, Eleanor felt powerful instead of pathetic. Desirable instead of dismissed.
And she had to admit, even to herself, that it felt rather wonderful.
Mrs. Duncan appeared in the corridor, saying nothing about the obvious flush on Eleanor's cheeks.
"Shall I draw you a bath, my lady? You look rather... warm."
Eleanor nodded, feeling lighter than ever before despite the apprehension. "Yes, Mrs. Duncan. A bath would be perfect."
As she followed her lady's maid toward her chambers, Eleanor couldn't quite shake the smile from her face.
Or the memory of Aubrey's desperate voice saying her name.
Or the intoxicating realisation that for once, she had been the one with all the power.
And she had rather enjoyed it.
Chapter nineteen
Third Day of Wooing a Wife
The next evening, Aubrey shifted against his pillows for what felt like the hundredth time, trying to find a position that didn't make his thoughts immediately turn to Eleanor's hands on his thigh and his… manhood.
It wasn't working.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face. That small, satisfied smile as she'd tortured him with her calculated touches. The way she'd let her fingers trail just slightly higher than necessary. The deliberate slowness of her movements. The absolute knowledge in her grey eyes that she was driving him mad.
His innocent bride. His proper, practical wife had boldly touched him instead of fleeing.
She had teased him… had enjoyed tormenting him.
Aubrey's body responded enthusiastically to the memory, and he cursed under his breath. His wife would be joining him soon for dinner, and he didn’t wish to be found with a stiff cock.
Again.
She might suspect he had some sort of green boy syndrome.
But the image of Eleanor leaning close, her breath ghosting across his skin, her hands moving with such agonising deliberation…
He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.
This would not do. He needed to think of her properly, as a woman deserving of respect, admiration, reverence; as someone whose mind and kindness and strength of character were far more important than the way she'd made his entire body tighten with need.
Except he genuinely had no idea she possessed such a naughty streak.
His Eleanor. Shy Eleanor who blushed when complimented, who hadn’t been able to look him in the eye after the first few days of tending to him, had that wicked edge hidden beneath her practical exterior. It was intoxicating. Maddening. Utterly unfair to a man trying desperately to prove himself worthy of her regard.
A knock at the door made him jolt upright, then wince at the pull in his hip.
"Enter," he called, grateful for the distraction.
His valet, Morrison, appeared with the satisfied expression of a man who had accomplished the impossible. "My lord, I've managed to procure suitable attire for this evening. Loose trousers as you requested, and a jacket that should accommodate your current...limitations."
"Excellent." Aubrey had insisted on dressing properly for dinner to Morrison's delight. If he was going to dine with his wife, if he was going to present his surprise, he would do it as a gentleman.
It took considerably longer than usual, and several moments where Aubrey had to grit his teeth against the discomfort, but eventually he was dressed. Loose dark trousers that didn't press against his healing hip. A white shirt. A properly tied cravat. And a dark jacket that made him look almost civilised despite being propped against pillows.
"Will that be all, my lord?"
