"Fool," Aubrey muttered to himself. "Impatient, desperate fool."
But even as he berated himself, even as he acknowledged his mistake, he couldn't quite regret it.
Because for one perfect moment, Eleanor had leaned toward him. Had wanted to kiss him. Had been just as affected by their closeness as he was. That precious moment of mutual desire gave him hope.
Aubrey looked at the gifts still scattered across his bed. The doll. The paints. The candies.
Tomorrow, he would do better. Would give Eleanor space to process what he was offering.
But tonight, he would let himself remember the warmth of her hand in his. The tears in her eyes. The way she'd moved closer instead of pulling away.
The moment when she'd almost let him kiss her.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't love. It wasn't even acceptance.
But it was something.
Chapter twenty
Fourth Day of Wooing A Wife
Eleanor sat at her dressing table, the music box open before her, winding it again for what must have been the tenth time that morning. Her mother's favourite melody filled the quiet room; a soft, melancholy tune that made her chest ache with memories she'd locked away years ago.
The other gifts were arranged carefully on her escritoire. The porcelain doll with her sweet painted smile. The leather-bound novels, their spines still stiff and new. The watercolour paints she'd already opened twice just to admire the pristine colours. The candied violets she couldn't quite bring herself to taste yet, as though opening the jar would break some spell.
Is this enough? Eleanor wondered, watching the tiny mechanism turn inside the music box. Is this enough to forgive him?
But even as she asked the question, she realised the answer had already formed sometime in the past few days, perhaps even the moment her husband had told her about Rose's lies.
She had forgiven him.
Not because of the gifts, though they touched her deeply. Not because of his tears or his apologies, though those mattered.
She had forgiven him because she understood now that he had been deceived just as thoroughly as she had. He had believed his wife to be vindictive, manipulative, cruel. He’d believed it with the same certainty she had believed herself unloved and unwanted. They had both been Rose's victims, puppets dancing to strings they hadn't even known existed.
Aubrey had been wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. But he had been wrong for reasons she could finally understand.
Eleanor closed the music box with a soft click.
But forgiveness wasn't enough, was it?
Understanding why he had hurt her didn't erase the hurt itself. Didn't remove the scars from two years of loneliness and public humiliation. Didn't automatically restore the trust he had shattered before it ever had a chance to form.
He would need to earn that back. Slowly. Carefully. With more than gifts and pretty words.
And she needed to be certain—absolutely certain—that his sudden devotion stemmed from genuine feeling and not from misguided gratitude. She had nursed him back to health, yes, but that was duty. He might be confusing relief and appreciation with something deeper.
Or worse, far worse, his interest might be purely physical. He hadn't been with anyone for at least two years by his own admission. Perhaps any woman's touch would have provoked the same reaction. Perhaps she was simply... convenient.
Eleanor pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, remembering the night before.
She had wanted to kiss him. God help her, she had wanted it desperately. When he had leaned toward her, his eyes dark and intent, his hand warm around hers, it would have been so easy to close that last bit of distance. To forget everything—all the pain, all the reasons to protect herself—and simply give in to the desire that had been building between them.
But she had been through too much. Had suffered too deeply. She couldn't afford to be vulnerable again, to open her heart fully, only to have it crushed when he left for London. When the gratitude faded. When the lust cooled into indifference.
She needed to be sure.
And until she was, she would have to—
