Eleanor paused, her back to him. "I am pleased. Of course, I am. You're healing. That's what matters."
"Eleanor—"
"I should let you rest," she said, turning toward the door. "Now that the doctor's finished—"
"I need a bath."
Eleanor stopped. "I beg your pardon?"
"A bath. I haven’t bathed in twenty-four hours. I’m filthy." Aubrey's tone was matter of fact, but Eleanor caught the slight gleam in his eyes. "And Dr Fielding's hands were less than perfectly clean, and I feel positively grimy."
"I can have two strong footmen carry you to the water closet," Eleanor said. "They can help you bathe properly—"
"No." Aubrey shook his head. "The movement would be too painful. Lifting, carrying, manoeuvring around doorframes." He met her eyes directly. "A bed bath would be preferable, if you don't mind."
Eleanor's pulse quickened. He was lying. She could see it in the way he wouldn't quite meet her gaze, in the tension around his mouth that suggested he was suppressing a smile.
He wanted her hands on him again.
And God help her; she wanted it too.
"Very well," Eleanor heard herself say. "Let me fetch fresh water."
She took her time preparing, warming the water to the perfect temperature, gathering soft cloths, fresh soap that smelled of sandalwood. She gave herself space to steady her breathing, to remind herself that this was simply nursing care. Nothing more.
Even if they both knew better.
When she returned, Aubrey had removed his nightshirt without help and lay against the pillows completely bare from the waist up. The morning light streaming through the windows highlighted every angle of his torso, the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the dark hair scattered across his skin.
Eleanor had seen him unclothed dozens of times over the past two weeks. Had washed every inch of him with clinical detachment.
But this morning, with no medical necessity to justify her presence, with his eyes following her every movement, it felt different. Charged. Deliberate.
She set down the basin and wrung out a cloth, her hands steady through sheer force of will.
"Eleanor," Aubrey said softly. "Thank you. For everything. For the nursing, the care, for not letting me die of my own stupidity."
"You were never going to die," Eleanor said, beginning to wash his face with gentle strokes. "The injuries were serious but not lifethreatening."
"I might have, without you." His eyes were serious now. "I might have given up or simply wasted away from misery. You saved me. In more ways than you know."
Eleanor said nothing, moving to his neck, his shoulders, trying to ignore the way his muscles tensed under her touch.
She worked in silence, washing his chest carefully while observing the growing evidence beneath the sheet. He was, once again, responding to her proximity. Eleanor kept her eyes averted, her touch professional, even as heat bloomed in her own body.
"I've been thinking," Aubrey said as she rinsed the cloth, "about St. Catherine's Orphanage."
Eleanor's hands paused. "Oh?"
"I'd like to make a donation. A substantial one." Aubrey's voice was casual, but Eleanor sensed the importance beneath it. "How much do you think would be appropriate? To make a real difference?"
Eleanor's throat tightened. "Any amount would be appreciated, my lord."
"I'm serious, Eleanor. I want to help. What do they need most?"
She thought of the leaking roof. The inadequate winter supplies. The children who needed warm clothes and proper shoes and books that weren't falling apart.
"Five hundred pounds," she said quietly. "With five hundred pounds, they could repair the roof, restock the kitchens, and purchase everything the children need for the next two years."
