"Not to this extent, my lord." Morrison's voice was pained. "It seems most undignified. Perhaps we should wait a few moments for the, ah, situation to resolve itself naturally?"
"That could take some time," Aubrey said, his eyes still on Eleanor. "Given the lovely company I've been keeping."
Morrison looked as though he might faint.
Eleanor pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. "I'll leave you to it, then. Good day, my lord."
She fled before either man could respond, practically running down the corridor to her own chambers.
Only when she was safely behind her closed door did she let herself collapse onto her bed, her heart racing, her entire body trembling with a mixture of embarrassment and something that felt dangerously like desire.
He had held her. Against his naked chest. Had buried his face in her hair and called her "my Eleanor."
And she had wanted, desperately wanted, to stay there. To forget all her careful reasons and defences and simply let herself be held by the man she had loved for so long.
The man who was, perhaps, beginning to heal her wounds.
Through the walls, she could hear Morrison's pained voice: "My lord, the fabric simply won't accommodate… Perhaps if you would simply think of something unpleasant?"
Eleanor pressed her face into her pillow and laughed despite herself.
Eight days left until Christmas.
Eight days to decide whether to stay or go.
Eight days to determine if hope was courage or simply another form of self-destruction.
Chapter twenty-one
Fifth Day of Wooing a Wife
Aubrey was attempting to read, Morrison having propped him up with an elaborate arrangement of pillows that would have impressed a military engineer, when he heard the unmistakable sound of his parents' voices from just outside his door.
"—absolutely ridiculous that we must detour through Hertfordshire when Dover is in the complete opposite direction—"
"You insisted on seeing the boy, Margaret. Don't complain about the inconvenience now."
"I'm simply observing that our son has the most inconvenient timing. I only came because he summoned us."
Aubrey closed his eyes and braced himself.
His parents swept into the room moments later with the kind of energy that suggested they had far more important places to be. His father wore his traveling coat and carried his winter gloves, clearly prepared to leave atany moment. His mother was resplendent in golden bronze, her expression suggesting she was already mentally in France with her daughter and grandchildren.
"Aubrey," his father said, surveying him with the critical eye usually reserved for livestock auctions. "You're alive. Good. That simplifies the inheritance situation considerably."
"Hello, Father. Mother." Aubrey struggled to sit up straighter. "Thank you for coming."
"Don't thank us yet," his mother interrupted, pulling off her gloves with brisk efficiency. "We're only here because you sent that absurd letter demanding we bring you a family heirloom immediately. As though we're servants to be summoned at your whim."
"I didn't summon. I requested."
"Same thing." Lady Egerton settled into the chair beside his bed without waiting for an invitation. "You look terrible, by the way. Have you been eating? You're pale."
"I've been bedridden for two weeks recovering from injuries."
"Yes, yes, we know. We were the ones who fetched you from Hyde Park, announcing to thetonwe raised an imbecile." His father examined a book on Aubrey's bedside table with mild interest. "Marcus Aurelius. At least you're reading something worthwhile while you convalesce. Though I'd recommend Cicero. Much better for developing proper stoic discipline."
"I have plenty of discipline, Father."
