"Morrison," Aubrey said gently. "You may leave us now. Lady Madeley has agreed to keep me company."
Morrison's eyes darted between them, concern etched on his face. Finally, he bowed stiffly. "Please do take care. Ring if you require anything."
He withdrew with the footmen, closing the door.
Eleanor stood awkwardly beside the bed, suddenly unsure. Sitting on his lap in the parlour had felt natural somehow. But being alone with him in his bedroom felt different. More dangerous.
"Come here." Aubrey patted the bed beside him, his voice coaxing. "I promised to be proper, remember? We'll just read. Or talk. Nothing scandalous."
"Last night was scandalous enough for both of us," Eleanor said, but she moved to the bed anyway.
"Last night was perfect," Aubrey corrected. "But I understand if you need to go slower."
Eleanor climbed onto the bed—carefully, maintaining a respectable distance—and settled against the pillows beside him. Aubrey reached for a book from his bedside table and opened it between them.
"Jane Eyre?" Eleanor asked, her eyes wide. “You actuallyread it?”
"I surmised you brought it to me for a reason," Aubrey admitted, a good-natured smile spreading across his face. "Turns out there are lessons to be learned." He paused, suddenly looking uncertain. "I thought we could read it together. Take turns. Unless you'd prefer something else?"
"I brought it to offend you, if I’m being honest.”
A grin brightened his handsome features, momentarily mesmerising her. “I figured as much. It looked well loved, so I read it out of curiosity." Eleanor couldn't keep the surprise from her expression. "It's a romance novel about a governess, about two people who are terrible at communicating," he began as if to prove the truth of his claim. "About a man too proud and stubborn to admit his feelings until he's nearly lost everything. About a woman who refuses to compromise her self-respect even when she's desperately in love." His eyes met hers. "I see now how it might be... relevant."
Eleanor swallowed although her throat felt dry suddenly.
Aubrey opened to a marked page. "I may have developed opinions about Rochester. Mostly that he's a fool who doesn't deserve Jane. But then—" His smile turned self-deprecating. "I suppose I'm not one to judge."
"No," Eleanor agreed softly. "You're not."
"So?" Aubrey held up the book. "Will you read with me? I promise to let you defend Rochester when I call him a fool."
"He is a fool," Eleanor said, but she was smiling as she leaned closer to see the text, their shoulders touching. Neither of them moved away. "But he loves her. In the end, that's what matters."
Aubrey began to read aloud, his voice rich and expressive: "I have for the first time found what I can truly love, I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel. I am bound to you with a strongattachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one."
His voice had dropped lower on the last words, and when Eleanor looked up, she found him watching her instead of the page.
"Rochester was rather eloquent," Eleanor whispered. "For a fool."
"Even fools can speak the truth sometimes," Aubrey murmured. "When they finally find it."
They read like that for over an hour, taking turns with passages, occasionally pausing to discuss what they'd read. Aubrey's hand found hers at some point, their fingers intertwining naturally. Eleanor's head eventually came to rest against his shoulder, her body relaxing into the warmth and safety of his presence.
Outside, winter sunlight streamed through the windows. Downstairs, servants bustled about preparing for the orphans' arrival.
But for this moment, this perfect, impossible moment, Eleanor let herself simply be. Here. With him. Safe and wanted and cherished.
Chapter twenty-four
Eighth Day of Wooing a Wife
Eleanor lay in her bed, staring at the canopy above her, sleep as elusive as it had been the night before. Her mind kept replaying the day: breakfast on Aubrey's lap, reading Jane Eyre together, the orphans' visit that afternoon where Aubrey had insisted on being carried to a chair in the drawing room to greet each child personally.
The way he'd looked at her when little Lily had climbed into Eleanor's lap, his expression so tender it had made her chest ache.
She was just beginning to drift off when she heard footsteps in the corridor. Quick, purposeful footsteps that stopped outside Aubrey's door.
A sharp knock.
