Outside, winter sunlight streamed through the windows, warming the room where a husband held his wife for the first time with real love.
And where a wife, for the first time in two years, allowed herself to hope that perhaps dreams didn't always have to end in disappointment.
Chapter twenty-seven
Christmas Eve
Aubrey
Aubrey was in the drawing room reviewing the seating arrangements for tomorrow's ball when the commotion in the entrance hall announced the arrival of his London friends—a full day early.
"Madeley!" Lord Waverly's voice boomed through the corridor. "We've come to rescue you from this pastoral purgatory!"
Aubrey rose with a smile as three gentlemen burst into the room: Waverly, tall and ruddy-faced; Cartwright, perpetually dishevelled despite his expensive tailoring; and Avon, whose cravat was tied with such mathematical precision it looked painful.
"A day early, I see," Aubrey said, clasping each man's hand in turn.
"We left London at dawn," Cartwright announced, flinging himself into a chair. "Couldn't bear to think of you rotting away in the countryside amoment longer. No clubs, no theatre, no decent conversation. How have you survived?"
"The question," Avon interjected, accepting a glass of brandy from the footman, "is has he survived at all? We heard you took quite the tumble, old boy. Horse threw you?"
"Something like that," Aubrey murmured.
Waverly snorted. "More importantly—" He leaned forward conspiratorially. "How goes the campaign with the wife? Has she attempted to poison you yet? Smother you with a pillow? We heard she was... less than pleased with the marriage arrangement."
"I'm quite alive, as you can see."
"That's because he's been sleeping with one eye open," Cartwright said sagely. "Smart man. Never trust a woman scorned. They're far more creative than we give them credit for."
"Eleanor hasn't tried to poison me," Aubrey said firmly.
"That you know of," Avon muttered into his brandy. "The good ones are subtle. A bit of arsenic in the soup, slowly over time. You wouldn't even notice until—"
"Eleanor is not trying to kill me."
"Of course not," Waverly said in the tone of someone humouring a delusional patient. "Tell me, are you at least maintaining separate bedchambers? Essential for marital survival, that. Can't have her creeping about while you sleep."
Aubrey pinched the bridge of his nose. "We occasionally share a bedchamber."
The three men exchanged glances.
"Brave," Cartwright said. "Foolish, but brave."
"Gentlemen,"Aubrey said, his patience wearing thin, "Eleanor is a wonderful person. She's intelligent, witty, compassionate—"
"Good God," Waverly interrupted, his face going pale. "It's worse than we thought."
"What are you talking about?"
"She has poisoned you," Avon breathed. "Just not with arsenic."
Cartwright was nodding vigorously. "The symptoms are all there. Praising her intelligence? Her wit? Next you'll be telling us you actually enjoy her company."
"I do enjoy her company."
"Fatal," Waverly declared. "Absolutely fatal. How long have you been experiencing these... feelings?"
"They're not symptoms of—"
