"Have you written her poetry?" Avon demanded.
Aubrey hesitated a fraction too long.
"He has!" Cartwright leapt to his feet. "The man's written poetry! Someone fetch a physician!"
"I haven't written her poetry," Aubrey protested. Though he had, in fact, attempted several verses. They were terrible, which was why they remained hidden in his desk drawer.
"Madeley," Waverly said gravely, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Listen to me. We've seen this before. My cousin Gerald fell victim to the same affliction. Married some country miss, started going on about her 'remarkable mind' and 'kind heart.' Within six months, he was attending church voluntarily. Church, Madeley. On days that weren't even Sunday."
"The horror," Aubrey said dryly.
"You mock," Avon said, "but we're here to save you from yourself. What you need is a distraction. A hunting party perhaps. Or better yet, a few nights at the local tavern. Remind yourself what freedom tastes like."
"I don't want freedom from my wife."
The three men stared at him as if he'd announced plans to take up needlepoint.
"She's bewitched him," Cartwright whispered.
"Utterly," Waverly agreed.
"I prefer the term 'in love,'" Aubrey said, unable to suppress his smile.
"Same thing," Avon muttered darkly. "Both lead to matching embroidered cushions and giving up one's club membership."
"I haven't given up my club membership."
"Yet," Waverly said ominously. "It always starts with 'yet.'"
Aubrey sank back into his chair, accepting that this conversation was beyond redemption. "You'll meet Eleanor at dinner. Perhaps then you'll understand."
"Oh, we'll meet her," Cartwright said. "And we'll determine exactly what sort of witchcraft she's employed to reduce you to this... domesticated creature."
"I'm not domesticated."
"You're hosting a Christmas ball," Avon pointed out. "With decorations. And, I'm told, dancing."
"Good God, there's dancing?" Waverly looked genuinely alarmed.
"It's a ball. Of course there's dancing."
The three men exchanged another round of significant looks.
"Gentlemen," Waverly said solemnly, "we have our work cut out for us. Operation Rescue Madeley beginstonight."
"There's no operation—"
"Step one," Cartwright interrupted, "billiards and brandy. Lots of brandy. We'll remind him what masculine pursuits feel like."
"Step two," Avon added, "carefully observe this wife of his. Identify her methods."
"And step three," Waverly concluded, "extract him from this madness before he starts talking about feelings in public."
Aubrey couldn't help but laugh. His friends meant well, in their own misguided way. And perhaps it would do them good to see what an actual marriage could be—not the cold arrangements they'd all been raised to expect, but something with warmth and companionship and yes, love.
"Very well," he said. "Commence your rescue operation. But I warn you—you may find yourselves envying the patient rather than curing him."
"Impossible," Waverly scoffed. "We're confirmed bachelors. Well, Cartwright's engaged, but that's different. He hasn't actually married the girl yet."
