Page 97 of The Duke's Forbidden Bride
“Yes, I would,” she continued stubbornly. “Because we are building trust. My time at the convent was traumatic and awful, and you do not know the half of it, but I would be willing to tell you now, for St. Euphemia’s is my wall. What is yours?”
“My dear Thisbe,” he murmured, his voice sounding far away. “If my walls were so easily lowered, I would have shattered them a long time ago.” His eyes finally slid to hers. “If they did not feel so indestructible, I would tear them down for you.”
“Theyaredestructible,” she insisted, kneeling up on the bed and moving closer to the edge. She didn’t attempt to reach for him, not when she saw how sharply he inhaled. “And if they cannot be in this moment, then they are climbable. I can meet you at the top.”
Spencer heaved another ragged breath, letting his head drop. His body, so powerful and honed, was silhouetted against the evening outside. Eleanor ached to go to him, to hold him, to calm his racing heart. Instead, she waited patiently, lingering on his broken sob ofAnna.
The girl from the portrait, his mirror image.
Her mind wandered to how closed-off both Charlotte and Spencer were about their father. His death, his life even, and how even Lady Montagu had not deigned to mention him.
What had happened in this house?
What ghosts lingered in the corners that Spencer had to pass every day and continue with his life as though they did not affect him?
He stared around the room now as if he saw them.
“I told you that our wall was Charlotte’s safety, the very thing we could use to pretend that we were not growing attracted to one another,” he said quietly. “We used her safety as an excuse to grow closer, but while that is true, my wall is…” He swallowed and shook his head. “It is also because I cannot let myself pretend I am worthy of someone like you. Someone good and kind. Someone so unbelievably soft. Someone who is beautiful inside and out. Who looks at the world like you do.”
“How do I look at the world?”
Spencer laughed softly, the sound caught between grief and disbelief. “As if, despite how often it has failed you, you still give it a chance. As if you are simply waiting for it to be better because you know it can be.”
“Idoknow it can be,” she answered, her voice gentle. “I lived in so much darkness and helplessness for so long to think otherwise. The convent almost broke me. Perhaps it did, and I cannot accept that, but I had a reason to hope for something better. I am here, I am safe, and I am no longer in that place.”
“Yes… But it never truly goes away, does it?”
Eleanor shook her head. “No. It haunts me, but I can also look around myself. I can see a townhouse that is not Quinley House, a man who looks at me the way you do and won’t send me to St. Euphemia’s. I can hear Charlotte’s laughter, hear you speaking with Theodore, and I can be a part of a society that turned its back on me, but I have found my place within. I can find the differences between my present and past.”
Spencer gazed at her for another few silent moments. His breathing was still ragged, and she wondered how much effort it took for him to control it.
“You do not have to speak to me about what lingers in the shadows, Spencer,” Eleanor added. “But will you come back to bed at least? Will you let me hold you?”
“I am—” His voice was so thick with pain. “I am scared of hurting you. I am scared of you knowing the things I have done before I married you.”
“Well, I am not,” she countered. “We all have a past. I will receive yours when you are ready, and without judgment. Please,Spencer, come back to bed. Holdme, if you will not let me hold you.”
He paused at that.
Eleanor knew it was unfair to appeal to his sense of duty, but it worked. Slowly, he returned to the bed.
It took a long time for him to fall asleep, and she stayed awake until his breathing evened out.
And even then she did not catch a wink of sleep for a while, thinking about her husband’s ghosts, thinking about a painting covered by a sheet in a forgotten music room.
The rose garden at Avington House was in full bloom, the fragrance of the flowers rising in the air.
Spencer huffed, plucking a rose from a bush as they walked down the path. Further behind them, Theodore and Charlotte walked with Lady Montagu.
They still had not spoken about the nightmare he had several days ago, and the following day, Spencer had left, claiming a meeting with a clerk. When he had returned, he had scooped Eleanor up, carried her to his bathroom, and coupled with her in a luxurious bath covered in bubbles and jasmine-scented oil.
Even afterward, he had muttered that he could not get enough of the scent of her skin and continued pleasuring her in her chamber.
He did not fall asleep with her that night, but the next night, he coaxed her back into his chamber, where they slept side by side once more. She couldn’t help but notice how restless his nights became.
They had not even spoken about Charlotte’s return to London being noticed, and too many things felt suspended in the air. It had Eleanor’s nerves on edge.
She was still turning over his nightmare in her mind, but then she remembered something he had once told her.
