Page 36

Chapter Twenty-Two

“ G et off her!”

The scream shoved Eleanor sharply into consciousness, her body immediately on high alert. She bolted upright, her eyes wide, searching through the darkness that had fallen over Spencer’s chamber.

His face was tight, his eyebrows knitted in distress.

“Get off—get your hands off her.” It was a cry and a scream and a plea all in one.

“Spencer,” Eleanor said quietly but urgently. “ Spencer .”

But he did not wake up, and his body jerked, his head moving with whatever nightmare he was trapped in.

And then a broken sob tore through the darkness. “Anna.”

“Spencer,” Eleanor tried again, her worry growing.

Her hand flitted over his face, trying to rouse him. She tapped hurriedly at his chin and his mouth, and moments later, his eyes flew open.

He gasped, heaving as he sat up, wrenching away from her.

“L-Leave,” he demanded, his voice cracking in a way she had never heard.

He still looked half-caught between consciousness and his nightmare, so she remained firmly where she was. Neither had dressed, having fallen asleep after their coupling. Her eyes remained on his face, concern tightening her chest.

“Eleanor, please. I-I cannot explain this to you. Please return to your chamber.”

“No.” She frowned. “No! No, you cannot ask that of me. What happened?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Nightmares happen.”

“Nightmares often stem from something real,” she countered. “I know that well enough myself.”

“And if you had nightmares about your time in St. Euphemia’s, would you let me stay? Would you speak with me about it?”

Eleanor surprised herself by simply answering, “Yes.”

That caught Spencer off guard.

His chest heaved with panic, and he wouldn’t look at her. But even with only the lights from the garden illuminating the side of his face, she could see the broken look in his eyes.

“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.”

“They are destructible,” 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 of Anna.

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.”

“I do know 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. Hold me , 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.

She stopped short. Behind them, Theodore was chattering to Charlotte and her aunt about how his great-grandfather had gone sailing for a particular kind of exotic rose and brought it back through wind and rain. It sounded like a frivolous but captivating story.

“What is it?” Spencer asked.

“You,” Eleanor answered, frowning. “I just remembered something you once told me. In fact, I believe it was the morning we returned to Everdawn after our wedding. You told me you always sleep well. But that is not the truth.”

Spencer hesitated, glancing at her. “Ah.”

“Ah, indeed. You did not have to tell me the truth, but you did not have to pretend.”

“Are you upset I lied to you?” He sounded defensive.

Eleanor quickly shook her head. “I am trying to remember the moments when you pretended in front of me,” she answered. “I am trying to remember when you started to trust me.”

At that, he looked surprised, as if he had been braced for blame or accusation. “I am very good at wearing masks, depending on the situation. However, with you, the mask is falling away more and more. I feel more myself whenever I am with you.”

The unexpected confession made her heart flutter, and she mustered a smile. “I do not expect full vulnerability. I can ask for it, yes, but I do not expect it. I do, however, wish to know if something is false about you so I can correct my knowledge.”

Spencer considered for a moment and nodded. “There is something.”

“Go on,” she urged, her nerves rising.

“I once told you that I can speak very good Italian,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “That was a lie. I simply wanted to impress you.”

Eleanor scoffed, shaking her head. “Oh, you are so very typical. I mean deep things! Meaningful things.”

“That is meaningful.” He laughed, and the sound had been so absent lately that it made her heart pound.

“What if we attended an event where we conversed with Italians, and you looked to me, only to find me struck as dumb as anything? It would be humiliating. At least now we may both flounder in that situation.”

Eleanor could not help but laugh along, loud enough that Theodore called out to them, “What are you two sniggering at?”

“Italians,” Spencer called back without missing a beat.

Eleanor laughed harder as Theodore waved him away as if used to his humor.

Once again, she took Spencer’s arm, and he tugged her closer, moving his mouth to her cheek. “Forgive my crudeness, but there is a very secluded pathway behind these gardens, and I have it on good authority that there is a very shaded alcove hidden from sight.”

“Oh, truly?” Eleanor hummed, feigning innocence. “Whatever for?”

“Perhaps my wife might let me pleasure her,” he murmured, the request sending heat through her veins. “All these delicate scents make me crave your scent, your taste. I find myself ravenous. Let me satisfy us both enough until I can take you properly.”