And yet, for one dangerous moment watching him hold Henry, she could not for a moment believe the stories about his reputation. He was so different from his brother.
She felt her cheeks turn hot at this realization. When Henry had reached for him with such uncomplicated trust—when Tobias had knelt upon the floor and cradled her son with unexpected tenderness—she had witnessed something she had never seen in Edward.
Warmth. Joy. An ease with affection that her late husband had never possessed.
“Come, sweet one.” She gathered Henry into her arms, pressing her lips to his dark curls whilst guilt twisted within her breast. “Let us prepare you for bed, shall we?”
The evening proceeded with mechanical precision. She changed Henry into his nightdress, washed his small hands and face, andsettled him beneath his coverlet with a wooden horse—a gift from Tobias clutched against his chest.
As she began to sing, her thoughts wandered where they ought not venture.
What manner of man would Henry become? Would he inherit Edward’s rigid propriety, his emotional restraint, his inability to demonstrate warmth even to those who loved him? Or might he become something different—someone who could embrace life with passion, who could laugh freely, who could hold those he loved without calculation?
Someone like Tobias. Would the nurture the new viscount showed be stronger than the nature of his cold father?
The thought arrived unbidden, and shame flooded through her with devastating force.
How dare she think such things? Edward had been her husband. A good man by every measure society employed. He had provided for her, protected her, and given her a beautiful son.
And yet…
She would rather Henry grow to be like Tobias than like Edward.
The admission, even in the privacy of her own thoughts, felt like betrayal. Edward had been cold, yes, but he had been dutiful. Proper. Everything a viscount ought to be.
Whereas Tobias was everything a viscount ought not to be—and somehow, despite all logic, she found herself drawn to precisely those qualities Edward had lacked.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, though whether to Edward’s memory or to herself, she could not say.
She continued singing even after Henry’s breathing had settled into peaceful slumber, reluctant to relinquish this moment of quiet sanctuary. Here, in the dim warmth of the nursery, her complicated feelings could not intrude.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps in the corridor beyond. Deliberate. Measured. Drawing closer before halting just outside the nursery door.
Her voice faltered as every sense sharpened. Someone stood just beyond that threshold—she could feel their presence as surely as she could feel her own pulse racing.
Silence stretched whilst the clock ticked its steady rhythm. Henry’s breathing remained peaceful. And still that presence lingered.
It is merely a servant, she told herself. Mrs. Boldwood, perhaps, ensuring all is well.
Yet she knew—with certainty she could neither explain nor dismiss—that it was not Mrs. Boldwood.
It was him.
The footsteps resumed after what felt like an eternity, retreating down the corridor until silence reclaimed its dominion.
Amelia released a deep breath, her hand pressed against her chest where her heart still pounded.
The thought of Tobias standing outside the nursery door ought to have alarmed her. Ought to have filled her with indignation.
Instead, it felt… complicated.
She did not fear him. That was the troubling truth. The thought of him listening to her sing Henry to sleep did not frighten her at all.
And that realization frightened her more than anything else could.
It took ages until she, too, succumbed to sleep—though it was anything but peaceful.
