The steward appeared with two grooms, all three of whom where breathing hard. “We heard the commotion—good heavens, my lord, you’re injured!”
“A few scrapes, nothing more.” Tobias’s voice was rough. “The horse belongs to Lord Ashford, I believe? Someone ought to return it.”
One of the grooms took the stallion’s reins whilst Pemberton fussed. “My lord, your arm?—”
“Is perfectly functional, I assure you. Lady Amelia, perhaps we ought to return to the house?”
She nodded. She could not dare speak, even if she could find the right words.
The walk back was silent. Not the comfortable silence that she had gotten used to, but a heavier one. By the time they reached Redmond Park, Amelia had regained some composure.
“I shall send for the physician,” Pemberton announced.
“That will not be necessary.” Tobias removed his torn coat with a wince he tried to hide. “Mrs. Boldwood can bandage what requires bandaging.”
“My lord, you were nearly trampled?—”
“Thank you, Pemberton. That will be all.”
The steward bowed and left, though not before giving Amelia a rather loaded look. She merely nodded at him, then turned to Tobias.
She waited until his footsteps faded. “You should allow the physician to examine you properly.”
“I am well enough. Merely bruised.”
“You could have broken bones. You could have?—”
“But I did not.” He paused on the third step, turning back. The afternoon light illuminated the scrape along his jaw, the torn sleeve revealing an angry red mark on his forearm. “I am perfectly well, my lady. I promise.”
She clasped her hands together to still their shaking. “Very well. But if you develop any concerning symptoms—dizziness, nausea, difficulty breathing—you must send for the physician at once.”
“I promise.”
Silence stretched between them once again. She wanted to ask him if he was really only thinking about Henry when he had jumped in front of her, but she feared the answer far too much.
Henry.
“I ought to check on Henry. He will be waking from his nap soon.”
“Of course. I have correspondence requiring attention.”
She turned toward the nursery stairs.
“Amelia?”
She looked back.
“Your mourning period ends soon, does it not? In another few weeks?”
She nodded slowly, uncertain of where he was going with this question.
“Yes. Seven weeks, to be precise.”
He nodded slowly, his jaw working. “Society will expect you to re-enter. To be seen. To consider your future.”
Though he did not say it explicitly, she knew without doubt what he meant.
To remarry. To find another husband, one that would… what? Take her off his hands. She took a deep breath.
