Tobias pressed his forehead against the cool glass. “What would you have me do, Daniel? Court my brother’s widow? Create a scandal that would destroy her reputation and Henry’s prospects? Become yet another cage keeping her from the freedom she deserves?”
“I would have you be honest. With yourself, if no one else.”
“I am being honest. She needs time. I need distance. In six months, when she re-enters society, I’ll help her navigate it. Find her a suitable match. Ensure her future security. That is the extent of my duty and my interest.”
The lie tasted like ash.
Daniel was quiet for a long moment. Then he rose, collecting the whisky bottle.
“If you say so. Though for what it’s worth, I think you’re making a spectacular mistake.” He paused at the door. “I’m hosting a dinner tomorrow evening. Small gathering—Waverly,Pemberton, Lady Ashford and her daughter. You should attend. Remind society you haven’t actually vanished into disgrace.”
“I’m not ready?—”
“Which is precisely why you need to come. The longer you hide, the more speculation grows. Besides...” Daniel’s grin returned, though it held less humour than usual. “Sitting alone drinking yourself into melancholy serves no one. Least of all her.”
He left before Tobias could form a response.
Tobias remained at the window long after his friend’s departure, watching lamplight bloom across London as evening settled. Somewhere in this vast city, life continued—parties and soirées, gambling and flirtation, all the hollow pleasures that had once defined his existence.
And in Kent, at Redmond Park, Amelia would be putting Henry to bed. Singing lullabies in that sweet voice. Perhaps sitting alone in the drawing room afterwards, surrounded by ledgers and responsibilities she bore without complaint.
Missing him.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps his departure had brought only relief—freedom from yet another man watching her every move.
His hand moved unconsciously to his pocket, fingers finding the small sock. Henry’s sock.
Six months.
He could survive six months away from them. He would survive it.
He had to.
She was his brother’s widow. Forbidden in every way that mattered.
And Tobias Grant had spent his entire life being the disappointment, the failure, the man who took what he should not have.
He would not do that to Amelia. Would not become another burden she bore out of duty.
Six months,he told himself firmly.You can endure six months of this. And when you return, she’ll have moved on. Found happiness with someone who deserves her. And you’ll smile and bow and pretend your heart isn’t breaking.
Outside, London glittered with life and possibility.
Inside, Tobias Grant stood alone in his study, clutching a child’s sock, and wondered precisely when he had become such a magnificent liar.
CHAPTER 13
The first three weeks after Tobias’s departure passed with agonizing slowness. Autumn settled over Kent with crisp mornings and earlier twilights. The gardens began their gradual surrender to winter, leaves turning gold and amber before drifting to the ground in whispered defeat.Amelia kept herself busy. Excessively so. She reorganized the household accounts with meticulous precision. She reviewed every servant’s responsibility and made careful notes about winter preparations. She spent hours with Henry, teaching him colours and numbers, reading to him until her voice grew hoarse.Anything to avoid the hollow ache that had taken residence beneath her breastbone.“When Papa come home?”Amelia’s hand stilled upon the ledger, ink pooling at the tip of her pen. She set it down carefully before the blot could spread, then turned to find Henry standing in the doorway of the morning room. He clutched his wooden horse—Tobias’s gift—against his chest with both small hands.“Not for some time yet, darling.” She forced brightness into her voice, though the words tasted hollow. “Papa has important business in London.”“But when?” Henry’s lower lip trembled. “I miss Papa.”She looked at her son, her heart twinging with a sudden ache. She missedTobias, too. She held her arms out to her son, suppressing the thought. “Come here, my sweet.”He toddled across the room and climbed into her lap—a feat he managed with increasing confidence each day. When had he grown so large? It seemed mere weeks ago that she could cradle him entirely in her arms. Now his legs dangled past her knees, and his head tucked beneath her chin rather than against her shoulder.“Papa will return before you know it, my darling boy. He has lots of… work to do. But you will be good for mama, won’t you?”Henry pulled back to study her face with those solemn eyes—Edward’s eyes, though they held none of his father’s coldness. “You sad too, Mama?”Children saw too much. She pressed a kiss to his forehead rather than answer directly.“I am perfectly well. Now, shall we see what Cook has prepared for your luncheon? I believe she mentioned apple tart.”“Apple tart!” His melancholy vanished with the mercurial swiftness of childhood. He wriggled free and dashed toward the door, wooden horse forgotten upon her lap.Amelia remained seated long after his footsteps faded, the toy warm in her hands. Tobias had carved it himself—she’d discovered the truth when Mrs. Boldwood mentioned finding wood shavings in his study. He’d spent hours crafting this simple gift, smoothing every edge until it could not possibly injure small fingers.Edward had never made anything for his son. Had barely held him at all.She set the horse aside with more force than intended, guilt flooding through her. Edward had been a good man. Proper. Respectable. He had provided security and a position. That he’d lacked warmth was merely... merely his nature. Nothing to hold against him now that he was gone.And yet.Her gaze drifted to the ledgers spread before her. The household accounts she managed with increasing confidence. The correspondence she answered in her own hand, making decisions without seeking masculine approval. The quiet authority she’d established over staff who looked to her ratherthan past her.All things she might have done years ago, had Edward permitted it.“My lady?”Mrs. Boldwood appeared with tea she had not requested, setting the tray upon the desk with gentle efficiency. The housekeeper’s kind eyes held understanding that made Amelia want to weep.“You’ve been working since dawn, my lady. Perhaps a respite?”“There is too much to do.” Amelia gestured vaguely at the papers. “The draperies for the eastern drawing room require ordering, and I’ve yet to review Cook’s menu for—”“The household will not collapse if you rest for an hour.” Mrs. Boldwood’s tone was firm. “You cannot keep yourself so busy all the time. It will not make time pass faster.”Amelia looked down, unable to find an answer immediately. At last, she sighed.“I simply prefer to remain useful. Idle hands are—”“The devil’s workshop, yes. Lord Edward was fond of that particular wisdom.” Mrs. Boldwood poured tea with steady hands. “Though I confess I always thought it rather cruel. Sometimes idle hands are merely tired ones in need of rest.”The kindness nearly undid her. Amelia accepted the cup, though her throat felt too tight to swallow.“Thank you, Mrs. Boldwood. That will be all.”The housekeeper curtseyed and withdrew, leaving Amelia alone with her tea and the uncomfortable realization that she had been filling every waking moment with tasks specifically designed to prevent thought.Instead, she forced herself to sip the tea—too hot, scalding her tongue. Good. The sharp pain allowed her to focus. She had work to complete. Henry required her full attention. The estate would not manage itself.But even as she bent over the ledgers once more, her mind wandered where it ought not venture. To grey eyes that saw too much. To hands that had steadied her shoulders when panic threatened to consume her. To the particular way Tobias smiled when Henry said something amusing—not the practiced charm he’d worn like armour in London, but something genuine andunguarded.The way the house felt warmer with him in it.“Stop this,” she whispered to the empty room. “Stop this at once.”But the ledgers blurred before her eyes, numbers losing all meaning. She set down her pen with trembling hands.Perhaps she ought to write to him. Nothing improper—merely a brief note about Henry’s progress. Tobias had expressed interest in the boy’s development. It would be natural and appropriate to keep him informed.The decision made, she pulled fresh parchment toward her before doubt could intervene.My lord,Too formal. They’d moved beyond such rigid address during his time at Redmond Park. She crumpled the sheet and tried again.Tobias,Better. Though her pulse quickened at the familiarity.I hope this letter finds you well and that your business in London proceeds satisfactorily. I write with news of Henry, who asks after you daily with increasing insistence.Her throat tightened. She forced herself to continue.He has grown remarkably these past weeks. His vocabulary expands daily—this morning, he informed me quite solemnly that the garden butterfly is “very pretty but not catchable.” I suspect he recalls your pursuit of it with some wistfulness.He walks with increasing confidence now, though he still tumbles rather frequently. Yesterday, he attempted the main staircase independently and gave me the fright of my life. I have since stationed a footman at the base to prevent further adventures.His attachment to the wooden horse you carved remains absolute. He carries it everywhere and sleeps with it clutched against his chest. I believe it has become his most treasured possession.She paused, pen hovering over the paper. What else could she say? That the house felt emptier without his presence? That she caught herself listening for his footsteps in the corridor? That Henry was not the only one who asked after him?All is well at Redmond Park. The household continues smoothly, and I have managed the affairs you entrusted to mycare without difficulty. I trust you find London to your liking and that you are in good health.Yours most sincerely,AmeliaShe read it through twice, hunting for anything that might betray the ache beneath her ribs. The letter seemed appropriately distant. Polite. Focused entirely upon Henry, as was proper.She carried the letter to the hall, intending to leave it with the footman for posting. But her hand hesitated above the silver tray.He would not care. Why should he? He’d left because he wished distance from them—from her. This letter would be merely another obligation, another responsibility he’d never desired.She could imagine his expression upon receiving it. The polite interest he’d affect whilst reading of his nephew’s progress. Perhaps he’d even dictate a response to his secretary rather than writing himself. A brief acknowledgment of her news, nothing more.“Shall I post that for you, my lady?”The footman’s voice startled her. Her fingers tightened reflexively around the sealed letter.“Yes. Thank you, James. See that it goes with this afternoon’s mail.”She released it before she could reconsider, watching the paper disappear into the tray with finality. There. It was done. She had written. Whatever response—or lack thereof—he chose to provide would be answer enough.He would not write back. She knew this. Had expected it, truly. And yet, as the next few weeks passed, each morning when the post arrived, her heart performed some undignified leap before settling back into resigned acceptance when nothing bore his hand.Until one grey October afternoon, when Mrs. Boldwood appeared in the drawing room, a sealed letter extended upon a silver tray.“This arrived with the afternoon post, my lady. From London.”Amelia’s pulse stuttered. She forced herself to accept the letter with steady hands, though her fingers trembled as they broke the seal.His handwriting. Bold, slightly careless, so different from Edward’s precise script.Amelia,Thank you for your letter. It was most welcometo receive news of Henry’s progress.Her heart sank even as she continued reading.I am delighted to hear of his expanding vocabulary and only somewhat alarmed by his staircase adventures. Perhaps you might consider engaging a footman specifically for preventing such explorations? I should not wish him to suffer injury through youthful enthusiasm.Please give him my love and tell him that Papa thinks of him often. I am glad the wooden horse continues to provide comfort. When I return, I shall carve him an entire stable’s worth if he wishes it.I trust you are managing the household affairs with your usual competence. Do not hesitate to write if any matter requires my attention or decision.Yours,TobiasShe read it through three times, searching for something—anything—beyond news of Henry and household management. Some indication that he thought of her specifically. Some acknowledgment of the connection that had grown between them before his departure.Nothing.The letter was kind. Warm, even. But it spoke only of Henry, of estate matters, of appropriate concerns between a viscount and his brother’s widow.She set it down carefully, her vision blurring with tears she refused to shed.What had she expected? That he ached like she did? That he mentioned the emptiness that she could not get rid of? He’d left because he wished to be free of the burden she and Henry represented. This letter was merely polite, nothing more. The duty he felt toward his nephew extending to occasional correspondence with the boy’s mother.“Foolish,” she whispered to the empty room. “So very foolish.”But even as she condemned herself, her fingers traced the signature. Tobias. Not Lord Redmond or even T. Grant. Simply his name, in his hand, meant for her eyes.She folded the letter with trembling fingers and tucked it into her writing desk drawer. Out of sight. Out of mind.Or so she told herself.The days continued their relentless march. November arrived with frost painting the windows andcold that settled into the old stone. Amelia threw herself into preparations for winter with almost manic determination. She reviewed the stores, ensured adequate firewood was available, and checked that all tenant cottages had proper repairs completed before the now made such work impossible.She was managing. Surviving. Growing stronger in Tobias’s absence, just as he’d intended.So why did she feel as though something vital had been carved from her chest?One particularly grey afternoon, she found herself wandering the grounds without a conscious destination. Henry napped peacefully under Mrs. Boldwood’s watchful care. The household ran with mechanical efficiency. She had no tasks requiring immediate attention.And so she walked.Her feet carried her past the gardens, now sleeping beneath their winter covering. Past the tenant cottages where smoke rose from chimneys in lazy spirals. Through the small wood where autumn leaves crunched beneath her boots.Until she stood before the stables.She had not returned here since that day. The day the horse had charged, wild-eyed and terrified. The day Tobias had thrown himself between her and death without a moment’s hesitation.The memory struck with physical force. The weight of his hands on her shoulders. The frantic concern in his voice. The way he’d touched her face, her arms, searching for injury whilst his own coat hung torn and his arm bled freely.He’d nearly died for her.“My lady?”She turned to find the head groom, old Thomas, watching her with concern.“Forgive me. I was merely... walking.”“No forgiveness needed, my lady. Though I confess I’m surprised to see you here..” He shook his head. “Terrible thing that happened with that horse. His lordship was a right hero that day, he was. Saved your life, no question.”“Yes.” The word emerged barely audible. “He did.”“Never seen a man move so fast. Didn’t think at all, just acted. That’s real courage, that is. The kind that comes from—” Thomas caught himself, seeming to realize he’d venturedbeyond appropriate familiarity. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I speak too freely.”“No, please. From what?”The old groom shifted uncomfortably. “Well... from caring deeply, I’d say. A man don’t risk his life like that for simple duty. That’s the kind of courage that comes from the heart, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”Amelia’s breath caught. She managed a nod, then turned away before Thomas could see her face.She walked back to the house in a daze, Thomas’s words echoing through her skull with devastating clarity.From the heart.The house rose before her—grey stone and mullioned windows, elegant and imposing. Edward’s house. His legacy.But it had never felt like home until Tobias arrived.She stood upon the drive, staring at the familiar facade, and finally allowed herself to think the truth she’d been avoiding for weeks.The house felt more alive when Tobias was in it.Not because he was the viscount. Not because he brought masculine authority or proper oversight. But because he laughed. Because he played with Henry until they were both breathless with joy. Because he looked at her as though she were someone worth seeing, worth knowing, worth—She pressed a hand to her mouth, horror flooding through her.Four months. Only four months since he’d left. And already she missed him with an intensity that frightened her.More than that. She missed him more... than she missed Edward.Even during her husband’s trips to London, even during the long silences of their marriage when he’d been physically present but emotionally absent, she had never felt this particular ache. This hollow wrongness, as though something essential had been removed from her world.Edward had been her husband. She ought to mourn him. Ought to feel his absence like a wound.Instead, she felt\... relief. Guilt over that relief, yes, but the relief itself remained undeniable.Whilst Tobias, who had no claim upon her whatsoever, had left specifically to give her freedom, his absence felt like slowly suffocating.“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”Buteven as she denied it, even as she turned and fled into the house, the truth pursued her with relentless certainty.She had fallen in love with her brother-in-law.The realization struck with the force of that charging horse, just as devastating, just as inescapable. She pressed her back against the closed door of her chamber, her heart racing wildly.It was impossible. Improper. Utterly forbidden.And completely, devastatingly true.She crossed to Edward’s portrait—the one that hung opposite her bed, watching her with painted disapproval. For the first time since his death, she truly looked at it. At the cold eyes. The rigid posture. The complete absence of warmth in every brushstroke.“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I tried to love you. I tried so very hard.”But Edward had never wanted her love. He’d wanted competence, obedience, and an appropriate vessel for his heir. Nothing more.Whilst Tobias...Tobias had defended her to his brother. Had given her son unconditional affection. Had nearly died throwing himself between her and danger. Had left specifically because he believed she deserved the freedom to choose her own path.She sank onto the edge of her bed, her hands shaking violently.Two more months. Only two more months until he returned for the Season. Two more months of this aching absence, of checking the post for letters that never came, of lying awake imagining what it might be like if he felt even a fraction of what she—“Where Mama?”Henry’s voice carried from the corridor, followed by Mrs. Boldwood’s gentle reply. Her son would be waking from his nap, would want her, would need her.She had to compose herself. Had to bury this truth so deeply that no one—especially Tobias—would ever suspect.Amelia rose on unsteady legs and moved to her dressing table. Her reflection stared back, pale and wide-eyed. She pinched colour into her cheeks, smoothed her hair, and forced her expression toward something approximating calm.But as she turned toward the door, Edward’s painted eyes seemed tofollow her with knowing condemnation.And for the first time since his death, she did not apologize for failing to be the wife he’d wanted.Because pretending—pretending she did not love Tobias Grant, pretending his absence did not hollow her out completely, pretending two more months would not feel like an eternity—That was the one lie she could no longer force past her lips.Not even for propriety’s sake.
CHAPTER 14
“Your deal, Redmond, and do try to pay attention this time.”
Tobias blinked, refocusing his attention on the green baize table before him. Lord Waverly’s impatient expression swam into clarity through the haze of cigar smoke that perpetually clouded White’s card room. Six months in London, and he still could not accustom himself to the suffocating atmosphere.
Or perhaps it was not the atmosphere at all.
“Forgive me.” He gathered the cards with practiced ease, his hands moving through the familiar motions whilst his mind remained stubbornly elsewhere. “Wool-gathering, it seems.”
