Amelia had changed into a gown of deep emerald for dinner, wich made her eyes luminous in the candlelight. Not quite out of mourning—the cut remained modest, the sleeves long—but no longer the unrelieved black she’d worn before. Half-mourning, he supposed. The compromise between grief and life.
She wore it beautifully.
“The estate accounts look excellent,” he said, attempting conversation as the first course was served. “You’ve managed everything with remarkable efficiency.”
“Mrs. Pemberton deserves most of the credit.” She took a delicate sip of wine. “She’s been invaluable in teaching me what I needed to know. As has Mr. Pemberton regarding the tenants and agricultural concerns.”
“Nevertheless. Taking on such responsibility whilst caring for a young child—it cannot have been easy.”
“It wasn’t.” She met his eyes directly. “But it was necessary. And in the end, rather satisfying. I’d never been allowed to manage anything of consequence before. Edward preferred—”She stopped herself, that familiar wariness flickering across her features. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead.”
“Edward preferred women who remained decorative and silent,” Tobias finished grimly. “I know. I lived with him for eighteen years before you ever met him, remember.”
Something in her expression shifted—softened fractionally, as though his bluntness had surprised her into dropping her guard. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How clearly we can see someone after they’re gone. When they were alive, I convinced myself his coldness was my failing. That if I could just be quieter, more accommodating, more perfect, he might...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does.” The intensity in his own voice surprised him. “It matters because you deserved better. You deserve better still.”
She looked at him for a long moment, candlelight painting shadows across her face. “Do I? Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I’m meant for solitude. If marriage—any marriage—would simply be another cage.”
“It needn’t be.” The words escaped before he could stop them, raw and revealing. “With the right person, marriage could be... partnership. Companionship. Something that makes you more yourself rather than less.”
“How remarkably progressive of you, my lord.” Her tone was light, teasing even, but her eyes held something deeper. “Haveyou been reading radical philosophy during your time in London?”
“Nothing so dramatic.” He attempted a smile that felt strained. “Merely observing the world and drawing conclusions.”
They ate in silence for several minutes, the tension between them thrumming like a plucked violin string. Tobias watched her hands as she cut her meat with precise, elegant movements. Watched the way candlelight caught the curve of her neck when she tilted her head. Watched and ached and tried desperately to think of anything except how badly he wanted to reach across the table and?—
“Tell me about London,” she said suddenly, startling him from thoughts that had veered dangerously close to impropriety. “Your letters were... informative, but rather sparse on personal details. Did you enjoy being back?”
He frowned slightly. “It was… fine.”
“Fine?” She looked at him teasingly. “I thought you’d have been elated at being back. That you lived for the glamour and glitter of the city.”
“I used to.” He pushed food around his plate without appetite. “It seems I’ve lost my taste for it.”
“How terribly unfortunate.” Was that amusement colouring her tone? “All those disappointed ladies who were hoping to capture the eligible Viscount Redmond.”
“Let them be disappointed.” He looked up, holding her gaze with more intensity than was probably wise. “London has nothing I want.”
“Nothing?” she asked quietly.
“Nothing,” he confirmed, and their eyes met across the table.
She looked away first, reaching for her wine with fingers that trembled just slightly. “Well. That’s quite damning of the capital’s charms.”
“It’s honest.”
They finished the next course in a silence that felt charged with everything unsaid. Tobias tried to focus on his food, on the wine, on anything except the way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking. The way her fingers toyed with the stem of her glass. The way her eyes kept darting to him then away, as though she couldn’t quite help herself.
When the plates were cleared, and dessert served—something elaborate involving cream and berries that he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate—he knew he needed to address what they’d both been avoiding.
“Amelia,” he began, then faltered. How did one broach such a topic? “Your mourning period is concluded.”
She went very still, her spoon suspended halfway to her mouth. “Yes. Another month and I’ll be officially out of black entirely.”
“And then...” He forced himself to continue despite every instinct screaming to retreat. “Our agreement was that you would have six months to recover yourself. To find your footing. And then we would discuss your return to society. Your... future.”
She set down her spoon with careful precision. “I remember our agreement, my lord.”
