“On the contrary.” He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand rather than the particular curve of her neck. “You have quite a few respectable options. Lord Denby, for instance.”
He nodded towards the tall, fair-haired gentleman currently pretending not to watch them. “Excellent family, solid estate in Yorkshire. Or perhaps the Earl of Chilton—widower, three grown children, very kind. Either would make a suitable match.”
Her smile faded a bit. Not that he noticed, he told himself firmly. He was far too busy cataloguing potential suitors, too focused on the task he’d set himself.
Find her a husband. Someone respectable who can give her the life she deserves. Get her settled and then... then you can leave. Return to London. Forget that any of this ever happened.
“You’ve been researching husbands for me, my lord?”
The question caught him off guard. He looked at her properly then, noting the tightness around her mouth, the careful neutrality of her tone.
“Someone must,” he said simply. “It is always better to know your options.”
“I see.” She was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting across the ballroom. “And have you compiled a complete list? Perhaps with rankings by title and annual income?”
There was an edge to her voice now—something that made him pause. “I’m merely trying to help, Amelia. You said yourself that you needed to secure Henry’s future.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” She turned back to him, and her eyes held something he couldn’t quite decipher. “Thank you for your... assistance. I shall certainly keep Lord Denby and the Earl of Chilton in mind.”
Before he could respond—before he could explain that he didn’t want her considering any of them—Lord Denby himself appeared at her elbow.
“Lady Amelia.” The baron executed a flawless bow. “I wonder if I might claim the honour of this dance?”
Tobias watched her hesitate, watched something flicker in her eyes as her gaze found his. Then her composure settled back into place as armour donned before battle.
“Of course, my lord. I should be delighted.”
Denby led her onto the floor with the sort of proper distance Edward would have approved of. The orchestra struck up a waltz, and Tobias found himself rooted at the edge of the ballroom, his untouched champagne growing warm in his hand.
He should look away. Should turn his attention to Miss Denham, who was still hovering hopefully nearby. Should do anything except stand here watching like some lovesick fool.
But his body refused to obey.
Denby’s hand settled at Amelia’s waist—perfectly positioned, appropriately respectful—and something hot and vicious coiled in Tobias’s chest. The baron said something that made her smile, and Tobias felt it like a blade sliding between his ribs.
She laughed then. A polite, practiced sound that carried across the music, and he knew—knew with devastating certainty—that it wasn’t real. Not like when she’d laughed in the garden at Redmond Park, watching Henry chase butterflies. Not like the surprised burst of amusement she’d tried to smother when Tobias had said something unforgivably improper at dinner.
This was her society laugh. Her widow’s laugh. The sound of a woman performing rather than living.
And somehow that made it worse.
They swept past him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of lavender that clung to her. Denby was still speaking, probably reciting his excellent credentials, his respectable estate in Yorkshire, all the proper reasons she should consider his suit.
The rational part of Tobias’s mind—the part that had spent six months in London convincing itself this was necessary, that finding her a suitable husband was the honourable course—knew Denby would be good to her. Kind. Respectful. Everything Edward hadn’t been.
Everything Tobias couldn’t allow himself to be.
The music swelled. They turned. And Amelia’s eyes found his across the crowded ballroom.
The connection struck like lightning—sudden, electric, impossible to ignore. Her steps faltered fractionally before training reasserted itself. But she didn’t look away. Neither did he.
The question in her gaze was unmistakable. As was the terrible understanding in his.
Neither looked away first.
The waltz ended. Denby bowed. Amelia curtsied. And Tobias turned sharply on his heel.
“Redmond, are you—” Waverly began.
