And just like that, the distance she’d been trying to maintain crumbled like a sugar sculpture in the rain.
Henry wriggled free, announcing he wanted to play “the throwing game,” which apparently involved Tobias tossing the wooden ball across the lawn whilst Henry gave chase. It was remarkably simple entertainment, yet it produced gales of laughter that echoed across the estate.
Amelia found herself drawn into their orbit, despite every intention to maintain a proper distance. Henry insisted she judge his catches. Tobias enlisted her help in making the game “more challenging,” which seemed to involve increasingly ridiculous throws that Henry had no hope of catching but found endlessly amusing anyway.
The morning dissolved into something timeless. Sunlight painted everything in shades of gold. Grass stained the hem of her morning dress—she’d stopped caring somewhere around the third time Henry had tugged her down to demonstrate his tumbling skills. Tobias had abandoned all pretence of noble dignity, sprawled on the lawn whilst Henry used him as a climbing apparatus.
“Mama, look! I’m tall!”
Henry stood atop Tobias’s chest, arms spread wide, face tilted toward the sky with an expression of such pure triumph that Amelia’s heart constricted painfully.
This, she thought. This is what childhood is supposed to look like. What it should feel like.
Not the rigid formality Edward had insisted upon. Not the constant corrections and reminders about proper behaviour for the future viscount. Just… joy. Pure, uncomplicated, sun-soaked joy.
“Very tall indeed,” she managed, though her voice had gone slightly rough. “The tallest boy in all of Kent, I’d wager.”
“In all of England!” Henry declared, because children knew no moderation.
“In all the world,” Tobias added solemnly, though his eyes danced with amusement. “Perhaps we should measure you against the sky to be certain.”
He sat up carefully, keeping Henry balanced, and the boy immediately transferred his climbing efforts to Tobias’s shoulders. Within moments, he was perched there like some small, giggling emperor surveying his domain.
The sight made something in Amelia’s chest twist almost painfully. Had she not dreamt of this? Dreamt that Edward would one day play with their son in this manner, only to be cruelly awoken to the realisation that the boy was naught more than an heir to him.
But here was Tobias, who had no obligation whatsoever, treating Henry not as a future heir to be shaped but as a child to be cherished.
“You’re going to spoil him terribly,” she said, attempting levity though her throat felt tight.
“Excellent.” Tobias reached up to steady Henry’s small legs. “Every child deserves to be spoiled by someone. Besides, I’m making up for lost time.”
The words landed between them with more weight than perhaps he’d intended. Six months. He’d been gone six months, missing this precious time when Henry had transformed from infant to small person.
“He missed you,” she said quietly. “He asked for you constantly those first few weeks.”
Tobias’s expression shifted—something flickering across his features that looked almost like pain. “I missed him too. More than I…” He stopped, seeming to realize he’d ventured into dangerous territory. “What I mean to say is that I thought of him often. Wondered how he was growing.”
Only him? Only Henry?
The question burned on her tongue, but she couldn’t ask it. Wouldn’t. Because if the answer was yes—that he’d thought only of his nephew and not at all of her—it would hurt far more than she could afford to acknowledge. And if the answer was no…
Well. That might be worse.
A butterfly chose that moment to drift past—one of those small white ones that seemed to populate every English garden. Henry spotted it immediately and demanded to be set down so he could give chase.
“Catch it, Papa! We catch it together!”
Tobias obliged, and Amelia found herself following at a slower pace, watching them stalk the butterfly with exaggerated stealth. Tobias crouched beside Henry, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper as he explained proper butterfly-catching technique—which, she suspected, he was inventing entirely as he went along.
The butterfly, of course, remained perpetually just out of reach. But Henry’s delighted frustration and Tobias’s mock-serious concentration created a scene so perfect, so achingly domestic, that Amelia had to press a hand against her chest to contain the feeling swelling there.
This is what we could be, a traitorous part of her mind whispered. The three of us. A family.
She shut down the thought immediately. Ruthlessly.
They weren’t a family. They were a viscount, his nephew, and his brother’s widow. Anything else was fantasy—dangerous, impossible fantasy that would only lead to scandal and heartbreak.
Henry gave up on the butterfly and discovered a patch of clover instead, immediately setting about the serious business of picking every blossom in reach. Tobias moved to Amelia’s side, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him despite the space between them.
