“We should go inside,” she said instead, the words gentle but firm. A retreat masked as practicality. “It’s growing rather warm, and Henry will need his nap soon.”
“Of course.” Tobias’s tone matched hers—polite, careful, giving nothing away. “I have estate matters requiring attention, in any case.”
They gathered Henry together, working in careful synchronization to avoid further contact. The boy protested being taken inside, naturally, but relented once promised biscuits and stories.
As they walked back toward the house—Henry between them, chattering about butterflies and bees—Amelia was acutely aware of Tobias’s presence beside her. The way his shadow fell across the path. The sound of his breathing. The ghost-feeling of where his hand had brushed hers.
She glanced at him once, unable to help herself.
And found him watching not his nephew, but her.
A sudden realisation coursed through her, and she averted her gaze, unable to look at him any longer. He hadn’t changed. She had—the way she saw him. No longer was he merely Edward’s rebellious younger brother, the rake as Edward had called him—the stain on the family name.
She saw him now as simply Tobias. The man who made her son laugh. The man who looked at her as though she were something precious. The man whose touch made her skin burn and whose absence made the house feel empty.
It was best, she decided firmly, that she focus on the Season and her re-entry into society. The longer she stayed here, with him… The more she would see him as a man. And that was simply something she could not afford to do.
CHAPTER 19
“Lady Amelia, you simplymusttell us your secret.”
Mrs. Hartwell’s voice carried across the drawing room loudly. It was quite evident that she was used to being heard. Amelia set down her teacup slowly, far too aware of the dozen pairs of eyes that had suddenly fixed upon her as though she were something to be studied. She wondered where Tobias was. He’d arrived with her, but made himself scarce quickly—mumbling something about seeing a man about one or the other matter of importance.
“My secret, Mrs. Hartwell?” She kept her tone light and pleasant, whilst her mind raced through possible interpretations. Were people aware of the fact that her son called Tobias ‘Papa’? She hadn’t truly thought about how wildly inappropriate that was. Had the servants been gossiping about their morning in the garden?
“Your remarkable composure, of course.” The matron leaned forward, her ostrich plumes bobbing enthusiastically. “Hereyou are, barely out of mourning, yet you carry yourself with such grace. Such...vitality. One would almost think widowhood agreed with you.”
The words rang through the drawing room like a loud bell. Around them, conversation stuttered and died. Amelia felt rather than saw heads turning, fans stilling, teacups suspended mid-sip as the assembled ladies waited to see how she would respond to such a spectacularly rude compliment, dressed as it was.
Six months ago—even three—she might have stammered an apology. Might have shrunk beneath the judgment, the barely concealed accusation that she’d somehow failed to grieve appropriately.
Now, she simply smiled.
“How very kind of you to notice, Mrs. Hartwell.” Her voice remained perfectly modulated, betraying nothing of the irritation that simmered beneath. “I believe my late husband would have wished me to continue living rather than become a monument to sorrow. He was quite practical about such matters.”
In truth, she was quite certain that Edward would have been appalled by her appearance in society so soon. But he wasn’t here to disapprove.
“Practical,” Mrs. Hartwell repeated, as though testing the word’s weight. “Yes, I suppose Lord Redmond was known for his... practicality.”
The pause before that final word suggested she’d considered several less flattering alternatives. Amelia’s fingers tightened fractionally around her teacup.
“Indeed he was. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe Lady Wimberley mentioned wishing to introduce me to someone.”
She rose with fluid grace, ignoring Mrs. Hartwell’s sputtering protest. Their hostess—bless her—immediately materialized at her elbow with the efficiency of a general deploying reinforcements.
“My dear Lady Amelia, there you are. I’ve someone most eager to make your acquaintance.” Lady Pemberton’s grip on her arm was gentle but inexorable, steering her away from the cluster of gossiping matrons toward the far side of the drawing room. She lowered her voice and looked at Amelia kindly. “Please forgive Mrs. Hartwell. The woman has all the tact of a battering ram.”
“I’ve survived worse,” Amelia murmured.
“I’m certain you have.” Lady Pemberton’s voice softened with unexpected warmth. “Which is precisely why I think you’ll appreciate Lord Ashbourne. He’s a gentleman in the truest sense—something of a rarity these days.”
They stopped before a tall gentleman standing near the windows, his profile silhouetted against the afternoon light. He turned at their approach, and Amelia found herself studying him with the detached interest one might apply to selecting furniture.
He was objectively handsome, she supposed. Fair-haired, where Tobias was dark. Elegant where Tobias was... well, Tobias had his own particular brand of disheveled charm that defied conventional elegance entirely.
Stop comparing him to Tobias. He is not your comparison to make.
“Lord Ashbourne,” Lady Pemberton announced with obvious pleasure. “May I present Lady Amelia Grant. Lady Amelia, Sir Henry Aldridge, Lord Ashbourne.”
