And Tobias Grant stood in the darkness, hands clenched, and wondered precisely when he’d become the sort of fool who stood beneath windows like some lovelorn fool from a terrible novel.
CHAPTER 20
“Tell me you did not actually faint when Lord Pembrook stepped on your hem.”
Amelia looked up from pouring tea to find her cousin watching her with that particular gleam of mischief that meant trouble. Lady Clara Whitmore had arrived precisely seventeen minutes ago—Amelia had counted—and already the drawing room felt lighter. Warmer. As though Clara had carried sunshine in with her ostrich-plumed bonnet and impossible energy.
“I did not faint,” Amelia replied, grateful for the first genuine smile she’d managed in days. “Though I confess the temptation was considerable. The man has absolutely no sense of spatial awareness whatsoever.”
“Spatial awareness.” Clara accepted her teacup with a laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep and genuine. “What a diplomatic way of saying he moves like a drunken elephant. Poor Lady Pembrook looked ready to murder him on the ballroom floor.”
“Clara!”
“Well, she did! I saw her face when he trod on her own gown not five minutes later. Murderous intent, written clear as day.” Clara settled back against the cushions with the ease of someone utterly comfortable in her own skin—a quality Amelia had always admired and never quite managed to cultivate. “Though that was hardly the most interesting drama of the evening. Did you hear about Miss Hartwell?”
“Which Miss Hartwell? There are three, and all equally prone to scandal.”
“The eldest. Apparently she fainted dead away at Almack’s last Thursday. Right in the middle of a waltz with Lord Ashford.”
Amelia paused mid-sip. “Truly? Was she ill?”
“Oh, terribly ill.” Clara’s eyes danced with unholy amusement. “Ill with the sort of condition that requires nine months to recover from, if you take my meaning.”
“Clara Whitmore!”
“What? I’m merely repeating what half of London is whispering. And before you scold me further—” Clara raised one hand in mock surrender. “—I should mention that Lord Ashford did the honourable thing. They’re to be married next month. Very quietly, of course. His mother is beside herself.”
Despite everything, Amelia felt her lips twitch. This was precisely what she’d needed—Clara’s irreverent commentary, her complete disregard for propriety’s more tedious requirements, her ability to make even scandal sound absurdly amusing rather than tragic.
“You’re incorrigible,” she said, though warmth flooded through the words.
“I prefer ‘refreshingly honest.’ Far more flattering.” Clara reached for a biscuit, studying it with exaggerated concentration. “Though speaking of honesty, there’s also considerable speculation about Lord Waverly’s sudden departure for Scotland. Something about debts and an actress and a very angry husband with a very large pistol.”
“Good heavens.”
“Quite. Society has been deliciously entertaining this Season.” Clara bit into the biscuit, then continued with her mouth slightly full—a habit that would have sent their mothers into apoplexy. “Which brings me to the most interesting development of all.”
Something in her cousin’s tone made Amelia’s teacup pause halfway to her lips. “What development?”
“You, darling. You and your return to society.” Clara’s smile turned knowing. Dangerous. “Half the room at every event spends the evening whispering about you.”
The tea nearly spilled. Amelia set down her cup with more force than intended, the delicate china rattling against its saucer. “Whispering what, precisely?”
“Oh, the usual tedious nonsense. How you looked remarkably well for a grieving widow. Whether your mourning period was truly concluded. What your intentions might be regarding remarriage.” Clara waved one hand dismissively. “The matrons are positively salivating with speculation. You’d think they’d never seen a woman emerge from black crepe before.”
“How very kind of them,” Amelia muttered, reaching for her own biscuit simply to occupy her hands.
“Isn’t it just?” Clara leaned forward, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone that meant she was about to say something truly outrageous. “Though of course, the most interesting whispers had nothing to do with you specifically.”
“No?”
“No. They concerned your very attentive brother-in-law.”
The biscuit crumbled between Amelia’s suddenly nerveless fingers. She stared at the ruins scattered across her lap, her mind racing whilst her mouth refused to form coherent words.
“Tobias?” Her voice was strangled, and heat rushed to her cheeks. “He is simply being... polite. Ensuring my return proceeded smoothly.”
“Polite.” Clara’s laugh was bright and utterly merciless. “My dear, the man looks ready to murder any gentleman who dares ask you for a second chance. Is that truly merely polite?”
