“I’ll stay.” She settled more firmly into the chair beside him, close enough that their shoulders pressed together. “Just in case he wakes. In case he needs?—”
“In case,” Tobias agreed quietly.
The rain had stopped entirely now. Pale sunlight began filtering through the windows, painting everything in shades of pearl and gold. Somewhere in the house, servants would be stirring. The world beyond this room would soon intrude with all its demands and expectations.
But for now—for this stolen moment whilst Henry slept peacefully between them—there was only the three of them in the quiet dawn.
CHAPTER 22
Mere hours later, the spell was broken. Amelia was seated outside, where Henry was trudging forward clumsily, chasing the ball—slower than usual, but with the same fervour. Relief coursed through Amelia as she looked at her son.
It had been one of the longest nights of her life, and she couldn’t help but be grateful for not having to go through it on her own.
Tobias. He was there for her.
As a brother-in-law, of course. He was there for Henry. Nothing else.
But her body betrayed the lie. Every muscle remembered the weight of Tobias’s arm around her shoulders. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, willing the memories away.
The fever had broken. Henry was well. And whatever strange intimacy had existed in those dark hours—when fear had stripped away every careful pretence—belonged firmly in the past.
It had to.
“Mama! The ball gone!”
The ball had rolled into the bushes, and Henry toddled toward her with that particular combination of determination and precarious balance unique to young children. His dark curls caught the sunlight, and colour bloomed in his cheeks—real colour, not the frightening flush of fever. Relief flooded through her anew, as fresh as it had been at dawn.
He’s all right. My son is all right.
She bent to retrieve the ball, grateful for the excuse to hide her face. “Shall we see if you can catch it this time, my darling?”
“I catch it! I’m very good at catching!”
The confidence in his pronouncement made her laugh—properly laugh, from somewhere deep in her chest. When had she last done that? Laughed without measuring the sound first, without calculating whether it was appropriate or properly subdued?
She rolled the ball gently across the grass. Henry gave chase with a war cry that would have done a general proud, his small legs pumping with impressive speed. He reached the ball, attempted to scoop it up mid-stride, and promptly tumbled over it in a tangle of limbs.
Amelia’s heart seized—that instinctive maternal terror—but Henry simply lay there for a moment before dissolving into giggles.
“I almost catched it, Mama! Did you see?”
“I did see. You were magnificent.” She crossed to him, offering her hands. “Though perhaps we might work on the actual catching part?”
He grasped her fingers and pulled himself upright with the resilience of childhood. No tears. No complaints about grass-stained knees or dignity thoroughly abandoned. Just pure, uncomplicated joy in being alive and playing on a beautiful morning.
When did I forget how to do that? How to simply... be?
The answer arrived with uncomfortable clarity: the day she’d married Edward and learned that joy was something to be carefully rationed, properly controlled, never displayed with unseemly enthusiasm.
“Lady Amelia.”
A servant’s voice from the terrace. She turned to find Peters hovering with that particular expression servants wore when delivering news they suspected might not be welcome.
“Lord Ashbourne has called, my lady. I’ve shown him to the morning room.”
Her stomach plummeted. Lord Ashbourne. She had all but forgotten his intended courtship of her—having sent him away by word of servants when he’d called upon her when Henry had gotten sick. She supposed she had to see him now. Had to look forward. Toward her future.
