Then Henry was in her arms, warm and heavy and real. The barrier between them was restored. And she turned toward the house without looking back.
But she felt Tobias watching her go. Felt his gaze like a physical touch burning between her shoulder blades all the way across the lawn.
When she reached the terrace, she couldn’t stop herself. She glanced back.
He stood exactly where she’d left him, hands clenched at his sides, and the look on his face made her chest constrict painfully. He looked like a man watching something precious walk away. Like a man who’d just realized exactly what he stood to lose and had absolutely no idea how to prevent it.
She forced herself to continue inside. To climb the stairs. To settle Henry in his nursery and smooth his dark curls one final time before leaving him to Mary’s care.
To descend toward the morning room where Lord Ashbourne waited with his impeccable manners and appropriate interest.
CHAPTER 23
“More tea, my lord?”
Tobias paused in the corridor, the housekeeper’s polite enquiry floating through the half-open drawing room door with devastating clarity. He hadn’t meant to stop here. Had been heading toward the stables, actually, with some vague notion of inspecting the new mare Pemberton kept insisting required his attention.
His feet, apparently, had other ideas.
“Thank you, Mrs. Boldwood. You’re most kind.”
Lord Ashbourne’s voice. Perfectly modulated. Appropriately warm without presuming familiarity. The sort of voice that belonged to a man who’d never once been accused of impropriety, who’d never gambled away a fortune or kissed a woman on a darkened terrace or done any of the thousandreckless things that comprised Tobias Grant’s thoroughly disreputable past.
The sort of voice that made Tobias want to put his fist through the nearest wall.
Stop it. You have no claim to her. No right whatsoever to care who she entertains in her drawing room.
But knowing he had no right and actually leaving proved to be entirely different matters. His hand found the doorframe—ostensibly to steady himself, though the floor beneath his boots was perfectly solid. Through the narrow opening, he could see them.
Amelia sat in the chair nearest the window, afternoon light painting her profile in shades of gold and rose. She’d changed from her morning dress into something pale blue that made her eyes luminous. Her hands rested in her lap with that particular grace she wore as naturally as breathing, and when she smiled at something Ashbourne said, Tobias felt it like a blade sliding between his ribs.
She’s smiling. At him. At Lord Perfectly-Appropriate-In-Every-Way Ashbourne.
Mrs. Boldwood occupied the chair in the corner—close enough to satisfy propriety’s demands but far enough to grant them privacy for conversation. The perfect chaperone, really. Unobtrusive. Discreet. Entirely proper.
Everything about the scene was proper.
Which, Tobias realized with dawning horror, was precisely what made it so unbearable.
“I confess I’m quite taken with the gardens,” Ashbourne was saying, his teacup balanced with the sort of casual elegance that probably came from years of practice. “The roses in particular are spectacular. You mentioned having a hand in their design?”
“I did, yes.” Amelia’s voice held warmth—genuine pleasure at discussing something she cared about. “I wanted something that felt alive. Beautiful, but natural.”
“You’ve succeeded admirably. They’re quite beautiful.”
Of course they are. Everything she touches becomes beautiful.
Tobias forced himself to breathe. To think rationally. To remember that this—this polite courtship happening in his drawing room—was exactly what he’d been encouraging. What he’d insisted she needed.
Lord Ashbourne would be good to her. Would provide security and respectability and all the things a widow with a young son required. Would never taint her reputation with scandal or subject her to society’s whispers.
Would give her everything Tobias couldn’t.
The knowledge sat in his chest like a lead weight.
“Your son seems a delightful child,” Ashbourne continued. “I glimpsed him in the garden earlier. Quite energetic, from what I could observe.”
“Henry is... yes, he’s wonderfully spirited.” Her voice softened when speaking of their son—herson, Tobias corrected himself savagely, though the correction felt like tearing something vital. “He keeps me rather occupied.”
