“Ah. Yes. Quite fair.” Tobias dipped his quill—unnecessarily, as he had written precisely nothing—and made a show of noting the figure. The ink spread across the page in an ugly blot that rather accurately represented his current state of mind. “And you recommend acceptance?”
“I do, my lord. As I mentioned when we began this discussion.”
When they had begun. Which had been... when, exactly? An hour ago? Two?
It was merely fatigue, he told himself. The accumulated exhaustion of late nights and early mornings, of responsibilities he had never been groomed to shoulder. Nothing more sinister than that. Certainly nothing to do with the way his chest constricted every time he passed the nursery door, or how his hands trembled when he caught the sound of Amelia’s voice drifting through the house like smoke he could not quite grasp. It most definitely had nothing to do with Lord Ashbourne making his intentions to court her rather clear.
“Perhaps some fresh air might serve, my lord?” Pemberton ventured, his weathered countenance creased with concern. “The day is remarkably fine. A ride often works wonders for clearing the mind.”
“An excellent notion.” Tobias rose before the suggestion had fully left the steward’s mouth, nearly overturning his chair in his haste. “I shall inspect the northern boundary myself. Get a proper assessment of those timber stands before making any final decisions.”
It was a transparent excuse, and they both knew it—the timber stands could wait another month without suffering, and Pemberton’s judgment was sound enough to render Tobias’s personal inspection entirely superfluous. But the older manmerely inclined his head, seemingly relieved to be rid of the young lord.
“Very good, my lord. Shall I have the accounts prepared for this evening’s review?”
“Tomorrow will suffice.” Tobias was already moving toward the door, driven by the irrational conviction that remaining in this study one moment longer would result in some catastrophic failure of will. “I may be... some time.”
He escaped into the corridor before Pemberton could respond, his boots striking the marble floor with sharp percussion that did nothing to drown the sound filtering down from the floor above. Amelia’s voice, soft and melodic, singing one of those lullabies she favoured when coaxing Henry toward his afternoon rest. He could not distinguish the words at this distance, but the tune carried through the floorboards with devastating clarity—a gentle rise and fall that seemed to wrap around his ribs and squeeze until breathing required conscious effort.
Since Henry’s fever had broken, he had been pointedly avoiding true conversation with Amelia. He could hardly look her in the eye. He knew she did not understand his unease at being in the same vicinity as her. He knew that she was offended, quite possibly even hurt.
But what alternative existed? What was he meant to do with the memory of her weight against his chest, the way she had trembled in his arms whilst broken sobs tore through her?
It had been too intimate for him to be fully comfortable with it. Too vulnerable. Too much like… No. It had been fear, he told himself firmly, nodding absently at a housemaid who bobbed a curtsy as he passed. Nothing more than the particular madness that seized people in the small hours when death hovered near. Exhaustion stripping away good sense. The crisis making them both temporarily unmoored from the boundaries propriety demanded.
Just fear. Just exhaustion. Just the late hour playing tricks with his better judgment.
It meant nothing.
It was a bitter, blatant lie, but he clung to it regardless as he pushed through the front doors into sunlight that felt almost aggressive in its cheerfulness.
“Saddle Apollo,” he ordered the groom who appeared with gratifying swiftness. “I’m riding to inspect the northern boundary.”
“Very good, my lord. Lovely day for it, if I may say.”
Lovely. Indeed. A lovely day for fleeing one’s own house as though pursued by demons. A lovely day for reminding himself that his duty—his only duty—lay in finding Amelia a suitable husband, not in haunting corridors and doorways like some tragic figure from a Gothic novel, hoping for glimpses of her going about her daily routines.
Apollo was ready within minutes—a spirited gelding who required his full attention or risk being thrown. Tobias mounted and turned the horse toward the north, determinedly not looking up at the nursery window where he was absolutely not hoping to catch sight of Amelia’s silhouette.
The window remained empty. The disappointment that lanced through him was entirely inappropriate and thoroughly unwelcome.
He urged Apollo into a canter, then a gallop, as though speed might outrun the truths he had been dodging with increasing desperation. The countryside blurred past—hedgerows in their first proper green, fields being prepared for spring planting, tenant cottages with smoke curling from chimneys. Simple, honest lives unburdened by inconvenient desire for women they had no earthly right to want.
By the time he reached the northern acreage, Apollo was winded, and Tobias’s thoughts remained as tangled as they had been in the study. He dismounted, securing the horse where spring grass grew thick, and made a show of surveying the timber stands with the sort of careful attention Pemberton would expect upon his return.
The trees were magnificent—mature oaks worth considerable sums. Thornton’s offer was more than fair. Edward would have accepted it immediately, having already calculated profit margins and future yields with his characteristic precision.
Edward, who had possessed everything worth having and valued none of it properly.
The bitterness rose unbidden, sour on Tobias’s tongue. Even now—months after laying his brother to rest—the old resentments refused to settle quietly. How had Edward managed it? That systematic coldness, that ability to treat life’s greatest treasures as mere entries in a ledger to be managed with efficiency rather than cherished with feeling?
A wife who had tried so desperately to please him, and he had met her efforts with calculated indifference. A son he had regarded primarily as an heir rather than a child to be delighted in. An estate he had run with flawless competence whilst somehow draining every trace of warmth from its halls.
And Tobias—Tobias had envied it all. He had spent years resenting his brother’s perfection, his position, and his seemingly effortless command of everything their father had valued. Only to inherit it all and discover that perfection had been merely performance. That beneath the flawless surface lay nothing but ice.
He turned from the timber stands, unable to focus on matters of profit and contracts when his mind insisted on wandering elsewhere. The formal gardens were visible from here, where manicured beds began their transition toward wilderness. And there, kneeling among the roses with a wicker basket at her side?—
Amelia.
