But he kept walking. Because he had already proven tonight just how little his honour was worth when tested. Because returning now would only make everything worse. Because she deserved a man strong enough to do the right thing, even when every part of him rebelled against it.
He reached his chambers and closed the door with exquisite care, as though any sound might shatter what remained of his composure. Rain pattered against his windows with gentler insistence now. The storm was passing.
Inside him, it had only just begun.
Tobias slumped against the door, eyes closed, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He could still taste her. Could still feel the silk of her skin, the desperation in her kiss, the way she had melted against him as though she had been waiting months for precisely that moment.
As though she felt the same.
The thought should have filled him with joy. Instead, it felt like torture. Because even if she did want him, even if by some miracle she felt a fraction of what consumed him… what did it matter?
He had nothing to offer her. His reputation would taint her. Society would crucify them both for the scandal of marrying brothers in succession. And even if they could weather that storm, what guarantee did she have that he wouldn’t fail her as he’d failed at everything else?
He’d spent his entire life being the disappointment. The spare who never measured up. The rakehell who gambled and drank and charmed his way through London whilst his brother managed the estate with cold precision.
What right did he have to think he could make Amelia happy?
“Heaven help me,” he whispered into the darkness. “What have I done?”
But he knew. He’d fallen in love with the one woman he could never have. Had kissed her with all the desperate longing he’d been suppressing for months. Had shown her exactly how much power she held over him.
And tomorrow he would have to face her. Would have to pretend. Would have to continue the farce of finding her a suitable husband whilst his own heart tore itself to pieces.
He would apologise to her tomorrow, he needed to. He needed to ensure she understood his lapse was no reflection on her honour. He would have to redouble his efforts to find her a suitable husband whilst pretending his world had not just shattered.
Tomorrow, he would be the gentleman his brother had never believed him capable of becoming.
But not quite yet. Tonight, he wanted to allow himself to cross to the window, to press his forehead against the cold glass, and acknowledge the devastating truth.
He was in love with her.
He was in love with Amelia Grant, with a fierce, consuming certainty that made mockery of every shallow attachment he had ever claimed before. Loved her quiet strength and hidden passion. Loved the way she spoke to Henry, the way she had stood up to him in the nursery, the way her eyes lit when she forgot to guard herself.
Loved her enough that he would have to let her go.
The thought should have brought relief, the noble sacrifice, the honourable choice. Instead, it felt like dying.
Tobias pressed his eyes shut. The storm had moved on, leaving only gentle rain and the occasional rumble of distant thunder. Dawn would come in a few hours. The household would wake. Life would continue with its relentless forward momentum.
And he would have to pretend tonight had never happened.
Pretend he had not held her. Had not tasted her lips. Had not felt her tremble in his arms with the same desperate longing that consumed him.
Pretend he was not in love with the one woman he could never have.
Outside, rain continued to fall. Inside, Tobias stood alone in the darkness and tried very hard not to imagine what might have happened if he had possessed the courage—or perhaps the foolishness—to stay.
CHAPTER 26
“The north pasture fence requires mending before the month’s end, my lord, else we risk the cattle straying onto Thornton’s land again.”
Tobias did not look up from the ledger. Could not look up, lest Pemberton glimpse whatever wreckage the past three days had wrought upon his face. The numbers before him swam together in meaningless patterns—columns Edward had maintained with such meticulous precision, now rendered incomprehensible by Tobias’s singular inability to focus on anything beyond the memory of her lips against his.
“The fence,” he repeated, though the words felt distant, as though spoken by someone else entirely. “Yes. See to it.”
“Shall I engage the Miller boys for the work, my lord? They’ve experience with?—”
“Whatever you think best, Pemberton.” He forced his pen across the page, a signature that looked nothing like his own hand. Too sharp. Too jagged. The writing of a man coming apart at the seams, whilst desperately pretending otherwise. “I trust your judgment in such matters.”
