A pause stretched between them, weighted with all the things the estate steward was too polite to voice. That Tobias had been locked in this study since before dawn. That he had not emerged for meals. That the household whispered of their master’s sudden devotion to duty with the same tone one might use to discuss symptoms of madness.
“Very good, my lord.” Pemberton gathered his papers with methodical efficiency. “The timber merchant from Dover will call tomorrow regarding the oak stands. Your brother had been in negotiations before his passing, and Mr. Thornton is eager to finalise the contract.”
Tobias nodded without hearing. Pemberton departed. The door clicked shut with devastating finality, leaving him alone with ledgers and silence and the relentless echo of words he could not unspeak.
This shouldn’t have happened.
I know. But we both knew it would.
His hands clenched against the desk hard enough to make the wood creak. Three days. Seventy-two hours since he had held her in his arms and tasted desperation on her lips. Since hehad walked away from the library and left her trembling in the firelight, since he had returned to his chambers and stood beneath his own roof feeling more exiled than he ever had in London’s most disreputable establishments.
Three days of throwing himself into estate business with mechanical precision, as though by drowning in tenant disputes and crop rotations, he might somehow restore the order that kiss had shattered.
It was not working.
Nothing worked.
He shoved back from the desk with enough force to send the chair scraping across polished floorboards. The study felt suffocating—walls pressing in, Edward’s ghost hovering in every corner, judgment radiating from the very furniture. This had been his brother’s domain. The ledgers arranged just so. The correspondence filed with obsessive care. Even the brandy decanter positioned at the exact angle Edward had preferred.
Tobias crossed to the window instead, desperate for air that did not taste of his predecessor’s disapproval.
The gardens stretched below, autumn sunlight painting them in shades of amber and rust. From this vantage, he could see the rose beds where Amelia had been working yesterday. Where he had watched her for seventeen minutes—he had counted, God help him—before forcing himself back to the stables before she could sense his presence.
Seventeen minutes of observing the way sunlight caught in her loosely pinned hair. How her hands moved among the thorns with fearless grace. The smudge of soil on her cheek that he had wanted desperately to wipe away with his thumb, the way he had in the library when?—
Stop.
He pressed his forehead against the cool glass. Exhaled slowly. Tried with complete futility to think of anything—anything at all—beyond the memory of how she had trembled in his arms. How her fingers had clutched his soaked shirt. How she had gasped his name like a prayer and a curse combined.
A knock at the door shattered his spiral.
“Enter.” His voice emerged rougher than intended.
Mrs. Boldwood appeared, her expression carefully neutral in that way servants perfected when navigating their employer’s evident distress. “Forgive the intrusion, my lord. Cook wishes to know your preferences for this evening’s menu.”
This evening. As though time continued its forward march despite everything. As though the world had not fundamentally altered three nights ago in a library during a storm.
“Whatever Cook prepares will be perfectly acceptable.”
“Of course, my lord.” She hesitated, and something in that pause made Tobias turn from the window. The housekeeper’s gaze held concern wrapped in professional discretion. “Might I suggest something more substantial than the tea and toast you’ve been subsisting on? Cook is quite worried, and if I may be so bold?—”
“You may not.” He softened the words with an attempt at his old charm, though it felt like wearing clothes that no longer fit properly. “But I appreciate the concern. Tell Cook I shall do justice to whatever she prepares.”
Mrs. Boldwood departed, leaving Tobias alone with the damning realisation that even the servants had noticed. That his behaviour these past days had been remarkable enough to warrant gossip. That he was doing a spectacular job of pretending everything was normal whilst simultaneously advertising his inner chaos to anyone paying attention.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
He returned to the desk. Picked up his pen. Stared at Edward’s neat handwriting in the margin notes—observations about crop yields and weather patterns, recorded with the dispassionate precision of a man who had never let emotion interfere with reason.
How had his brother managed it? That systematic coldness? The ability to live beside a woman like Amelia and feel nothing beyond duty’s pallid obligations?
The pen snapped between Tobias’s fingers.
Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Nothing except her. Who cared about crop rotations? What significance did timber contracts hold when her scent lingered in his memory like smoke after a fire?
Focus. You are a viscount now. You have responsibilities. She deserves better than this. Better than you.
The internal lecture achieved nothing beyond making his jaw ache from clenching.
