He’d never make her heart stop with a glance. Would never argue with her until sparks flew and the air crackled between them like before a storm. Would never look at her the way Tobias did when he forgot to guard himself—like she was air and water and he’d been drowning.
Would never kiss her in a darkened library whilst rain hammered the windows and the world fell away.
Her chest constricted. Painfully.
She loved him. Heaven help her, she loved Tobias Grant with a fierce, consuming certainty that made a mockery of everything she’d once called love. Had loved him perhaps from that night years ago when he’d defended her against Edward’s cruelty. Or when he’d held Henry with such awkward tenderness. Or maybe from some indefinable moment when his presence shifted from burden to necessity—when the thought of him leaving became unbearable.
And four days ago, he’d kissed her like she mattered. Like she was everything.
Then, spent four days avoiding her as though she carried plague.
Because he regretted it, she was certain of that. Because whatever madness had seized him had been conquered by morning’s cold rationality and the crushing weight of propriety.
The burn of it nearly drove her to her knees.
She turned from the door. Climbed the stairs on legs that felt distant, disconnected. Found the nursery where Henry played with wooden blocks under Mary’s watchful eye.
“Mama!” He scrambled up, all dimpled hands and bright eyes.
She gathered him close. Breathed in his clean child scent whilst he patted her cheeks with sticky fingers. This. This was why foolish yearning had no place in a widow’s practical existence. Henry needed stability. Security. Things Lord Ashbourne could provide.
Things Tobias... wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Whatever had flickered between them in that library had died with the dawn.
Unless.
The thought formed before she could stop it. Dangerous. Desperate. Entirely unwise.
Unless she asked him. Gave him one final chance to claim what had burned between them. To choose her over honour and propriety and whatever fears kept him silent.
Unless his distance wasn’t rejection but protection—staying away not because he didn’t care but because he cared too much and was terrified of ruining her.
Madness. Pure reckless foolishness.
It mattered not, did it? All that she knew was that he did not want her. Not as much as she wanted him.
The day crawled by. Amelia bathed Henry, supervised his dinner, sang him to sleep whilst her mind churned through a thousand versions of what she’d say. How she’d phrase the question that could salvage everything or destroy what fragile peace remained.
She dressed for dinner with shaking hands. Selected a gown Clara had insisted she buy during their last expedition - a deep sapphire that brought out her eyes. “A woman should never underestimate the power of looking devastatingly lovely,” Clara had said with that knowing smile.
She’d laughed then. Now, staring at her reflection, she wondered if she’d been preparing for this moment all along.
The dining room felt cavernous when she entered. Tobias stood by the window, hands behind his back, profile sharp againstdying light. Didn’t turn when she came in, though his shoulders went rigid.
“Good evening.”
Too steady. Too controlled. At complete odds with the riot beneath her stays.
“Good evening.” He turned then, and—Christ. He looked wrecked. Exhaustion shadowed his features, stubble roughened his jaw, and something in his expression suggested a man hanging onto composure by his fingernails.
He looked like she felt.
That sent hope fluttering dangerously in her chest.
They took their usual seats. Opposite ends of a table specifically designed to prevent accidental contact. Footmen served the first course with practised efficiency.
Tobias said nothing. Just pushed food around his plate like he was performing a duty rather than actually eating.
The silence grew teeth.
