“The honour is mine, my lord,” she managed, the words hollow in her own ears.
The Harcourt ball was everything society deemed magnificent—candles blazing in crystal chandeliers, silk gowns swirling across gleaming floors, music floating through the air perfumed with hothouse flowers and expensive scent. London’s finest pressed close, their laughter rising and falling like waves against the shore. She should have felt a sense of triumph at being here, at having successfully navigated her return to society after months of mourning.
Instead, she felt like she was drowning.
The pale blue silk gown Clara had insisted upon fit perfectly, its empire waist and delicate embroidery deglared her to be halfway between mourning and freedom. Her hair had been arranged in an elaborate style that had taken her maid an hour to achieve. She looked, by all accounts, exactly as a respectable widow should when testing the waters of society once more.
But beneath the silk and stays, her heart beat with sickening irregularity. Each breath felt too shallow, as though her lungs had forgotten their purpose. She pressed one gloved hand against her stomach, trying to quell the nausea that had plagued her since climbing into the carriage.
This was the right choice. The sensible choice. Lord Ashbourne was everything propriety demanded—titled, wealthy, respected. He had children of his own, so he would understand Henry’s place in her life. He’d been nothing but courteous during their brief courtship, never pressing for more than she offered.
He was safe.
And that safety felt like a noose tightening around her throat.
“I confess,” Ashbourne continued, oblivious to her distress, “I had begun to fear you might not attend this evening. Lady Pemberton mentioned you were feeling unwell earlier.”
“A passing malaise.” The lie came easily—too easily. She’d become rather accomplished at deception lately. “I am quite recovered now.”
His smile suggested he believed her, which only proved how little he truly knew her. If he’d looked closer—if he’d cared to look at all beyond the pretty picture she presented—he would have seen the shadows beneath her eyes, the too-tight set of her shoulders, the way her hands trembled despite her best efforts to still them.
But Lord Ashbourne saw only what he wanted to see. A suitable wife. A mother for his grown children’s siblings. A woman who would slot neatly into the life he’d already constructed.
Nothing about who she actuallywasmattered in the slightest.
Stop it,she told herself fiercely.Stop being ungrateful. He’s offering you security. Respectability. A future for Henry that doesn’t depend on Tobias’s charity.
Tobias.
Even thinking his name hurt.
She’d tried not to. Had spent the past week deliberately avoiding any thought of grey eyes and wry smiles and the way his voice softened when he spoke to Henry. Had thrown herself into preparations for tonight with manic determination, as though bykeeping busy enough she might outrun the ache that had taken up permanent residence in her chest.
It hadn’t worked.
Nothing worked.
Because no matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, the truth remained: she loved him. Loved him with a depth that terrified her, that made every sensible choice feel like betrayal, that transformed safety into a cage and respectability into a prison.
And he’d let her go without a fight.
That was the part that burned worst of all. After months of carefully banked tension, of glances that lingered too long, of touches that spoke volumes—after everything—he’d simply... allowed this. Encouraged it, even, with his talk of duty and propriety and what society expected.
As though none of it had mattered.
As thoughshehadn’t mattered.
“Lady Amelia?” Ashbourne’s voice pulled her back to the present. “You seem distracted. Is all well?”
“Perfectly well, my lord.” Another lie. She was drowning in them. “Merely admiring the decorations. Lady Harcourt has truly outdone herself.”
He launched into some observation about the arrangements, but she barely heard him. The ballroom pressed too close, too warm. Faces blurred together into a mass of curious eyes and knowing smiles. The music grated against her nerves like broken glass. Every breath she drew tasted of roses and regret.
This was wrong.
Everything about this waswrong.
But she’d made her choice. Given her word. Lord Ashbourne had made his intentions clear, and she’d accepted his suit. Tonight was meant to be their informal announcement—letting society see them together, allowing the gossip to begin speculating. By week’s end, it would be official. By month’s end, she’d likely be engaged.
