By next season, she’d be his wife.
The thought made her stomach heave.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Ashbourne said, oblivious to her distress, “I see Lord Pemberton across the room. I’ve been meaning to discuss a business matter with him. I shan’t be but a moment.”
“Of course.”
She watched him go with relief so acute it bordered on shameful. The moment he disappeared into the crowd, she sagged slightly, the rigid composure she’d maintained cracking just enough to let pain seep through.
What are you doing?
The question whispered through her mind with Clara’s voice—teasing, knowing, far too perceptive. Her cousin had warned her about this. Had looked at her with those shrewd eyes and said quite plainly that marrying for safety whilst in love with someone else was a recipe for misery.
But what alternative did she have? Tobias had made his position clear. Had practically thrown her at every eligible gentleman in London. Whatever she’d thought existed between them—whatever heat she’d felt in his gaze, whatever promise had hummed in the air during those long evenings at Redmond Park—had been nothing but her own desperate imagination.
He didn’t want her.
Not enough, anyway.
Not enough to fight for her.
The realisation sat like lead in her stomach, heavy and cold and utterly final.
Around her, the ball continued its glittering performance. Couples whirled past in elaborate dances. Matrons gossiped behind fans whilst their daughters simpered at eligible gentlemen. Life moved forward with relentless indifference to the quiet devastation occurring in one widow’s breaking heart.
She should join them. Should smile and nod and play her part in this elaborate farce. Should?—
A ripple moved through the crowd.
Subtle at first, barely noticeable. But then conversations faltered. Heads turned toward the entrance with that peculiar unified motion that signalled something unexpected had occurred. The orchestra’s violins wavered uncertainly before recovering their melody with obvious effort.
Amelia’s breath caught.
She knew—with the same bone-deep certainty that told her when Henry needed her, when storms were coming, when something fundamental had shifted—sheknewbefore she turned what she would see.
Who she would see.
Her body moved without conscious thought, turning toward the ballroom’s entrance as though drawn by invisible threads. And there, framed in the doorway like some vengeful angel, stood?—
Tobias.
The world stopped.
Every careful defence she’d erected shattered like glass under sudden impact. Her heart, which had been beating with sickening irregularity all evening, now hammered against her ribs with bruising violence. Heat flooded her cheeks even as ice raced down her spine. Every nerve ending sparked to sudden, painful awareness.
He looked... heaven, he looked magnificent and terrible and utterly undone.
His cravat was slightly askew, as though tied in haste or tugged loose during a hurried journey. His dark hair fell across his forehead in dishevelment that spoke of hard riding. He was here.
His eyes swept the ballroom with predatory focus, searching, seeking?—
Their gazes locked.
Everything else ceased to exist.
The crowd, the orchestra, the glittering chandeliers—all of it faded to meaningless background noise. There was only Tobias, standing across the room with grey eyes that blazed with something that looked dangerously like?—
No.
