To the future balanced on a knife’s edge, waiting for her answer.
What do you want, Amelia?
The truth rose swift and certain, bypassing every logical objection her mind attempted to raise. She’d spent two years in a loveless marriage, convincing herself that contentment was enough. Had nearly condemned herself to repeat that mistake out of fear and wounded pride.
But looking at Tobias now—at the man who’d defended her honour, protected her son, challenged her assumptions, who’d just laid himself bare before half of London for the chance at claiming her heart—safety seemed a paltry prize.
He was offering hereverything.
And she was done being afraid.
She took one trembling step forward.
Then another.
The tears she’d been fighting spilled free, tracking hot paths down her cheeks. But her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile—something fiercer, more certain, morerealthan any expression she’d worn in months.
“You took long enough,” she whispered.
The words were barely audible, yet they seemed to echo through the silent ballroom like cannon fire. She watched them land, watched understanding blaze across his features, watched relief and joy and desperate hunger chase each other across his face in rapid succession.
The crowd erupted into gasps and excited murmurs, but the sound washed over her like distant waves. Nothing existed except Tobias’s eyes locked on hers, except the way he reached for her with hands that trembled, except the certainty blooming in her chest that this—this—was what she’d been searching for all along.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet. Propriety still held him back, even now, even after his public declaration. But his gaze devoured every detail of her face as though committing it to memory.
“Come with me.” His voice was low and urgent, meant for her ears alone, despite their very public audience. “Please, Amelia. Let me—we need to talk. Away from all of this.”
She should refuse. Should demand explanations here and now, should make him work for forgiveness after the pain of the past week. Should care about the hundreds of eyes watching their every move, about the scandal already brewing, about Lord Ashbourne’s furious expression visible in her peripheral vision.
But she’d spent enough time doing what sheshould.
“Yes,” she breathed.
Relief crashed across his features like a wave breaking on shore. He offered his arm with the formal courtesy that seemed almost absurd after his passionate declaration. She placed her hand on his sleeve, feeling the tension thrumming through him even through layers of fabric.
Together, they turned toward the terrace doors.
The crowd parted before them like the Red Sea before Moses, whispers following in their wake like a rising tide. Amelia caught a glimpse of Clara’s face in the crowd—her cousin’s expression a mixture of satisfaction and delight, as though she’d orchestrated this entire scene herself. Lady Pemberton looked ready to swoon. Lord Ashbourne’s face had gone white with fury and humiliation.
Amelia felt a pang of guilt for that. She would apologise properly later, explain as best she could. But right now, with Tobias’s warmth beside her and freedom beckoning beyond those terrace doors, she couldn’t muster proper remorse.
The cool night air struck her overheated skin like a benediction as they stepped outside. The terrace stretched before them, shadowed and blessedly private after the ballroom’s oppressive brightness. Beyond it, the gardens sprawled dark and inviting, offering shelter from prying eyes.
The moment they crossed the threshold, Tobias released her arm and turned to face her fully. For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other—drinking in details that had been denied during their week apart. The candlelight from the ballroomspilled through the open doors, casting golden light across his features and illuminating the raw emotion written there.
“Amelia.” Her name emerged rough, reverent. “I?—”
But she was done with words. Done with waiting, with hesitation, with all the careful restraint that had kept them apart for far too long.
She closed the distance between them in two quick steps and kissed him.
The contact sent a surge of electricity through her veins. His sharp intake of breath ghosted across her lips for one frozen moment before he responded with a hunger that stole what remained of her senses. His arms came around her waist, crushing her against him with desperate urgency, whilst her hands fisted in his coat for balance.
This was nothing like their first kiss in the library—tentative and restrained and flavoured with guilt. This was desperation and relief and months of denied longing finally given voice. His mouth moved against hers with bruising intensity, tasting, claiming, speaking promises too deep for words.
She gasped against him, and he took immediate advantage, deepening the kiss until she forgot how to breathe, forgot how to think, forgot everything except the taste of him and the solid strength of his body pressed against hers.
One of his hands tangled in her carefully arranged hair, scattering pins across the terrace stones with soft musical plinks. The elaborate style collapsed entirely, curls tumbling free to cascade over her shoulders in wild disarray.
