Hob leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes bright with wicked joy. “Every lady likes a song, my lord.”
Thomas turned his head slowly.
Hob smiled. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“You’ve heard wrong.”
“Mayhap a poem, then,” Huck said, because friars were apparently not above tossing dry twigs onto a fire.
Thomas looked at Huck. “You too?”
“I am invested in the health of this union.”
“I proposed.”
“A fine beginning,” Huck said. “But wooing does not cease at victory. It is a garden, my son. You do not plant one seed and then stand in the yard expecting pottage.”
Huck grinned. “Nor,” he added, “do you marry in a rush because the hall has gone soft in the head. The banns will be cried, witnesses gathered, and enough mead brewed to make even Hob sentimental.”
Hob lowered his cup. “That is slander.”
“It is prophecy,” Huck said.
Amelia pressed her lips together.
“Do not laugh,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m being supportive.”
“You are shaking.”
“That’s support trying to escape.”
His mouth twitched.
Saints and spreadsheets, that almost-smile.
Amelia was getting dangerously fond of it. It was quiet. Rare. A little crooked on one side because of the scar along his jaw. In her old life, she had once worked a charity gala where a famous actor smiled at her and every woman in the room sighed likethe wind. Thomas’s almost-smile would have ruined the man. Reduced him to ash. Left nothing but cheekbones and shame.
“You’re staring,” Thomas said.
“You’re being wooed by committee. I’m trying to appreciate the moment.”
“I am not being wooed.”
“Right. You’re being instructed in wooing.”
“Worse.”
She leaned closer. “For what it’s worth, I don’t require a song.”
His gaze warmed. “Good.”
“A poem would be funny, though.”
