Chapter 12
“Will my foolishness ever cease?”
Tobias spoke the words aloud to the empty carriage, his voice swallowed by the steady rhythm of wheels against the road.
Dawn had barely broken when he’d departed Redmond Park, and now—three hours into the journey—he could still see Amelia’s face as she’d stood upon those steps with Henry in her arms.
He still carried the emptiness in his chest when the carriage had rolled away.
Stop it. Stop thinking of her.
He shifted against the seat, attempting to find a position that did not remind him of how thoroughly uncomfortable he was—though the discomfort had little to do with the carriage’s appointments and everything to do with the gnawing sensation that he had made a terrible mistake.
No. Not a mistake. The right decision. The honourable decision.
Amelia needed time without his presence colouring her every choice. She needed to discover who she was when no man stood watching, judging, directing. Edward had spent two years systematically crushing her spirit, and Tobias would not—could not—become another cage, however gilded.
Even if leaving her felt like tearing something vital from his chest.
It’s guilt, he told himself firmly, watching the Kent countryside roll past. Nothing more than guilt and responsibility. She is my brother’s widow. My nephew’s mother. Of course, I feel protective of her.
The word protective settled over him like an ill-fitting coat. Was that truly what he felt? This constant awareness of her presence, this acute attention to her smallest gestures, this irrational fury whenever he recalled Edward’s treatment of her?
Yes. Protective. What else could it be?
But even as he formed the thought, memory rose unbidden: Amelia in the garden, laughing as Henry chased butterflies.
The way the afternoon light had painted gold across her cheeks.
How his heart had seized when the boy called him Papa, and she had not corrected it, had merely watched with those luminous eyes that saw far too much.
The horse rearing. Her scream. His body moving before thought, driven by a terror so profound it had obliterated every instinct save one: She must not be harmed.
Not the viscountess. Not his responsibility. Not his brother’s widow.
Her.
He scrubbed both hands across his face, as though he could physically dislodge these dangerous thoughts.
Six months, he had promised himself. Six months in London whilst Amelia found her footing.
Six months to restore proper distance between them, to remember his duty, to ensure that when she re-entered society—
His stomach twisted at the thought.
She would re-enter society. Of course, she would. A beautiful young widow of quality, mother to an heir, possessed of remarkable intelligence and quiet strength. The moment her mourning ended, every eligible gentleman in London would descend like wolves scenting prey.
Men who could offer her what Tobias never could: a respectable match, untainted by scandal or impropriety. Men who had not spent years as the ton’s favourite disgrace. Men who were not her late husband’s brother, bound by blood and honour to maintain an appropriate distance.
Good. That’s good. She deserves a proper husband. Someone who can give her the warmth Edward never did.
The thought should have brought comfort. Relief, even. Instead, something hot and vicious coiled in his chest—something that felt disturbingly like jealousy.
You’re being ridiculous. She’s a widow in need of protection, nothing more. This... this preoccupation is merely a concern for her welfare.
Yes. Concern. A perfectly natural response to having inherited responsibility for a vulnerable woman and child. Any gentleman would feel similarly protective of his brother’s widow. Any decent man would wish to ensure her happiness and security.
The fact that her happiness with another man made him want to put his fist through the carriage wall was simply... simply...
He had no explanation for that whatsoever.
The hours crawled past with excruciating slowness.
Each mile between himself and Redmond Park felt like a physical weight settling upon his shoulders.
He tried to occupy his mind with estate matters requiring attention in London—correspondence with his solicitor, banking affairs, the letting of his bachelor lodgings now that he required something more befitting a viscount.
But his thoughts returned repeatedly to Amelia.
To the shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
To the way her hands trembled when she believed no one was watching.
To how small she had looked standing upon those steps, holding Henry against her chest as though the boy were her only anchor in a storm-tossed sea.
She needs this time. She needs freedom from male oversight. Even yours. Especially yours.
Because if he were honest—brutally, uncomfortably honest—his presence at Redmond Park had not felt like duty these past weeks. It had felt like... like coming home. Like belonging somewhere for the first time in his dissolute existence.
Meals shared across the dining table, discussing estate matters and tenant disputes. The way she listened when he spoke, truly listened, rather than merely waiting for him to finish.
Henry’s laughter echoing through the corridors. The child’s absolute trust, his small hand reaching for Tobias without hesitation. The weight of him in Tobias’s arms, solid and real, and his in every way that mattered.
Playing at being a family. That’s what they had been doing, he realised with uncomfortable clarity. Playing at something neither of them could acknowledge, something that society would never permit.
His hands clenched into fists against his thighs.
Stop. This. Now.
He forced his attention to the passing landscape, counting trees and hedgerows like a madman seeking distraction from pain.
The coaching inn at Sevenoaks appeared ahead, and he considered stopping—his back ached from hours of travel, his head throbbed from circular thoughts that led nowhere profitable.
But stopping meant more time away from London. More hours trapped with only his own company and these treacherous reflections.
“Drive on,” he called to the coachman.
They would reach Town before nightfall if they maintained pace. He could begin rebuilding his life—his proper life, the one that did not involve a widow with sad eyes and a smile that could undo him completely.
The carriage lurched over a rut, and something small tumbled from beneath the opposite seat. Tobias bent to retrieve it, his fingers closing around soft wool.
A sock. Child-sized, hand-knitted, with a small embroidered ‘H’ near the cuff.
Henry’s sock.
He stared at the tiny garment in his palm. It was so small. Had Henry’s feet truly been this small? It seemed impossible that something so fragile could support a child learning to walk, to run, to chase butterflies with determined enthusiasm.
Tobias pressed the sock between both hands, as though he could somehow preserve the warmth of the boy who had worn it.
Six months. He would not see the boy for six months.
Would Henry even remember him? Children forget so quickly at that age. By the time Tobias returned, Henry might look upon him as a stranger. Might flinch away rather than reaching with that absolute trust that had undone Tobias completely.
Eventually, he might even transfer that precious “Papa” to someone else entirely. Some gentleman Amelia would choose to marry, some respectable man who would become Henry’s true father, whilst Tobias remained forever Uncle Tobias—if that.
His throat tightened painfully.
This is what you wanted. Distance. Propriety. Giving them both space to build lives that don’t depend on you.
But he had not anticipated it would hurt this much.
He tucked the sock carefully into his coat pocket, over his heart. A talisman against loneliness. A reminder of what waited in Kent—though whether it would still be there in six months remained terrifyingly uncertain.
The afternoon wore on. Grey skies threatened rain that never quite materialised. The landscape gradually transformed from rolling countryside to the outskirts of London—more houses, busier roads, the particular smell of coal smoke, and humanity packed too closely together.
Home. Or what passed for home before Redmond Park had rewritten his understanding of that word entirely.
His townhouse stood in Mayfair, an elegant four-storey edifice that had always felt too large for one dissolute bachelor. Now it seemed cavernous. Empty. His housekeeper, Mrs. Wickham, greeted him at the door with obvious surprise.
“My lord! We had not expected—that is, your letter mentioned several months hence before—”
“Plans changed.” He handed her his greatcoat, unable to muster his usual charm. “I trust everything is in order?”
“Of course, my lord. Though we’ve had no time to prepare your chambers properly, or stock the larder with—”
“Whatever is available will suffice.” He moved toward the study, suddenly desperate for the sanctuary of walls and books and brandy. “I am not to be disturbed under any circumstance.”
Mrs. Wickham’s brow furrowed with concern, but she bobbed a curtsey and withdrew.
Tobias closed the study door and leaned against it, releasing a breath that felt torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
The room was exactly as he had left it months ago—before Edward’s death, before Redmond Park, before everything changed. His desk sat buried beneath correspondence he had abandoned. The decanter of brandy waited precisely where he had left it, likely gathering dust.
It should have felt comforting. Familiar. Instead, it felt like walking into a mausoleum.
This is what you wanted, he reminded himself savagely. London. Your old life. Freedom from responsibility.
He poured three fingers of brandy and downed it in a single swallow that burned all the way down. Then poured another.