Chapter 15 #3
Something in her expression shifted—softened fractionally, as though his bluntness had surprised her into dropping her guard.
“It’s strange, isn’t it? How clearly we can see someone after they’re gone.
When they were alive, I convinced myself his coldness was my failing.
That if I could just be quieter, more accommodating, more perfect, he might.
..” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter now. ”
“It does.” The intensity in his own voice surprised him. “It matters because you deserved better. You deserve better still.”
She looked at him for a long moment, candlelight painting shadows across her face. “Do I? Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I’m meant for solitude. If marriage—any marriage—would simply be another cage.”
“It needn’t be.” The words escaped before he could stop them, raw and revealing. “With the right person, marriage could be... partnership. Companionship. Something that makes you more yourself rather than less.”
“How remarkably progressive of you, my lord.” Her tone was light, teasing even, but her eyes held something deeper. “Have you been reading radical philosophy during your time in London?”
“Nothing so dramatic.” He attempted a smile that felt strained. “Merely observing the world and drawing conclusions.”
They ate in silence for several minutes, the tension between them thrumming like a plucked violin string.
Tobias watched her hands as she cut her meat with precise, elegant movements.
Watched the way candlelight caught the curve of her neck when she tilted her head.
Watched and ached and tried desperately to think of anything except how badly he wanted to reach across the table and—
“Tell me about London,” she said suddenly, startling him from thoughts that had veered dangerously close to impropriety. “Your letters were... informative, but rather sparse on personal details. Did you enjoy being back?”
He frowned slightly. “It was… fine.”
“Fine?” She looked at him teasingly. “I thought you’d have been elated at being back. That you lived for the glamour and glitter of the city.”
“I used to.” He pushed food around his plate without appetite. “It seems I’ve lost my taste for it.”
“How terribly unfortunate.” Was that amusement colouring her tone? “All those disappointed ladies who were hoping to capture the eligible Viscount Redmond.”
“Let them be disappointed.” He looked up, holding her gaze with more intensity than was probably wise. “London has nothing I want.”
“Nothing?” she asked quietly.
“Nothing,” he confirmed, and their eyes met across the table.
She looked away first, reaching for her wine with fingers that trembled just slightly. “Well. That’s quite damning of the capital’s charms.”
“It’s honest.”
They finished the next course in a silence that felt charged with everything unsaid.
Tobias tried to focus on his food, on the wine, on anything except the way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking.
The way her fingers toyed with the stem of her glass.
The way her eyes kept darting to him then away, as though she couldn’t quite help herself.
When the plates were cleared, and dessert served—something elaborate involving cream and berries that he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate—he knew he needed to address what they’d both been avoiding.
“Amelia,” he began, then faltered. How did one broach such a topic? “Your mourning period is concluded.”
She went very still, her spoon suspended halfway to her mouth. “Yes. Another month and I’ll be officially out of black entirely.”
“And then...” He forced himself to continue despite every instinct screaming to retreat. “Our agreement was that you would have six months to recover yourself. To find your footing. And then we would discuss your return to society. Your... future.”
She set down her spoon with careful precision. “I remember our agreement, my lord.”
“Tobias,” he corrected automatically, but she ignored him.
“You believe it’s time, then.” Her voice had gone flat, a carefully neutral tone. “Time for me to begin seeking another husband. Someone to provide for Henry. Someone to relieve you of the burden of supporting your brother’s widow and child.”
“That’s not—” He stopped, frustrated by how thoroughly she’d misunderstood. Or perhaps by how accurately she’d understood while deliberately choosing the worst possible interpretation. “You’re not a burden, Amelia. You could never be—”
“Then what am I?” She looked at him directly now, and there was something dangerous in her eyes. Something that made his breath catch. “What precisely is my role here, my lord? Guest? Ward? Obligation?”
“Family,” he said desperately. “You’re family.”
“Ah. Yes. Family.” She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, the gesture utterly controlled despite the tension radiating from every line of her body. “How very kind of you to phrase it thus.”
“Amelia—”
“It’s nothing. I understand, my lord. I… am your responsibility.”
He didn’t quite understand the tone in her voice. It sounded… rather unlike the bitterness he’d seen before he’d left, but almost hurt.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Isn’t it?” She rose from her chair with fluid grace, though her hands gripped the table’s edge hard enough to whiten her knuckles.
“You disappeared for six months, my lord. Six months during which I received polite, impersonal letters asking after Henry’s health and the estate’s management as though I were merely another servant reporting to their master.
And now you return, clearly expecting to find me grateful and malleable, ready to be married off to the first acceptable suitor who’ll relieve you of responsibility. ”
“No.” He stood as well, his own frustration rising to match hers. “That’s not—you’re twisting everything—”
“Am I?” She laughed, but there was no humour in it.
“Then please, enlighten me. What did you mean when you suggested it was time to begin thinking about my future? About finding Henry a father? What was I supposed to understand from that beyond the obvious—that you’ve decided six months of charity is quite enough, and it’s time I made myself someone else’s problem? ”
“You’re not a problem!” The words came out louder than intended, echoing in the suddenly silent dining hall. He dragged a hand through his hair, trying desperately to find words that wouldn’t make this worse. “I only meant—you seem happy here. Settled. And I thought... I wanted...”
What had he wanted? To give her freedom? To ensure she found someone who could offer her what he couldn’t? To torture himself by facilitating her marriage to another man whilst his own heart tore itself to pieces?
All of it. None of it. Everything contradictory and impossible and utterly, devastatingly sincere.
“You wanted what, my lord?” Her voice had gone quiet now, dangerously so. “To do your duty? To ensure your brother’s widow doesn’t become an embarrassment? To fulfill your obligation so you can return to London with a clear conscience?”
“I wanted—” He stopped, every confession he’d dreamt of dying on his tongue. Because how could he tell her the truth? That he’d left because staying meant wanting what he could never have? That six months in London had taught him nothing except that she occupied every corner of his mind?
He couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. And his silence, apparently, was answer enough.
“Thank you for dinner, my lord,” she said with terrible politeness. “And for your concern regarding my future. I shall certainly give the matter appropriate consideration. Now if you’ll excuse me, I find I’m rather tired from the day’s excitement.”
“Amelia, please—”
But she was already moving toward the door, her spine straight and her stride purposeful despite the slight tremor in her hands that betrayed how much this composure cost her.
“I’m sorry,” he called after her, the words inadequate and far too late. “I didn’t mean—I never wanted to hurt you—”
She paused in the doorway, her back still to him. For one suspended moment, he thought she might turn around. Might give him the chance to explain, to make her understand—
“Of course you didn’t,” she said quietly. “That’s what makes it worse. I will… return to society, my lord. As you wish.”
Then she was gone, the door closing behind her with devastating finality.