Chapter 16
“Ido believe that’s the infamous widow herself.”
Tobias’s hand tightened around his glass of champagne, the words drifting across the ballroom with all the subtlety of cannon fire.
He didn’t turn towards the speaker—some matron whose name he’d deliberately forgotten-, but his jaw tightened as he tracked Amelia’s progress through the glittering crowd.
She looked serene. Perfectly composed. Every inch the dignified widow in pale lilac silk that caught the candlelight and made her seem to glow from within.
But he’d spent enough weeks at Redmond Park to recognise the subtle tells: the tightness in her jaw, the way her fingers gripped her fan just a fraction too tightly, the careful path she charted that avoided the clusters of gossiping matrons.
She shouldn’t have come. Not yet. Another month and the whispers would have died down.
But she’d insisted. Said she needed to return to society eventually, and delaying would only fuel speculation.
He’d argued that society could bloody well wait until she was ready, and she’d given him that look—the one that said she was perfectly capable of making her own decisions, thank you very much.
So here they were. Lady Cambridge’s ball. Half the ton in attendance. And Amelia Grant walking into their judgment with her head high and her composure intact.
He couldn’t decide whether he was proud of her or furious on her behalf.
“Already out of mourning? How very... modern.”
The whisper came from somewhere behind him. Tobias set down his champagne before he could crush the delicate glass in his fist.
Ignore it. You promised her you’d behave. Promised you wouldn’t create a scene.
“Well, one cannot blame the poor dear for wishing to secure another husband quickly.”
His feet moved before his mind could catch up, carrying him along the edge of the ballroom with practised ease. He nodded to acquaintances, smiled at the appropriate moments, all whilst keeping Amelia in his peripheral vision.
She’d stopped near the windows, accepting a glass of something from a footman. Her smile was polite, distant, entirely unconvincing to anyone who knew her. Which, he reflected grimly, was precisely no one in this room save himself.
“Lord Redmond! What a delight to see you again.”
Miss Charlotte Denham materialized in his path, all blonde curls and strategic décolletage. He’d danced with her once—or was it twice?—last Season, before Edward’s death had given him an excuse to flee London entirely.
“Miss Denham.” He executed a bow. “You’re looking well.”
“As are you, my lord. I’d heard you’d returned to town. Mama was just saying we hoped you might attend this evening.” She deployed her fan with practised precision. “I don’t suppose you’ve any dances free? I’ve been practising a new waltz and should very much like a partner who can keep pace.”
The invitation was clear. Six months ago, he might have accepted. Might have flirted and charmed and suggested a turn on the terrace.
Now the very thought exhausted him.
“I fear my card is quite full, Miss Denham. Another time, perhaps.”
Disappointment flickered across her pretty features, quickly masked. “Of course, my lord. Another time.”
He escaped before she could press further, weaving through the crowd with increasing urgency. Where had Amelia gone? She’d been by the windows, and now—
There. Speaking with Lady Cambridge near the entrance to the card room. Their hostess appeared to be introducing her to someone—Lord Ashbourne, if Tobias wasn’t mistaken. Widowed baronet, impeccable reputation, the sort of respectable gentleman society approved of for young widows.
The sort of gentleman Tobias should be encouraging.
Then why does watching him bow over her hand make you want to commit violence?
He forced himself to turn away, to focus on the conversation happening around him. Lord Waverly was holding forth about some parliamentary matter, and Tobias made appropriate noises whilst his mind wandered where it ought not.
“—don’t you agree, Redmond?”
Tobias blinked, realising Waverly had asked him something. “Forgive me. I was distracted. What was the question?”
Waverly’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “I asked whether you agreed that the weather had been exceedingly pleasant lately.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
“Ah, but of course you do not want to talk about the weather. You have garnered far too much interest tonight to keep talking to an old man like me.” Waverly nodded towards a cluster of young ladies who were watching them—watching Tobias, specifically—with varying degrees of interest. “Almost every eligible lady in here is lining up to meet you. The newly minted Viscount Redmond, finally ready to settle down and secure an heir.”
If only they knew.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint them,” Tobias said lightly. “I’ve no intention of settling anywhere.”
“No?” Waverly’s smile turned knowing. “I do see that you have been watching your brother’s widow like a hawk all evening. Are you concerned with her soon return to society?”
The observation struck too close to the truth. Tobias forced his expression into something resembling amused indifference. “Of course not. I’m merely ensuring her return to society proceeds smoothly.”
“Ah. Family.” Waverly took a sip of his champagne. “How very dutiful of you.”
Before Tobias could formulate a response, a ripple of laughter drew his attention across the room.
A small group had gathered near the terrace doors—gentlemen, mostly, with a few matrons hovering at the edges.
And there, in the centre, Lord Penworth holding court with the smug satisfaction of a man who believed himself terribly clever.
Tobias recognised him immediately. One of Edward’s acquaintances, though calling him such, dignified the relationship. Penworth was the sort of gentleman who traded in gossip and innuendo, who derived pleasure from others’ discomfort.
The sort of gentleman Tobias had always despised.
“—widows who forget too quickly,” Penworth was saying, his voice carrying across the music with calculated volume. “One does wonder if the grief was ever genuine, or merely... convenient.”
The words struck like a physical blow. Tobias felt his entire body go rigid, fury flooding through him with white-hot intensity.
He’s talking about Amelia.
His feet moved before conscious thought could intervene. He crossed the ballroom floor with singular purpose, dimly aware of conversations dying in his wake, of heads turning to track his progress.
He didn’t care.
Penworth was still speaking when Tobias reached the group, something about young widows and their ambitions. The man hadn’t even noticed his approach—too caught up in his own performance.
“I beg your pardon, my lord.”
His voice cut through Penworth’s monologue like a blade through silk. The surrounding conversations died. Even the orchestra seemed to falter momentarily.
Penworth’s head snapped towards him, colour draining from his face. “Lord Redmond. I was merely—”
“I heard precisely what you were doing.” Tobias smiled faintly, his expression promising rather dangerous consequences.
“And I was under the impression that gentlemen refrained from speaking of ladies who are their betters. Or do you find yourself so desperate for attention that you must borrow theirs?”
Penworth stammered something incomprehensible, his earlier bravado crumbling.
“I thought not.” Tobias let the silence stretch, let Penworth’s discomfort build, before continuing in that same pleasant, lethal tone.
“You will, of course, keep Lady Amelia’s name out of your mouth for the remainder of the evening.
And the Season. And, ideally, the rest of your natural life. Am I making myself clear?”
“I—yes. Of course. I meant no offence—”
“You meant every offence.” Tobias’s smile sharpened. “You simply didn’t expect to be called to account for it. Consider yourself educated.”
He turned away without waiting for a response, ignoring the whispers that followed. Let them talk. Let them speculate about his motives, his relationship with Amelia, whatever salacious theories their small minds could conjure.
None of it mattered compared to ensuring she was protected.
He found her near the refreshment table, speaking with Lady Clara Whitmore—her cousin, if he remembered correctly. Both women looked up as he approached, and something flickered in Amelia’s eyes that he couldn’t quite name.
“Lord Redmond,” Lady Clara said, her smile knowing. “How lovely to see you. I hear you’ve been quite busy terrifying peers this evening.”
“Merely correcting misapprehensions,” he said smoothly. “Lady Amelia. Might I have a word?”
Amelia glanced at her cousin, who made a show of examining her fan. “I’ll just refresh my champagne, shall I? Do take your time.”
She departed with suspicious haste, leaving them standing alone amidst the glittering crowd. Well. As alone as one could be in a ballroom containing half of the ton.
“I heard you’ve been terrifying the ton again,” Amelia said lightly, though her eyes held something more serious.
He shrugged, affecting the careless insouciance that had always come so easily. “If they can’t mind their tongues, they deserve the fright.”
“And what am I to do with a reputation protected by the infamous Viscount Redmond himself?” She tilted her head slightly, and candlelight caught in her hair. “No one will dare speak to me now.”
“On the contrary.” He forced himself to focus on the matter at hand rather than the particular curve of her neck. “You have quite a few respectable options. Lord Denby, for instance.”
He nodded towards the tall, fair-haired gentleman currently pretending not to watch them. “Excellent family, solid estate in Yorkshire. Or perhaps the Earl of Chilton—widower, three grown children, very kind. Either would make a suitable match.”
Her smile faded a bit. Not that he noticed, he told himself firmly. He was far too busy cataloguing potential suitors, too focused on the task he’d set himself.
Find her a husband. Someone respectable who can give her the life she deserves. Get her settled and then... then you can leave. Return to London. Forget that any of this ever happened.
“You’ve been researching husbands for me, my lord?”
The question caught him off guard. He looked at her properly then, noting the tightness around her mouth, the careful neutrality of her tone.
“Someone must,” he said simply. “It is always better to know your options.”
“I see.” She was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting across the ballroom. “And have you compiled a complete list? Perhaps with rankings by title and annual income?”
There was an edge to her voice now—something that made him pause. “I’m merely trying to help, Amelia. You said yourself that you needed to secure Henry’s future.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” She turned back to him, and her eyes held something he couldn’t quite decipher. “Thank you for your... assistance. I shall certainly keep Lord Denby and the Earl of Chilton in mind.”
Before he could respond—before he could explain that he didn’t want her considering any of them—Lord Denby himself appeared at her elbow.
“Lady Amelia.” The baron executed a flawless bow. “I wonder if I might claim the honour of this dance?”
Tobias watched her hesitate, watched something flicker in her eyes as her gaze found his. Then her composure settled back into place as armour donned before battle.
“Of course, my lord. I should be delighted.”
Denby led her onto the floor with the sort of proper distance Edward would have approved of. The orchestra struck up a waltz, and Tobias found himself rooted at the edge of the ballroom, his untouched champagne growing warm in his hand.
He should look away. Should turn his attention to Miss Denham, who was still hovering hopefully nearby. Should do anything except stand here watching like some lovesick fool.
But his body refused to obey.
Denby’s hand settled at Amelia’s waist—perfectly positioned, appropriately respectful—and something hot and vicious coiled in Tobias’s chest. The baron said something that made her smile, and Tobias felt it like a blade sliding between his ribs.
She laughed then. A polite, practiced sound that carried across the music, and he knew—knew with devastating certainty—that it wasn’t real.
Not like when she’d laughed in the garden at Redmond Park, watching Henry chase butterflies.
Not like the surprised burst of amusement she’d tried to smother when Tobias had said something unforgivably improper at dinner.
This was her society laugh. Her widow’s laugh. The sound of a woman performing rather than living.
And somehow that made it worse.
They swept past him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of lavender that clung to her. Denby was still speaking, probably reciting his excellent credentials, his respectable estate in Yorkshire, all the proper reasons she should consider his suit.
The rational part of Tobias’s mind—the part that had spent six months in London convincing itself this was necessary, that finding her a suitable husband was the honourable course—knew Denby would be good to her. Kind. Respectful. Everything Edward hadn’t been.
Everything Tobias couldn’t allow himself to be.
The music swelled. They turned. And Amelia’s eyes found his across the crowded ballroom.
The connection struck like lightning—sudden, electric, impossible to ignore. Her steps faltered fractionally before training reasserted itself. But she didn’t look away. Neither did he.
The question in her gaze was unmistakable. As was the terrible understanding in his.
Neither looked away first.
The waltz ended. Denby bowed. Amelia curtsied. And Tobias turned sharply on his heel.
“Redmond, are you—” Waverly began.
“Excuse me.” The words came out rougher than intended. “I find I’m rather tired this evening.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Couldn’t bear another moment watching her smile at men who deserved her, whilst he stood aside like a coward, pretending his heart wasn’t tearing itself to pieces.
The cool night air hit him like a slap as he emerged onto the terrace. His hands gripped the stone balustrade hard enough to hurt.
Keeping his promise—finding her a suitable husband, ensuring her future, doing the honourable thing—might very well destroy him.
And the worst part? He’d have no one to blame but himself.