Chapter 23
“More tea, my lord?”
Tobias paused in the corridor, the housekeeper’s polite enquiry floating through the half-open drawing room door with devastating clarity.
He hadn’t meant to stop here. Had been heading toward the stables, actually, with some vague notion of inspecting the new mare Pemberton kept insisting required his attention.
His feet, apparently, had other ideas.
“Thank you, Mrs. Boldwood. You’re most kind.”
Lord Ashbourne’s voice. Perfectly modulated.
Appropriately warm without presuming familiarity.
The sort of voice that belonged to a man who’d never once been accused of impropriety, who’d never gambled away a fortune or kissed a woman on a darkened terrace or done any of the thousand reckless things that comprised Tobias Grant’s thoroughly disreputable past.
The sort of voice that made Tobias want to put his fist through the nearest wall.
Stop it. You have no claim to her. No right whatsoever to care who she entertains in her drawing room.
But knowing he had no right and actually leaving proved to be entirely different matters. His hand found the doorframe—ostensibly to steady himself, though the floor beneath his boots was perfectly solid. Through the narrow opening, he could see them.
Amelia sat in the chair nearest the window, afternoon light painting her profile in shades of gold and rose.
She’d changed from her morning dress into something pale blue that made her eyes luminous.
Her hands rested in her lap with that particular grace she wore as naturally as breathing, and when she smiled at something Ashbourne said, Tobias felt it like a blade sliding between his ribs.
She’s smiling. At him. At Lord Perfectly-Appropriate-In-Every-Way Ashbourne.
Mrs. Boldwood occupied the chair in the corner—close enough to satisfy propriety’s demands but far enough to grant them privacy for conversation. The perfect chaperone, really. Unobtrusive. Discreet. Entirely proper.
Everything about the scene was proper.
Which, Tobias realized with dawning horror, was precisely what made it so unbearable.
“I confess I’m quite taken with the gardens,” Ashbourne was saying, his teacup balanced with the sort of casual elegance that probably came from years of practice. “The roses in particular are spectacular. You mentioned having a hand in their design?”
“I did, yes.” Amelia’s voice held warmth—genuine pleasure at discussing something she cared about. “I wanted something that felt alive. Beautiful, but natural.”
“You’ve succeeded admirably. They’re quite beautiful.”
Of course they are. Everything she touches becomes beautiful.
Tobias forced himself to breathe. To think rationally. To remember that this—this polite courtship happening in his drawing room—was exactly what he’d been encouraging. What he’d insisted she needed.
Lord Ashbourne would be good to her. Would provide security and respectability and all the things a widow with a young son required. Would never taint her reputation with scandal or subject her to society’s whispers.
Would give her everything Tobias couldn’t.
The knowledge sat in his chest like a lead weight.
“Your son seems a delightful child,” Ashbourne continued. “I glimpsed him in the garden earlier. Quite energetic, from what I could observe.”
“Henry is... yes, he’s wonderfully spirited.” Her voice softened when speaking of their son—her son, Tobias corrected himself savagely, though the correction felt like tearing something vital. “He keeps me rather occupied.”
“I imagine he does. Children that age are remarkable creatures—endless curiosity matched only by their capacity for chaos.”
They both laughed, and the sound made Tobias’s jaw clench hard enough to ache.
Walk away. Just walk away. You’re torturing yourself for absolutely no reason.
But his feet remained planted. His hand still gripped the doorframe with enough force that his knuckles had gone white.
He watched Ashbourne lean forward slightly—not inappropriately close, nothing that would scandalize Mrs. Boldwood’s watchful presence. Just enough to suggest genuine interest. Investment.
The sort of gesture a man made when courting a woman he found appealing.
Uncomfortable. That’s what this feeling was, Tobias decided. Uncomfortable watching his brother’s widow entertain another gentleman. Perfectly natural discomfort born of protective instinct and familial concern.
Absolutely, categorically not jealousy.
Jealousy would imply he wanted Amelia for himself. Which was ridiculous. Impossible. She was Edward’s widow, for Heaven’s sake. His nephew’s mother. Forbidden in every way.
The fact that he’d wanted to kiss her in the drawing room last week had nothing to do with anything. That had been... proximity. Candlelight. The particular vulnerability of late evening making them both temporarily insane.
It meant nothing.
Then why does watching Ashbourne smile at her make you want to commit violence?
Tobias released his death grip on the doorframe before he could accidentally tear it from the wall.
His hand trembled slightly as he forced it to his side—not from anger, he told himself.
From the morning’s exertions. From lack of sleep.
From anything except the churning mess of emotions he refused to name.
He turned away from the drawing room before he could do something spectacularly stupid. Like barging in and inventing some excuse for why Ashbourne needed to leave immediately. Or perhaps suggesting the man had urgent business elsewhere. In Scotland. For the next decade.
You’re being absurd. Pathetic. She deserves better than your jealous—
No. Not jealous. Uncomfortable.
The distinction was important.
His feet carried him through familiar corridors without conscious direction. Past the library where Edward used to hold court over estate ledgers. Past the dining room where Tobias had sat through countless silent meals, Edward’s disapproval hanging heavier than the chandelier above.
How did you do it? The question rose unbidden, addressed to his brother’s ghost. How did you manage to be so thoroughly cold whilst somehow gaining everything worth having?
Because Edward had gained it all, hadn’t he? The title. The estate. The respect of peers and tenants alike. A beautiful wife who’d tried so desperately to please him. A son to carry on the family name.
All acquired through systematic calculation and rigid propriety, without an ounce of warmth to soften the edges.
Tobias had never managed that coldness. Had tried, perhaps, in his own way—cultivating the rake’s reputation, the careless charm, the determination to feel nothing too deeply. But even that had been a performance rather than a genuine lack of feeling.
He felt everything too intensely. Always had.
Which was precisely the problem.
His wandering brought him to the nursery without intending it. Through the open door, he could hear Mary’s soft humming—the particular tune she sang when attempting to coax Henry into napping.
Emphasis on attempting.
“No sleep!” Henry’s voice rang out with the authority of a general refusing surrender. “Not tired, Mary! Want to play!”
“Master Henry, your mama said—”
“Want Papa!”
Tobias found himself smiling despite everything. The boy’s voice could probably be heard in London. Certainly, Lord Ashbourne and Amelia would hear it in the drawing room, which meant Amelia would worry that Henry was being difficult.
She worries too much. The boy is simply spirited. Nothing wrong with that.
He crossed the threshold to find Mary looking rather frazzled, her cap askew, whilst Henry stood in his cot with both small fists gripping the rail. The child’s face lit up the moment he spotted Tobias.
“Papa! You came!”
“I did indeed, lad.” Tobias moved to the cot, and Henry immediately raised his arms in that universal gesture of childhood demand. “Though I believe you’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“Not tired,” Henry repeated with impressive conviction. “Want to be with you.”
Mary looked between them uncertainly. “My lord, Lady Amelia was quite specific about his schedule—”
“I’ll take responsibility,” Tobias heard himself say. “Go have some tea, Mary. You look as though you could use a respite.”
The nursemaid’s relief was palpable. “If you’re certain, my lord?”
“Perfectly certain. Off you go.”
She departed with gratitude practically radiating from her, leaving Tobias alone with a child who’d thoroughly won the battle of wills. Henry bounced on the cot mattress, his earlier fatigue apparently forgotten in favour of victory celebrations.
“We play now, Papa?”
“Perhaps.” Tobias lifted him from the cot, settling the warm weight against his chest. “Though I have work in my study. Terribly boring work. Ledgers and correspondence and all manner of dull adult things.”
“I want to help!”
“Can you read yet?”
“No.” Henry said this with the sort of confidence that suggested reading was merely a technicality he’d master momentarily. “But I’m very smart.”
“Indisputably.” Tobias carried him from the nursery, feeling the boy’s small fist in his shirt. “Very well. You may assist me with my correspondence. Though I warn you, Lord Pemberton’s letters regarding crop rotation are spectacularly tedious.”
Henry giggled against his shoulder, and something in Tobias’s chest loosened fractionally.
This. This is what matters. Not drawing rooms and appropriate suitors and polite courtship rituals. Just... this.
He settled into his chair and positioned Henry on his knee, reaching for the nearest letter.
“Right then. This is from Mr. Thornton regarding timber rights on the northern boundary. Shall I read it aloud, or would you prefer to examine it yourself?”
Henry grabbed the paper with both hands, promptly crumpled one corner, and announced, “I know what it says!”
“Do you indeed? Enlighten me.”
“It says...” The boy studied the incomprehensible marks with impressive seriousness. “It says Henry is a good boy and can have biscuits.”
“Remarkable. That’s precisely what I thought it said as well.” Tobias rescued the letter before it could be destroyed. “Though I suspect Mr. Thornton might have mentioned something about timber in there somewhere.”
They continued this pattern for several minutes—Tobias pretending to work whilst Henry “helped” by rearranging papers, testing the weight of the inkwell, and providing running commentary on everything within reach. It was spectacularly unproductive.
The drawing room and its polite courtship felt very far away.
Eventually, Henry grew still, his small body relaxing against Tobias’s chest. Not sleeping—his eyes remained determinedly open—but quiet in that particular way children achieved when processing something important.
“Papa?” The word was softer now, tentative.
“Yes, lad?”
“You stay?”
The question landed with unexpected weight. Tobias shifted slightly, allowing him to meet Henry’s earnest gaze.
“What do you mean, stay?”
“You stay.” Henry’s small hand patted Tobias’s chest with emphasis. “Not go away again. Stay with Mama and me.”
Oh.
Tobias’s throat constricted painfully. The boy remembered his departure for London. Remembered six months of absence even at his young age. Of course, he did—children remembered abandonment even when they couldn’t articulate it properly.
“I’m here now,” he said carefully, each word requiring more effort than it should. “Right here with you.”
“But you go away before.” Henry’s lower lip trembled slightly. “You leave.”
“I did. I’m sorry for that.” The apology emerged rough, scraped raw by guilt. “But I’m back now. And I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
Are you not? What happens when Amelia marries Ashbourne? When they establish their own household? You’ll be relegated to visiting uncle at best. Watching from a distance whilst another man raises this boy. Whilst another man makes Amelia laugh. Whilst another man—
He shut down that spiral before it could consume him entirely.
Henry seemed to accept this assurance, though his next words proved he hadn’t finished interrogating the situation.
“Mama sad when you gone.”
Tobias went very still. “Was she?”
“Yes.” Said with the absolute certainty of a child reporting observed facts. “She looked at your chair at dinner. Lots and lots. And she didn’t smile right.”
“And now?” The question escaped before wisdom could intervene. “Does she smile right now?”
Henry considered this with the gravity of a philosopher contemplating the existence of life.
“Sometimes,” he said at last. “When we play in the garden. When you make funny faces.” Henry twisted in his lap, small hands coming up to frame Tobias’s face with unexpected seriousness.
“I love you, Papa.” Henry pressed his forehead against Tobias’s, the gesture achingly tender. “You the best papa.”
Tobias gathered him close, his eyes burning traitorously. He pressed his face against Henry’s hair and simply held on whilst the boy cried out his small heart.
“I love you too,” Tobias whispered against dark curls. “More than you could possibly know.”
The boy’s breathing evened out, deepened, slipped into genuine sleep.
But Tobias didn’t move. Didn’t return him to the nursery or call for Mary.
Just sat there in his study, holding Edward’s son—his son, in every way that mattered—and felt the future he desperately wanted but couldn’t have slip further from reach.
The sound of laughter drifted up from somewhere below. Feminine and warm. Amelia’s laugh, probably in response to something Ashbourne had said.
The appropriate gentleman making the appropriate widow laugh whilst planning their appropriate future together.
Tobias tightened his hold on Henry fractionally.
“I’m sorry, lad,” he whispered to the sleeping child. “I’m so desperately sorry.”
Outside, afternoon light began its slow fade toward evening. Somewhere in the house, propriety continued its inexorable march. And Tobias sat alone in gathering shadows, holding the boy who called him Papa, and wondered precisely when doing the right thing had started feeling so much like dying.