Chapter 27
“Lady Amelia, you honour me with your presence.”
Ashbourne stood the moment she entered. Perfect manners. Perfect timing. Perfect everything, which was silently grating on her in ways she couldn’t explain. His bow hit precisely the right angle—respectful without scraping, familiar without presuming. As though he’d measured it with a protractor.
She let him take her hand. Guide her to the settee by the window, where the sun blazed through as if it had some sort of point to prove. All that light and she felt cold straight through to her bones.
“Lord Ashbourne. Kind of you to call.” The words came out on their own. Years of training did that—made you say things whether you meant them or not. “Your journey was pleasant, I trust?”
“Exceedingly so.” He settled across from her. Not too close. Never too close. “Though I confess the destination held considerably more appeal than the road.”
There it was. The compliment delivered smooth as silk. Any other woman would’ve blushed prettily, murmured thanks, felt flattered.
Amelia felt nothing.
Well. That wasn’t entirely true. She felt something—a vague sort of appreciation for technique, the way one might admire a particularly well-executed minuet whilst being utterly bored by the dance itself.
She reached for the teapot. “Sugar?”
“Two lumps, if you please.”
Pour. Pass. Smile. Accept his thanks with another smile. Through the doorway, she could hear Mrs. Boldwood discussing dinner with Cook, someone’s footsteps on the stairs, and Henry’s laugh floating down from the nursery where Mary had taken him.
And somewhere—somewhere in this cursed house—Tobias.
Her hand shook. Just slightly. Just enough that tea sloshed against porcelain with a sound that seemed obscenely loud.
Stop thinking about him. Stop stop stop.
“You’ve created a beautiful home here,” Ashbourne said, looking around the room like he actually cared. Maybe he did. She couldn’t tell anymore. “I understand you oversee the household yourself?”
“I do.” Amelia lifted her cup, buying time. Buying distance from thoughts that had no business haunting her whilst she entertained a perfectly respectable gentleman who had done nothing wrong except be perfectly respectable. “Though the staff make it rather easy.”
“Modest as well as capable.” His smile warmed. “Many widows in your position would have retreated entirely. Taken to their chambers and let the world carry on without them.”
Would they? She hadn’t had that luxury. Edward had expected perfection even from the grave—she knew him well enough to understand that. She’d acted in ways that her husband would have approved of, fearing that with the title, Tobias would inherit that very same judgment. He did not.
She set her cup down before the trembling became obvious.
“You’re kind, my lord. I merely do what’s required.”
“There’s the difference.” He leaned in. Not far—just enough to suggest earnestness without impropriety. He’d probably practised that angle too. “You do what duty demands with grace. Not resentment. That’s rare.”
The conversation ground on. Pleasant observations. Careful compliments. He asked about Henry—seemed genuinely interested too, which she couldn’t fault him for. Mentioned his own grown children with obvious affection. Spoke of his estate in Surrey the way men do when they’re proud of something.
All appropriate. All empty.
She heard herself respond. Watched herself smile at the right moments, incline her head, make all the proper noises.
While some other part of her—some wretched, traitorous part—wondered what would happen if she just stopped.
If she stood up mid-sentence and said I can’t do this, I’m sorry, but I can’t sit here pretending my heart isn’t bleeding all over your mother’s very nice Aubusson rug.
But she didn’t. Couldn’t. Ladies didn’t do that sort of thing.
“Lady Amelia.” His voice changed. Gained weight. She knew what was coming—had known from the moment he’d asked for this audience. Still, knowing did nothing to prepare her. “Forgive my directness, but I find I must speak plainly.”
Her pulse kicked up. “Please do.”
He set his cup aside with the deliberate care of a man about to say something important. When he met her eyes, he looked almost... vulnerable. Which was worse, somehow. It would have been easier if he’d been cold about it.
“We haven’t known each other long. I’m aware your mourning is still fresh.
That society would counsel patience.” He paused, and she felt the words gathering like a storm she couldn’t outrun.
“But I’ve reached a point in my life where I know what I seek in a companion.
Someone intelligent. Capable. Someone who understands duty whilst possessing warmth enough to make a house a home.
Someone who’d be a proper mother to my children, a credit to the family name. ”
Rain started pattering outside. Because of course it did. Because the universe had developed a sick sense of humour.
“You possess these qualities and more, Lady Amelia.” He shifted forward, hands clasped like a supplicant, though somehow he still looked assured.
“And so I must ask—would you do me the very great honour of considering my suit? I don’t ask for an immediate answer.
I know such decisions require thought. But I wanted you to know my admiration is sincere. My intentions honourable.”
There it was.
Security. Respectability. A father for Henry. Everything she’d been raised to want, packaged neatly and offered with genuine kindness.
Everything that wasn’t Tobias.
“Lord Ashbourne.” Steadier than she’d expected. Steadier than she deserved. “I’m deeply honoured. Truly. You’ve shown me nothing but kindness and I’d never wish to seem ungrateful.”
She saw it click—the recognition that gratitude wasn’t acceptance, that appreciation could exist miles apart from desire.
“But I must ask for time to consider. My mourning is fresh, as you noted. Such a decision...” She trailed off. Couldn’t finish. How did one politely say such a decision should probably involve actual feelings?
His smile came more easily. Relief, not disappointment. “Of course. I’d expect nothing less. Take whatever time you require. Some matters are worth waiting for.”
He rose. She followed, automated grace carrying her through movements her mind had abandoned. He bowed over her hand, lips brushing her glove with perfect propriety.
“I’ll call again in a few days, if I may? Perhaps that promenade through the gardens we discussed. Young Henry might enjoy the fresh air.”
“Lovely.” The lie slipped out smooth as butter.
She walked him to the entrance hall. Maintained composure through his departure. Even managed a small wave as his carriage rolled away.
Then she stood there. Staring at nothing. While something inside her quietly shattered.
This was it. What she should want. What any sensible woman would grab with both hands and thank God for. Lord Ashbourne offered everything—position, security, protection of an established name. He’d be kind to Henry. Respectful to her. Faithful in his duties.
He’d never make her heart stop with a glance. Would never argue with her until sparks flew and the air crackled between them like before a storm. Would never look at her the way Tobias did when he forgot to guard himself—like she was air and water and he’d been drowning.
Would never kiss her in a darkened library whilst rain hammered the windows and the world fell away.
Her chest constricted. Painfully.
She loved him. Heaven help her, she loved Tobias Grant with a fierce, consuming certainty that made a mockery of everything she’d once called love.
Had loved him perhaps from that night years ago when he’d defended her against Edward’s cruelty.
Or when he’d held Henry with such awkward tenderness.
Or maybe from some indefinable moment when his presence shifted from burden to necessity—when the thought of him leaving became unbearable.
And four days ago, he’d kissed her like she mattered. Like she was everything.
Then, spent four days avoiding her as though she carried plague.
Because he regretted it, she was certain of that. Because whatever madness had seized him had been conquered by morning’s cold rationality and the crushing weight of propriety.
The burn of it nearly drove her to her knees.
She turned from the door. Climbed the stairs on legs that felt distant, disconnected. Found the nursery where Henry played with wooden blocks under Mary’s watchful eye.
“Mama!” He scrambled up, all dimpled hands and bright eyes.
She gathered him close. Breathed in his clean child scent whilst he patted her cheeks with sticky fingers. This. This was why foolish yearning had no place in a widow’s practical existence. Henry needed stability. Security. Things Lord Ashbourne could provide.
Things Tobias... wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Whatever had flickered between them in that library had died with the dawn.
Unless.
The thought formed before she could stop it. Dangerous. Desperate. Entirely unwise.
Unless she asked him. Gave him one final chance to claim what had burned between them. To choose her over honour and propriety and whatever fears kept him silent.
Unless his distance wasn’t rejection but protection—staying away not because he didn’t care but because he cared too much and was terrified of ruining her.
Madness. Pure reckless foolishness.
It mattered not, did it? All that she knew was that he did not want her. Not as much as she wanted him.
The day crawled by. Amelia bathed Henry, supervised his dinner, sang him to sleep whilst her mind churned through a thousand versions of what she’d say. How she’d phrase the question that could salvage everything or destroy what fragile peace remained.