Chapter 30
“We need to go back inside.”
Tobias’s breath was warm against her ear, his forehead pressed to hers whilst the gardens rustled secrets around them.
Amelia’s pulse hammered so violently she thought he must hear it.
They stood tangled together in shadow, his hands still cradling her face, her fingers twisted in the damp fabric of his coat.
She’d just kissed him. Here, in the garden at a prestigious ball, attended by half the Ton. Thrown every shred of propriety to the wind and claimed him as thoroughly as he’d claimed her moments before.
The terrace doors blazed with light, spilling scandal across the flagstones. Inside, society would be in uproar. Whispers spreading like wildfire. Judgments forming. Consequences mounting.
She couldn’t bring herself to care.
“I know,” she whispered. “But first—first I need to speak with Lord Ashbourne.”
Every muscle in Tobias’s body went rigid. His jaw clenched so tightly she heard his teeth grind. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.” She pressed her fingers to his lips before he could argue. “I have to do this myself. I owe him that much.”
“You owe him nothing.” Protective fury blazed in those grey eyes. “Not a thing. You… are allowed to make your choice, you made him no promise yet, you…”
“Please.” Her voice cracked on the word. “Let me have this. Let me face him with what dignity I have left.”
She watched the war play out across his features—the desperate need to shield her battling against respect for her wishes. Finally, though it looked as though it caused him physical pain, he stepped back.
“I’ll be watching,” he said quietly. “If he so much as looks at you wrong—”
“I know.” She rose on her toes and pressed one more kiss to his mouth. Quick and chaste and entirely insufficient. “Thank you.”
Then she turned before her courage could desert her entirely.
The ballroom had descended into barely controlled chaos.
Everywhere, faces turned toward her with hungry curiosity.
Whispers hissed through the crowd like serpents.
Fans fluttered with renewed violence. She caught a glimpse of Clara’s face—her cousin looked torn between triumph and concern—before pressing forward.
Lord Ashbourne stood near the orchestra. Rigid as marble. Pale as death save for two spots of hectic colour high on his cheekbones.
His gaze locked onto hers with such intensity that her steps faltered.
She forced herself forward anyway.
“My lord.” Her voice emerged steadier than she’d dared hope. “I owe you an apology.”
“An apology.” The words came out brittle. Sharp. “How terribly civilised.”
The crowd around them had gone silent. Every ear straining. Every eye fixed. The weight of society’s judgment pressed down on her shoulders until she could scarcely breathe.
She lifted her chin regardless.
“You have shown me nothing but kindness,” she said softly. Meant it, despite everything. “Respect and consideration. I am truly grateful for the honour you’ve done me in seeking my hand.”
“But?”
The single word emerged cold. Controlled. But beneath it—beneath the polished surface—she heard something dangerous stirring.
“But I cannot accept your offer.” The confession tore from her throat. “My heart... it belongs elsewhere.”
For three beats of her racing pulse, he simply stared. She watched comprehension dawn. Watched humiliation and rage chase each other across his features in rapid succession.
“Elsewhere.” His voice had gone very quiet. Very dangerous. “To him? To your brother-in-law?”
The accusation hung between them like poison.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt—”
“You’re sorry?” He laughed then. The sound was ugly. Bitter. Nothing like the warm, cultured tones he’d always shown her before. “How delightfully considerate of you.”
He took a step forward. She held her ground, though every instinct screamed at her to flee.
“Do you have any idea,” he continued, voice rising now, “what you’ve just done? The humiliation you’ve subjected me to?”
Another step. Close enough now that she could see veins standing out in his temples. Could smell brandy thick on his breath.
“I opened my home to you. My heart. Offered you security, respectability, everything a woman in your position could possibly desire.” His hands had curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
“And you throw it all away for what? For that wastrel? That fortune-hunting rake who’s spent his entire life disappointing everyone who ever believed in him? ”
The venom in his voice shocked her. This wasn’t the courteous gentleman who’d taken tea in her drawing room. Who’d spoken so kindly of Henry. Who’d seemed so perfectly, reassuringly appropriate.
This was someone else entirely.
“Lord Ashbourne, please—you must understand—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly.” Another step.
Far too close now. Close enough that she could see the fury blazing in eyes she’d once thought kind.
“You’ve made a fool of me. In front of half of London.
Do you think I’ll simply accept this? Simply walk away whilst you parade your scandalous liaison for all of society to gawk at? ”
His voice had risen to a near shout now. People around them gasped. Several ladies raised fans to conceal shocked whispers.
Amelia’s heart hammered against her ribs. She’d never seen this side of him. Never imagined it existed beneath all that polish and propriety.
“You will regret this,” he hissed, leaning in close enough that only she could hear. “When he tires of you—and he will, make no mistake—when he casts you aside for his next amusement and leaves you ruined and alone, you’ll come crawling back. Begging for the security you so foolishly rejected.”
“I don’t think—”
“No. You don’t think. That’s precisely the problem.” His lip curled with contempt. “Stupid, emotional creatures, the lot of you. My late wife had the same failing. Always thinking she knew better. Always questioning, defying, making things more difficult than they needed to be.”
Something cold slithered down Amelia’s spine. The way he’d said late wife—as though her death had been an inconvenience. As though the love he had had for her… was part of a ploy. A plan.
“Until she learnt her place, of course.” His smile was terrible. “Until she understood that a wife’s duty is obedience. Submission. I would have taught you the same, given time. Would have moulded you into something appropriate. Something befitting my station.”
Horror bloomed in her chest. This was what she’d almost chosen. This man—with his cruel smile and possessive fury, with his talk of teaching and moulding and breaking women into submission.
This was who Ashbourne truly was beneath the courteous facade.
“You don’t own me,” she said quietly. Firmly. “No man owns me. Not Edward. Not Tobias. And certainly not you.”
His eyes flashed with something dark and violent. “You little—”
He never finished.
One moment, Ashbourne loomed before her, rage twisting his features into something monstrous. Next, Tobias was there.
He’d crossed the ballroom in three strides—she hadn’t even seen him move—and seized Ashbourne by the throat, slamming him against the nearest pillar with such force the impact reverberated through the floor.
The orchestra stuttered to silence. Gasps and shrieks erupted from the crowd.
“Touch her,” Tobias growled, his voice low and deadly, “and I’ll make certain you never lift a hand to any woman again.”
Ashbourne stared at him, stunned. The fury drained from his face, replaced by something that looked remarkably like fear.
“You heard her,” Tobias continued, each word deliberate. Dangerous. “She doesn’t belong to you. Never did. Never will.”
He released Ashbourne with a contemptuous shove. The baron stumbled backward, catching himself against the pillar with trembling hands.
“You speak of humiliation?” Tobias’s voice cut through the silent ballroom like a blade. “You humiliated yourself the moment you thought threats and intimidation would win her compliance. The moment you revealed exactly what manner of man you truly are.”
He stepped back, putting himself between Amelia and Ashbourne with deliberate precision. “If I ever hear—even the faintest whisper—that you’ve spoken ill of Lady Amelia, that you’ve spread malicious gossip or attempted to damage her reputation in any way, I will call you out. And I will not miss.”
The threat hung in the air, sharp and absolute.
Ashbourne’s mouth worked soundlessly. Fury and humiliation warred across his features. But beneath both emotions, Amelia saw fear. Real, genuine fear of the man standing before him.
Finally, Ashbourne found his voice. “You’ll both be ruined for this. Society will—”
“Society,” Tobias said coldly, “can go hang.”
He turned then, dismissing Ashbourne as though he were no more consequential than dust. His eyes found Amelia’s across the scant distance separating them, and all that cold fury melted into something infinitely gentler.
“Come,” he said quietly, offering his arm. “Let’s go home.”
She placed her hand on his sleeve and felt the tension still thrumming through him, despite his controlled exterior. Together they turned toward the exit.
The crowd parted before them like water. Whispers rose to a roar in their wake. Amelia caught glimpses of familiar faces as they passed—Clara’s satisfied smile, Lady Pemberton’s shock, Mrs. Hartwell’s avid fascination.
And Ashbourne, still pressed against the pillar, watching them leave with naked hatred burning in his eyes.
She should be terrified. Should be horrified by what had just transpired. Should care about the scandal, the gossip, the judgment that would follow.
But with Tobias’s solid warmth beside her and freedom beckoning beyond those ballroom doors, terror was the furthest thing from her mind.