Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Gabriel found Amelia shortly after dinner, not in the drawing room as expected but near the corridor leading toward the library as though she had been wandering without purpose.
She paused the moment she saw him, her expression shifting into something carefully neutral, though he had begun to recognize the small tells that gave her away.
He inclined his head slightly and gestured toward his study, not bothering with unnecessary explanation.
“A moment of your time,” he said evenly, watching as she hesitated only briefly before following him.
As they walked, he noticed the faint tension in her shoulders, as if she already suspected this conversation would not be pleasant.
Once inside the study, Gabriel closed the door behind them with deliberate calm, taking a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking.
Amelia stood just a little too still in the center of the room, hands loosely clasped in front of her as though preparing for judgment.
He studied her for a second longer than necessary, then spoke in a tone that was controlled but firm.
“I have learned something regarding your situation,” he began, folding his hands behind his back as he paced once. Her eyes narrowed slightly, though she did not interrupt, which he considered an improvement over most conversations with her.
Gabriel stopped near the fireplace and turned to face her fully, his expression unreadable as he continued.
“The Duke of Mansfield,” he said, watching carefully for her reaction, “is now betrothed to your sister, Bethany.”
The effect was immediate and unmistakable. Amelia went very still, the color draining from her face so quickly that even Gabriel registered the change. For a brief moment, even he considered whether he had misjudged how she would take the news though there was no turning back from it now.
Her breath caught sharply before she spoke, her voice quieter than usual.
“They are to be married?” she repeated, as though the word itself made no sense.
Gabriel inclined his head once in confirmation, remaining silent as she absorbed it. She looked away almost immediately, blinking too quickly, as though trying to force the information into something manageable.
“Why did you not wish to marry him?” he asked after a moment, his tone softer than before but still direct, as though the question itself required clarity rather than comfort.
Amelia gave a short, unsteady laugh that held no humour, one hand lifting briefly to her mouth as if she could contain what was coming next.
“It was never about titles,” she said, her voice beginning to fracture slightly as emotion crept in, “or riches or any of that.” She pressed her fingers together tightly, staring down at them as if grounding herself.
“He made marriage sound like a prison,” she admitted more quietly, then exhaled sharply as though the memory itself was unpleasant to hold.
Gabriel said nothing, letting her continue, though something in his expression tightened slightly at the word.
She continued, words coming faster now as though once started she could not stop them.
“I was just so tired,” she said, voice shaking, “of never deciding anything for myself. Not what I wore, not what I ate, not even who I was supposed to marry.” Her composure broke fully then, tears slipping down her cheeks as she turned her face slightly away, clearly frustrated by them.
Gabriel watched without interrupting, something unfamiliar settling in his chest as he observed her struggle.
It was not a weakness he saw, though she clearly believed it was.
At the mention of her sister, Amelia’s voice faltered further, her hands tightening as if she were holding herself together by force alone.
“Bethany,” she whispered, shaking her head slightly, “she should not have had to suffer because of what I did. This is my parents’ doing. I know it is.”
Gabriel took a slow step closer, his tone more measured now. “Do you regret coming here?” he asked quietly, watching her carefully.
Amelia did not answer immediately, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, as though the question required more strength than she currently had.
When she finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “I only wish she had not been forced into anything because of me,” she said, her voice unsteady but honest.
Gabriel studied her for a long moment, then asked a question that seemed to settle more heavily in the room than any before it.
“Does your sister seem like someone who could be pushed into something she does not want?” Amelia blinked through her tears, then gave a small, almost disbelieving laugh despite herself.
“No,” she said, wiping at her cheek, “Bethany is nothing like that. She is stronger than anyone I know.”
Gabriel inclined his head slightly, as though that answer confirmed something he had already suspected.
“Then it seems unlikely she was easily led,” he said, his tone more thoughtful now.
Amelia hesitated then added more quietly, “No one convinces Bethany to do anything she does not choose herself. She is not weak like me.”
The words landed sharply, and Gabriel’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “You are not what I would call weak,” he said after a pause, as though weighing the phrase carefully.
A faint, unexpected hint of humor entered his voice as he added, “I find myself rather pitying the Duke of Mansfield.”
Amelia looked at him uncertainly, clearly not expecting levity in the middle of her distress.
“Your sister sounds entirely capable of making any man regret underestimating her,” he continued, a flicker of something almost like amusement passing over his face.
Then his expression shifted again, growing more serious as he regarded her more closely.
“There are different kinds of bravery,” he said quietly, “and I believe you possess one that is not often recognized.”
Amelia stared at him, clearly caught off guard by the words, her breathing still uneven but her attention fully fixed on him now.
Gabriel held her gaze, his tone steady but uncharacteristically precise. “It is quieter,” he said, as if considering it in real time, “less convenient to notice. Sometimes it may even look like foolishness to those who do not understand it.”
The room fell into a brief silence after that, the weight of his words lingering between them. Amelia blinked once, then again, as though unsure whether she had heard him correctly.
For a moment, neither of them moved, and Gabriel found himself aware of her in a way that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Not fragile. Not foolish. Simply real in a manner that does not fit easily into my carefully ordered world.
Amelia’s voice, when it finally came, was soft and disbelieving. “That is… not what I expected you to say,” she admitted, still looking at him as though trying to reconcile him with the words he had just spoken.
Gabriel exhaled once, as if dismissing the weight of the moment, though it lingered regardless.
“Do not become accustomed to compliments,” he said dryly, but the edge of it was softened.
Amelia stood there, still visibly shaken but steadier now, and for once, he did not feel the immediate need to correct, control, or dismiss.
Instead, he simply watched her, aware that whatever had begun in that room was no longer as simple as information shared and conversation ended.
And for reasons he had no intention of examining yet, that fact unsettled him far more than he cared to admit
Amelia returned to her room with her thoughts still tangled from the conversation with Gabriel, her emotions shifting too quickly for her to properly name them. She closed the door behind herself, leaning against it for a moment as if trying to steady herself before crossing the space.
Without wasting time, she moved to her writing desk and pulled out fresh paper, her hand already itching with urgency.
The words came faster than she expected, as though they had been waiting behind her ribs for permission to exist. She wrote to Bethany first, her pen pressing harder than necessary into the page as she confessed gratitude she had never been able to say aloud.
“Thank you,” she murmured under her breath as she wrote, as though the ink itself might carry the weight of everything she meant.
In the letter, Amelia allowed herself honesty she had never dared to express before, describing how Bethany’s interference at the wedding had saved her from a life she now realized she would never have survived.
She wrote of fear she had not understood at the time and of relief she could finally admit without shame.
“You did what I could not,” she wrote carefully, pausing only when her hand trembled slightly before continuing.
There was no bitterness in the words now, only clarity, as though distance had reshaped the memory into something almost merciful. She promised Bethany that she would come soon, that she would help fix whatever damage had been done, even if she did not yet know what form that fixing would take.
As she continued writing, something steadier settled inside her, a sense of direction she had not felt before.
Amelia wrote that she was no longer afraid of the path ahead, even if she did not yet understand it fully.
She told Bethany she had found purpose in the most unexpected place and that she intended not to waste it.
“I will not let this chance slip away,” she wrote firmly, her lips pressing together as though sealing the promise in place.
She folded the letter carefully once finished, placing it in a drawer rather than sending it immediately, as if protecting it from a world that might try to undo her resolve.
By the time morning came, Amelia felt almost unfamiliar to herself, as though something inside her had shifted overnight into something sharper and more certain.
She was fastening the last buttons on her dress when the knock came at the door.
“Enter,” she said, expecting Mrs. Jacobs or the maid, Trixie. Instead, it was Gabriel.
Amelia turned quickly, surprised to see him accompanied by a woman she did not recognize and carrying a box with careful precision. Gabriel gave the smallest nod in greeting before speaking with his usual controlled impatience, as though the situation itself was an inconvenience he was tolerating.
“This is the modiste,” he said briefly, stepping aside as the woman curtsied.
Gabriel set the box down on a nearby table with deliberate care, as though even this small act required precision. “You will choose your own dresses,” he said, watching her reaction closely as if anticipating an argument.
Amelia blinked, momentarily unsure whether she had understood him correctly, then straightened slightly. “I… get a choice?” she asked before she could stop herself, her voice betraying more emotion than she intended.
“You are not a governess in appearance, regardless of circumstance,” he replied, his tone clipped as he moved past her toward the window.
“And I do not intend to have unnecessary scandal spreading through my household because people cannot distinguish between roles.” He glanced back at her briefly, expression unreadable but firm.
“There will be a ball,” he continued, “hosted here, to prepare Valerie for London. You will attend as a guest if you wish it.”
He added the last part almost reluctantly, as though offering choice was itself an inconvenience he would rather avoid.
Amelia stood very still, her hands tightening slightly at her sides as she tried to process what he was saying.
A guest. Not hidden. Not labeled. Not dismissed.
The idea felt almost unreal, and she fought to keep her composure from breaking into something far more visible. “Thank you,” she managed carefully, though the words felt inadequate for what she was feeling.
Gabriel merely gave a short, dismissive sound, as if gratitude was unnecessary and mildly inconvenient to acknowledge.
He opened the box on the table without ceremony, revealing a pair of gloves folded neatly inside.
“There is one more matter,” he said, taking one glove and examining it briefly before looking at her. “I wanted to ensure these fit.”
Before she could respond, he stepped closer and took her hand with surprising gentleness, sliding the glove over her fingers with deliberate precision.
Amelia’s breath caught slightly, though she forced herself not to move, not trusting her own reaction.
His touch was brief, controlled, yet it left a lingering warmth that unsettled her far more than she wanted to admit.
When he finally released her hand, Amelia found that she needed to distract herself from the heat rising inside of her.
Say something, anything.
“Is David much like his father?” she asked, realizing that perhaps bringing up such a painful memory was not the best redirection.
Gabriel paused for a moment, then gave a small, almost reluctant nod. “In some ways,” he replied, his gaze distant for a fraction of a second. “He had David’s energy. Less discipline, more trouble.”
Amelia smiled faintly at that, then added, “Valerie takes after you more than you realize.”
Gabriel gave a short, almost imperceptible exhale that might have been agreement.
They spoke briefly then of David and Valerie, their voices lower, more natural than before, as though something between them had softened without permission.
Amelia found herself standing closer to him than she realized, drawn in by the ease of conversation despite everything she told herself to the contrary.
Gabriel’s gaze lingered on her face for a moment longer than necessary, and the air between them shifted in a way neither acknowledged aloud.
Before she could fully understand what was happening, he reached up and gently tilted her chin, studying her as though something about her required closer attention.
Amelia’s heart stuttered violently at the gesture, her thoughts scattering in every direction at once.
Then, just as quickly, he let go and stepped back, turning away as though nothing had occurred at all. The abrupt distance left Amelia standing frozen, her skin still tingling where his hand had been.
“I will leave you to get your measurements done for the gown,” Gabriel said quietly, already moving toward the door as if the moment had never existed.
Amelia did not answer immediately because she was still trying to understand why the absence of his touch now felt louder than its presence. And as the door closed behind him, she realized with startling clarity.
Anticipation can be its own kind of ache.