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Amelia stared after the man, waiting for him to glance back at her over his shoulder. He had the discomfiting habit of doing so whenever they managed to be in the same place, and this morning would be no different. She was certain.
But the farther he rode away down the curved dirt road, the less certain she became.
Surely he could not overcome more than two decades’ worth of infatuation so quickly. Could he?
Howard complained, tugging his head and forcing Amelia to tighten her grip on the reins, but her gaze remained fixed on the dark hat atop Charles’s head. He moved down the lane at an unhurried pace, rounding the bend and disappearing out of sight without so much as a turn of his neck.
He had not looked back at her.
Dropping her hands onto her lap, she frowned. It was not as though she wished for the man to remain so captivated by her, not when she was unwilling to give him the attention he sought. No, indeed, she had been glad for him when he’d returned to Devon last summer and brought along a young woman whom everyone had believed he might wed. But that relationship had not developed; the woman had left at the end of the house party, and Charles had remained alone.
Amelia would be lying if she said she was relieved by that course of events. She wanted Charles to find happiness, to overcome his infatuation with her. Any person who grew up alongside the two of them understood this to be the case, for Amelia had not hesitated to deny Charles time and again. She’d made a habit of refusing him dances and escorts, hoping that eventually, he would understand that a relationship between the two of them simply wasn’t meant to be.
But just now, he had assisted her then left without so much as a backward glance. In almost three decades of their acquaintance, that had never happened. Not once.
Clicking her tongue, she urged Howard forward down the lane, shaking the odd line of thought from her mind. If Charles had come to a place where he was no longer engrossed with her, then that would be good for all parties involved, and she must praise his progress.
Even if it was something of a hit to her own self-esteem.
Not that it mattered. Amelia Fawn had married three times. It was a truth generally accepted between those who knew her intimately, as well as the majority of the local parishioners, that Amelia would never, ever marry again.
* * *
Charles Fremont’s shoulders were tense. Clenching his muscles as he’d ridden away from Amelia coupled with the strain of pushing her gig from the mud had caused him acute soreness. He shook them out, doing his best to release the tension from his arms. It had taken every bit of control he possessed not to glance back at Amelia as he’d ridden away from her, but it had been necessary to refrain. He’d been in love with the woman since they were children, and he knew there was nothing in the world that could entice her to wed him, so he must move on.
What choice did he have?
He urged his horse forward, rounding another bend and sliding between the trees on the lane that led to Falbrooke Court. The tall, yellow sandstone building came into view as he clopped down the gravel drive. He did his best not to think of the old man who had owned this house before marrying Amelia and leaving it to her.
He made an effort not to think of any of her husbands when he could help it, but he was not always in complete control of where his thoughts led. Though he wished that wasn’t the case. His long unrequited feelings would be much easier to manage if he did possess control of his thoughts.
He came to a stop before the tall front doors and slid from the saddle. Amelia’s pale blue eyes and perfectly serious, heart-shaped face flashed in his mind, her gratitude evident as she thanked him for helping her from the rut in the creek bed.
Sure, she had been pleased to be freed from the creek, but she had felt nothing more. Why did he still need so many reminders of that fact?
“What has put that scowl on your face?” Andrew Mason asked, coming down the front steps, a crooked smile on his lips.
Charles shook off his thoughts, handing his reins to one of Andrew’s servants. Surely his friend did not wish to know that Charles had been thinking of the man’s lovely sister. He was here to speak about something different—something far more important than Charles’s pathetic, unreturned feelings. “I’ve brought you a grave dilemma, and I need your discretion and your help in determining what I ought to do.”
Andrew’s smile slipped, his face growing serious. “Please, do come in.”
“I’m afraid I’m something of a mess,” Charles said, indicating his boots.
Andrew glanced down. “It looks dried to me. Kick the steps if you’re worried, but I would prefer to speak inside. This heat is stifling.”
Charles nodded, following his friend up the stairs and stomping away the majority of the loose mud. They stepped into the vast house, crossing the pristine, white marble floor to a door at the end of the corridor. Charles avoided looking over his shoulder to see if he’d trailed flakes of dirt. Perhaps if he didn’t look he would not stress himself over marring Amelia’s clean floor.
“Is this a health concern?” Andrew asked, holding the door open to his study as Charles passed through.
“Yes.”
“Please be seated.” It did not take much for Andrew to slip into his familiar role as Graton’s trained and trusted physician.
“You know, of course, that Mr. Halpert succumbed to the wounds he sustained while serving under my uncle in the navy.”
Andrew nodded. He closed his door and stepped around the desk to take his seat. “I was sorry to hear it, and I wish there was more I could have done, but he was not healthy when he came to Graton.”
“I know this, Andrew. His widow understands as well. She bears no ill will toward you.”
