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He seemed less bland now, more thoughtful and chivalrous. While she had previously failed to notice his broad shoulders and pronounced jawline, that was nothing to his gallant generosity or the humor she’d witnessed between him and Andrew earlier. Though not everything appeared altered; he had the same blue eyes, though they twinkled now and didn’t settle on her so frequently. She’d yet to decide if that was something she liked or not.
A breeze swept over them, sending a chilly shiver down her arms that made her shoulders shake slightly.
Charles paused, slipping his arm free of hers.
Unbuttoning his coat, he shrugged it from his arms and held it toward her. Had he read her thoughts and wished to display his generosity now? She could not make out much except for the man’s unrelenting gaze. “Here. Take this.”
“We are close to Sheffield House, are we not?”
“Amelia.” He allowed her the choice, patiently waiting for her to accept or deny his offer.
She had long ago made it a rule not to accept anything from this man—she’d been afraid of falsely leading his feelings. “It was only the breeze. It is a rather mild evening.”
Another breeze rustled between them, fluttering the loose hair around her neck and pressing against her skin as if the element itself wished to edge her closer to Charles.
“Just let me be a gentleman, Amelia. I am not asking for your hand in marriage. It’s only a coat.”
She froze, her lips parting in surprise. He had a point. Maybe the juvenile rule she’d created in her youth was no longer necessary. She had only just decided how different both of them were now, hadn’t she? At some point, she needed to draw the line between allowing her pride to rule and being reasonable.
Swallowing, Amelia turned her back to Charles and put out her arms. She could be civil, too. “I thank you for your consideration.”
“You are most welcome.” He slid the coat over her arms, his fingers brushing her bare skin. A chill swept her body, and she shuddered again.
“Charles, what of Hattie and Giulia? What if they did not make it home safely?”
They turned the corner, and the lights from Sheffield House came into view, a window on the ground floor glowing orange from the fire behind it. Safety cocooned her from the familiar site of an estate she trusted, and she relaxed her shoulders.
“They did not take the lane that ran past Donning Grove, so we have no reason to believe they are not safe—if it was indeed gypsies who attacked us.”
That was a small comfort, but only just. Tugging on his forearm, she brought him around to face her. “How can we be certain, though?”
Charles’s face was lit by the faint glow coming from the house, and it was the first time all evening Amelia was able to fully look at him. He had the same Grecian nose, same chestnut hair, and same blue eyes—but something about him was different. Something more than his more defined jawline or cheekbones. Was it something in the bend of his lips or the glimmer in his eyes? She could not quite put her finger on it, but it was there, and it was calling to her, begging her to figure it out.
“I had already planned on riding past their homes to ensure they made it home safely, Amelia. Even before this wretched evening took an awful turn.”
Of course he had. Because Charles was just the sort of thoughtful gentleman who would do something so charitable and not expect a word of praise, for he had never intended to tell her of his plans. His goodness was an absolute rain on her smoldering fire of interest, putting it out at once. He was too good, too wholesome. It made her stomach turn over.
“I will rouse my grooms and harness the horses,” he said, smiling. “It should only take a minute.”
Amelia nodded, and Charles walked ahead of her, quickening his stride as he crossed the gravel drive toward the stables. His walk was so sure, so similar to Henry’s, that she couldn’t help but be riveted by it. Her mind flashed to those moments in her early courtship with her first husband when she had been so young and naive, believing her life would fit into a perfectly situated box. She was meant to fall gloriously in love after a swoony courtship, marry her dashing darling, then live out her days in happily wedded bliss, chasing around tiny little red-headed girls and boys.
But life had had other plans, stealing her husband from her after a scant few weeks of marriage and wrecking her perfectly laid plans.
Charles had never been part of those plans, and he in no way resembled her Henry. Except for his walk. When she watched Charles’s confident stride, she was thrown back to her days with Henry and the joy she’d felt then that had eclipsed all other joys for her.
The joy of a woman who hadn’t felt much sorrow, who didn’t know pain.
Now she knew them both intimately.
* * *
Eight years earlier
Amelia Brown had only been married for twenty-two days when Henry’s cousin, Arthur Williams, stood in the doorway of her private sitting room, his hat clutched in white-knuckled hands and a frown written on his face. Her embroidery needle stalled over the fabric, surprise freezing her motion.
“What is it, Arthur? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
His throat bobbed, his eyes downcast and serious. “I must speak with you.”
