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Charles looked as though he wanted to argue, his hand reaching for her before pausing and dropping back to his side. Her heart leapt to her throat at how badly she wanted him to take her hand, to touch her. The intensity of her longing frightened her, and she fought the impulse to reach for him instead.
He was such a kind man, his thoughtfulness shining in his eyes, so innate it was. She was struck by his easy ability to think of others.
A commotion sounded in the entryway as footsteps and voices traveled up the stairs and toward Amelia and Charles. Andrew was home, it seemed, with Mr. Pepper, and the tension between Charles and herself dissipated at once, sweeping from the corridor and leaving them void. The men would be upon them in under a minute, and Amelia preferred not to be caught alone in the corridor with Charles.
Stepping around him, she kept her head bent and went into Mrs. Halpert’s bedchamber. She seated herself on the chair at Mrs. Halpert’s bedside, grateful the woman remained asleep so Amelia could take a moment to gather her wits. Her heart raced from the unfinished conversation and where it could have led. She was nearly certain that Charles had wanted to take her hand but had stopped himself.
And either she or Mrs. Halpert—or both, more likely—were the reasons for his hesitation.
The hair at the back of her neck stood on end when Charles crossed the floor and came to sit beside her. She drew in a steadying breath before turning toward him, but the look of pure concern in his eyes as he gazed at the sleeping widow stopped her cold. She was a fool. Her feelings, changed or otherwise, were absolutely irrelevant now.
“We must save her,” he whispered, pain lacing his tone.
Amelia nodded, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man beside her. A man who was clearly in love with Mrs. Halpert.
The idea tore into her, searing her with truth that felt like fire.
She was developing feelings for Charles, and it was too late.
