Page 59 of The Widow of Falbrooke Court (Ladies of Devon 3)

“I understand,” Charles said, looking out the window.

Amelia straightened. “You still may. We need only to stop the carriage. Your horse is just there.”

He looked between Amelia and Hattie before settling his gaze outside. “Today I would rather be in here.” Shifting his gaze back to Amelia, he cleared his throat. “Some views are far preferable to the rolling hills of Devonshire.”

Hattie grinned, seeming to take his meaning completely, and the matter dropped. He’d meant both of the women, surely, and it had been such a blatant flirt as to be almost laughable. Amelia liked hearing the compliment just the same, though she wouldn’t allow herself to settle too much weight on it. At least she would try. Though the conversation moved to the cricket match and they discussed the finer points of the Tucker boys’ deceit, Amelia could not so easily shift her attention, not when Charles had just sat across from her and called her beautiful. Well, both she and Hattie, but still.

To make matters even more difficult, it was impossible to sit in such a confined space with Charles and not watch him. She was drawn to him, fascinated by both the man in front of her and the feelings she was developing for him. It helped that the conversation seemed to flow unceasingly, for it was natural to pay close attention to Charles as he spoke.

When the carriage pulled into the Greens’ drive and let Hattie out, Charles climbed out onto the drive and untied his horse from the back of the carriage. Amelia leaned closer to the door in time to watch him mount it in one smooth motion, reaching up to secure his hat before turning the horse around.

Hattie and her father bid them goodbye and turned to make their way toward their house.

Amelia wished the day wasn’t over and that she needn’t say farewell to him yet, but she was equally aware that it was her own fault for caring for the man too late. “Good day, then, Charles,” she said meekly.

He looked surprised. “I planned to follow you home.”

She shook her head, but inside she felt a thrill, hoping he would press the matter. She was independent. She didn’t need anyone to make sure she made it home safely. But she certainly wanted him to, nonetheless.

“I told your brother I would see you home, Amelia. I don’t expect to come in, but please allow me to see that you arrive safely.”

His pleading request was more than she could have hoped for, softening the iced edges of her heart. “Yes, that would be very kind of you. Thank you.”

The carriage rolled forward, and Amelia swayed with the steady rhythm of the motion, her mind darting between the events of the day. Giulia could, at this very moment, be a mother to a small, soft, mewling babe. Yearning pooled in her stomach at the image her mind conjured, tensing her body.

Perhaps if she went home and wrapped the baby cap and dressing gown she’d embroidered, she could take the gift and would have reason to go to Halstead and await news there. Andrew had utilized her before in similar situations. He could potentially use her help now, and she would be able to help clean and swaddle the babe.

The idea steadily grew more appealing, and by the time her carriage came to a stop before Falbrooke’s front steps, she was buzzing with anticipation. Opening the door, she climbed out gracefully before looking up and stopping dead in her tracks. Just in front of her carriage, flush against the house, was a long, drab-looking horse, dark chestnut-colored and aging, if she had her guess. Amelia had never seen this horse before in her life and had no notion to whom it could belong.

“Were you expecting a visitor?” Charles asked, coming behind her and leading his horse.

Given the bulging saddlebags, whoever this person was intended to stay awhile. “I haven’t a clue. Perhaps it is a messenger.”

He lightly touched her elbow. “Shall I come with you?”

Her heart leapt in her chest, her skin burning underneath his gloved fingers. She loved that Charles asked her opinion instead of simply barking his demands. She appreciated his courtesy.

When she failed to respond, he cleared his throat and removed his hand from her elbow. “While I am here I would like to visit with Mrs. Halpert if it is no trouble. Otherwise, I can always return another time.”

Chastised, she pressed her lips together. Of course Mrs. Halpert was the object of his interest. He would make a very courteous and attentive husband to the woman one day.

“Of course you may come in, Charles. I have already told you that you may visit Mrs. Halpert as often as you wish, have I not? It would be silly for me to turn you away.” She started toward the house, a decidedly purposeful step to her walk. “I need to see about this visitor—whoever they may be—and then I have some other matters to take care of. I will find my housekeeper to ensure that Mrs. Halpert is feeling well enough for a visit, then perhaps you might see yourself out? I do realize it isn’t very polite of me to ask that of you, but we can afford ourselves a little casualty between old friends, can we not?”

Charles’s eyes were wide, his eyebrows hitching up on his forehead. Nodding, he seemed windswept by her gale of conversation, and she clapped her hands together. “Wonderful.”

Turning, Amelia stepped through the front door of her house and paused, Charles bumping softly into her back. There before her stood the short Mr. Boyle in a hideous brown coat, threadbare at the elbows and boots scuffed beyond repair.

“G’day, ma’am,” he said. Grinning, he lifted his cap from his head and offered it to her in something of a salute, his gapped teeth on full display. “Always a pleasure.”

She did not share that sentiment. Unable to tear her gaze away from his open mouth and gap-toothed smile, memories assaulted her of the first time she had met the man, of the time she had begged his assistance, and finally, when he’d brought her news of her husband’s dependency on laudanum and how that had been responsible for ending his life. None of her interactions with Mr. Boyle were of a positive nature.

Swallowing, Amelia shoved away the unpleasant memories. Mr. Boyle might be unsavory, but Arthur had trusted him, and he’d been quite helpful the last time she’d needed assistance. She was doing this for Arthur, anyway.

She needed to find the horse that had saved Arthur’s life, that had brought meaning back to hers. She owed both Arthur and Howard that much.

“Indeed,” she finally said, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat. “Welcome to Falbrooke, Mr. Boyle.”

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