Amelia sat in the opulent, sun-drenched drawing room, the only sound the delicate clink of porcelain as she brought the cup to her lips. The coffee was strong, dark, and thankfully, bitter—a flavor that matched the cold knot tightening in her stomach. She watched the steam curl into the air, a fleeting, beautiful distraction from the heavy silence of the house.
The door swung open with a decisive lack of ceremony, and Austin strode in. He was impeccably dressed, every hair in place, radiating the kind of effortless control that both attracted and unnerved her.
“Amelia,” he stated, his voice a low, disciplined register that always sounded slightly impatient. “You didn’t join us for breakfast. Everything is laid out. Mrs. Davies was kind enough to make her famous buttermilk pancakes for
