Claude had never been a jealous man. Possessiveness, maybe. A desire to control, yes. But jealousy? That was an emotion for lesser men, for men who were afraid of losing what was theirs.
And yet, as he stood at the doorway of the estate's great hall, observing Amelia talking with Lord Percival Ashford, he felt something hard wrap around his chest.
Ashford was a local landowner, a rich and powerful man with a reputation for charm and effortless humor. He was also, much to Claude's increasing annoyance, looking at Amelia as if she were the most interesting thing in the room.
Amelia, for her part, was smiling.
It wasn't the polite, strained smile she had offered Claude in the past. This was different. It was effortless, warm—real.
Claude's hold on his glass tightened.
He had spent the last few days observing Amelia drift further and further away from him. Initially, he had told himself that her coldness was temporary, a childish ploy to punish him. But now, he knew with nauseating clarity that it wasn't a game.
She had actually stopped caring.
And worse, she had begun looking elsewhere.
"Ashford does appear to be quite smitten with her," Isolde whispered against his arm, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "He's always had a taste for the lovely things in life."
Claude's face grew hard. He didn't appreciate the way she said it, like Amelia was some trinket to be gazed at and possessed.
"She is my wife," he gritted.
Isolde arched a dainty brow. "For the time being."
Claude ignored her, advancing without consideration, his legs moving across the hall before his mind had even made up its mind. He reached Amelia's side as Ashford extended a hand towards her, the action light-hearted, but excessively familiar for Claude's own taste.
"Lord Ashford," Claude informed him, his tone smooth but underscored with steel. "I hope you are having a pleasant evening."
Ashford glanced up, taken aback but not intimidated. The man had never intimidated Claude, which only made him more annoying. "Duke Everthorne," he said easily. "I was just explaining to your lovely wife how impressed I am with the condition of the estate. She's done an excellent job in your… absence."
Claude's gaze flashed to Amelia, who regarded him with an unreadable face.
"She has always been capable," Claude replied stiffly.
Capable by far," Ashford concurred, smiling at Amelia once again. "And a pleasure to talk with. It's miraculous you are able to keep yourself from her side."
The implication was obvious.
Amelia said nothing, waiting—perhaps wishing—Claude would respond. That he would deny Ashford's statement, assert that he did spend time with her, that he did enjoy her company.
Claude remained silent.
Not because he did not want to, but because the words were a confession, a plea of failure. And he was not one to admit defeat.
Amelia sighed, facing Ashford once more. "You flatter me too much, my lord."
"Nonsense," Ashford smiled. "If anything, I do not flatter you enough."
Claude's patience snapped.
His hand rested on Amelia's waist, firm and possessive. "My wife has had a long night," he drawled. "I think it's time she retired."
Amelia tensed at his touch, but before she could protest, he was already taking her away.
Ashford laughed behind them. "Goodnight, Your Grace."
Claude didn't notice.
Amelia did not, however. The moment they were out of hearing range, she tugged herself away from his hold, spinning to face him with a glare.
"What in the world was that?" she asked.
Claude stood before her, his jaw clenched. "I didn't like the way he was looking at you."
"Oh?" Amelia folded her arms. "And why should that matter to you? You've made it clear that my presence means nothing to you. Or has that suddenly changed?"
Claude didn't answer. Because it had changed, and it terrified him.
Amelia scoffed in derision at his silence, shaking her head. "You don't get to do this, Claude. You don't get to disregard me for years and then behave like a jealous husband the instant another man is kind to me."
She turned on her heel, but this time, Claude was not ready to let her leave so easily.
"Amelia—"
"Goodnight, Your Grace."
The words were said with finality, and Claude found himself left standing in the dim corridor, his heart racing with something perilously close to regret.