A Surprising Husband
Amelia had specifically requested to take breakfast in the private parlor connecting the master and mistress suites.
The small, sun-drenched room would provide the solitude she desperately needed after last night’s dinner—after the way he’d fed her with his own hands, his thumb drawing circles on her skin, the dangerous hunger in his voice as he’d whispered.
She needed space to think, to rebuild the defenses he’d so effortlessly dismantled with nothing more than proximity and that devastating smile.
The small, sun-drenched room would provide the solitude she craved before facing her day at the Review’s offices. Mrs. Hudson, the Hereford housekeeper, had informed her that his lordship invariably took his morning meal in the main breakfast room.
But as she stepped through the doorway precisely at seven o’clock, she found her careful planning thwarted.
Her new husband sat lounging in a comfortable chair by the window, his long legs stretched before him, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, and the top buttons of his fine linen shirt casually undone.
His dark hair was appealingly tousled from sleep, the pillow’s impression still visible on his temple.
Seeing the marquess in this state was surprising enough, but most shocking of all was the fact that a pair of spectacles perched on his aristocratic nose as he read what appeared to be—
“Is that my newspaper?” she asked, losing her train of thought.
Hereford glanced up, removing his spectacles languidly. “Good morning, wife. And yes, it is.” His lips quirked into a half-smile, blue eyes dancing with amusement. “I find your editorial on educational reform quite stimulating, though your conjugation of ‘amo’ is erroneous.”
Amelia moved to the table, determined not to show how his unexpected presence had disconcerted her. “I hadn’t expected you to be an early riser.”
“Disappointed to have your solitude disrupted? I’d already wagered with Cooper that you’d arrive at seven. Though he insisted you’d choose six-thirty to avoid me entirely.”
“How unfortunate for Cooper,” she replied dryly, settling into her chair with as much dignity as she could muster. She winced slightly as her leg felt especially stiff in the morning—a discomfort she’d never admit to anyone.
A servant appeared with a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of toast already prepared with orange marmalade, precisely how she preferred it. The attention to such a small detail caught her off guard.
“You requested information about my preferences?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Or was this arrangement merely coincidental?”
“From your brother,” Hereford confirmed, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “Entirely intentional, I assure you. I find that attending to small comforts makes difficult situations more bearable.” He gestured to the silver pot. “The marmalade is imported from Seville. Apparently the best.”
Something warm and unfamiliar flickered in Amelia’s chest. She tamped it down immediately. “That was… thoughtful,” she managed, busying herself with her toast to avoid meeting his eyes.
“I’m occasionally capable of consideration,” he replied, his tone light but with an undercurrent she couldn’t quite identify. “Shocking, I know.”
Amelia smoothed her napkin across her lap, buying time to clear her head. “I appreciate the gesture, Lord Hereford. Though it does make me wonder what other aspects of my life you’ve investigated.”
“Lord Hereford?” he asked with a cocking of his brow but said nothing further.
“How terribly formal of you, wife. I hope to progress beyond such frigid civilities soon.” Despite his pleasant expression, there was something heavy in his tone.
“As for your investigation, only the most critical matters of state. Your preference in literary journals, your opinion on Wagner’s operas, and your inexplicable attachment to those hideously uncomfortable wooden chairs at the Review. ”
Despite herself, Amelia felt her lips twitch. “They’re not uncomfortable. They promote proper posture.”
“They promote spinal torture,” he corrected, buttering a piece of toast. “Even the medieval rack offered more comfort.”
She would not laugh. She absolutely would not laugh at his ridiculous exaggeration.
His tone was gentle when he continued, “Would you permit me to commission a more comfortable chair for your office at the Review? Those wooden monstrosities you insist on using must be terribly hard on your back.”
“I manage quite well, thank you,” she said, even as her spine was stiffening. The wooden leg suddenly felt heavier, more conspicuous, though she knew it was hidden beneath her skirts. “I don’t need special accommodations.”
Hereford studied her for a long moment, his expression softening. “Not special, Amelia. Simply comfortable. There’s no weakness in that.”
The use of her given name, coupled with the gentle understanding in his tone, disarmed her more effectively than any argument could have. Amelia swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat.
“I’ll consider it,” she said, her voice soft. Giving herself a mental shake, she stood taller, determined not to be affected by this surprising man. “Perhaps we should discuss our arrangement. I’ve prepared some notes regarding household affairs.”
“As have I,” he replied, producing a folded document from underneath the breakfast tray with a flourish. “Though I suspect our approaches may differ somewhat.”
Amelia extracted her own list from her reticule—three pages of neatly written points covering everything from meal schedules to staff management to the use of common areas. She placed it on the table between them like a declaration of war.
Hereford glanced at her pages, then at his single sheet, and a slow smile spread across his face. “I see you’ve been thorough.”
“I believe in clarity,” she replied primly.
“Evidently,” he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement, then cleared his throat dramatically. “May I begin?”
“Please,” she replied, steeling herself not to laugh.
“‘Item the first,’” he read with mock gravity. “I would appreciate being informed of your general whereabouts when you venture out. Not as your keeper,” he added as she opened her mouth to protest, “but as someone concerned for your safety.”
“My schedule at the Review makes that impractical,” she explained. “Sometimes investigations require discretion and flexibility.”
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Though perhaps you might consider using the Hereford carriage when venturing into less savory areas? London can be dangerous after dark.”
Amelia’s fingers unconsciously gripped her napkin tighter.
The thought of being helped in and out of his ostentatious carriage, the Hereford crest announcing her presence to all of London, made her stomach twist. How many curious eyes would watch, wondering about the crippled woman who had somehow snared the notorious marquess?
How many would whisper about her ungainly movements as she struggled with the carriage steps?
“Your carriage is rather… conspicuous. It would draw attention that might compromise my work.”
Hereford stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Then allow me to provide an unmarked carriage. Something discreet but safer than hackney cabs.”
The consideration in his offer made it difficult to refuse. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
“Excellent.” He made a small notation on his paper. “Now, regarding the library—”
“I require full access,” she interrupted, then winced at her own defensiveness.
To her relief, he simply nodded. “I was going to suggest you take the east and north walls, which receive the best light for reading. I’ll use the south and west, which are primarily filled with my grandfather’s tedious treatises on crop rotation.”
“Oh,” she said, finding herself wrong-footed again. “That’s sensible.”
“I’m occasionally that as well,” he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Continuing on, I’d like to request that we share at least three dinners weekly. I promise to be only moderately insufferable.”
Despite herself, Amelia felt her lips curve into a smile. “Only moderately?”
“I contain multitudes, my lady,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “Some more bearable than others. Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays perhaps? Cook’s beefsteak pudding on Fridays is particularly fortifying.”
“I will try, but if I have investigative work, I will join you another evening.”
His eyes lit with unexpected triumph, as if he’d won a significant concession. “Splendid. Now, one more matter—the pianoforte.”
“The pianoforte?”
“Yes. I should warn you that I play it rather abominably after midnight.” His expression turned sheepish. “It’s a habit I’ve never managed to break. I find it soothing when sleep eludes me.”
The image of the notorious Marquess of Hereford playing piano in the darkened hours was yet another fact incongruous with his reputation. “I assume you’re not requesting permission?”
“Merely providing fair warning,” he clarified.
Amelia nodded. “I appreciate that.”
Something passed between them then—a moment of connection that neither had anticipated. It shimmered in the morning light, fragile and unexpected.
The spell was broken by Cooper’s discreet entrance, announcing the arrival of Amelia’s hackney carriage. She rose, gathering her notes with a newfound awareness of her husband—still insufferable in many ways, but perhaps not entirely as she’d expected.
“We’ll continue our negotiations this evening?” she asked, suddenly uncertain.
“I look forward to it,” he replied, rising as well. His eyes dropped to her hands, where she clutched her lists. “Though perhaps we might set aside the formal documentation and simply… converse?”
Amelia hesitated, then gave him a small nod. “Perhaps.”