FriendFoe?
The Dowager Marchioness of Hereford swept into the dining room at precisely eight o’clock, her silver-streaked dark hair arranged in an elegant coiffure that made Amelia conscious of her own simpler style.
“Charles, darling,” she said, kissing the air near her son’s cheek before taking her seat. Her eyes swept over Amelia with the kind of practiced dismissal that only decades in Society could perfect.
“Mother.” Hereford signaled for the first course. “I trust you had a pleasant journey from Hampshire?”
“As pleasant as one can expect when traveling alone.” The dowager’s smile turned pointed. “Usually, a son would escort his mother, but I understand you had more pressing matters to attend to.”
“My heartfelt apologies. I was utterly captivated by my wife’s intellect and beauty,” Hereford replied with a warmth that seemed to surprise even his mother. “My heart could not wait for your return. I feared if I escorted you to Hampshire, another suitor might steal her affections in my absence.”
“Ah yes, love’s urgent demands.” The dowager turned her attention to Amelia, skepticism evident in her arched brow.
“I understand that’s what precipitated this…
extraordinarily hasty arrangement. Though I must say, my dear, you’ve caused quite a stir with your latest publication and now this whirlwind marriage to my son.
Your views on women’s property rights were particularly revolutionary. ”
Amelia felt heat rise in her cheeks. Of course, the dowager had read her editorial arguing that married women should maintain control of their own assets. “I merely suggested that economic independence needn’t threaten the sanctity of marriage.”
“Indeed?” The dowager’s smile didn’t waver as her eyes flickered briefly to Amelia’s waistline.
“And how fortunate that you’re now in a position to observe such matters firsthand.
Though I wonder, does your newspaper intend to continue operating now that you have more appropriate duties to attend to?
I imagine you’ll soon have other pressing concerns that require your attention. ”
Before Amelia could respond, Hereford spoke. “The Review’s circulation has doubled this quarter. It would be poor business sense to interrupt such success.”
Amelia nearly dropped her spoon. How did he know the Review’s circulation numbers?
“Business sense?” The dowager’s laugh tinkled like breaking glass. “My dear boy, a marchioness has no need for business sense. She needs to focus on more important matters. The Hampshire estate requires significant attention, and of course, there’s the matter of securing the succession…”
“The soup is particularly good tonight,” Hereford interrupted, his voice pleasant. “Cooper, please ensure Mother has a fresh glass of wine.”
Amelia noticed how he’d smoothly redirected the conversation before it could venture into more dangerous waters. She’d seen him deploy similar tactics at social gatherings but never realized how skillfully he wielded such small deflections.
“I was thinking,” the dowager continued undeterred, “of hosting a small gathering next month. Just family, of course. It would give dear Amelia a chance to learn our traditions before the Season begins.”
“Unfortunately,” Hereford said, “we’ll be quite occupied with the railway expansion. The investors’ meeting alone will require significant preparation.”
“The investors’ meeting?” The dowager’s eyebrows rose. “Surely you don’t intend to involve your wife in business matters?”
“Why not? Her networking prowess is precisely what the venture needs.” He gave his mother a lazy smile. “Besides, isn’t that what you always taught me? To recognize valuable assets?”
Amelia nearly choked on her soup. Had Hereford just defended her capabilities? He had certainly saved her from tiresome lectures from the dowager.
“Charles.” The dowager’s voice held a warning. “You know how I feel about women involving themselves in men’s affairs. It’s not natural. And with her condition—”
“I find nothing unnatural about intelligence,” Hereford said mildly, though Amelia saw him signal for the next course, cutting his mother’s comment short.
“Though speaking of natural talents, I hear cousin Beatrice’s daughter is making her debut this Season.
Perhaps we should discuss her prospects? ”
The dowager brightened at this more appropriate topic, launching into a detailed analysis of eligible bachelors.
Amelia realized with reluctant gratitude and admiration what Hereford had done—redirected his mother’s attention to safer waters while simultaneously preventing any further discussion of Amelia’s “condition.”
The rest of dinner proceeded in similar fashion.
Whenever the dowager approached a potentially cutting remark about Amelia’s background or capabilities, Hereford would smoothly interject with a new topic or casual observation.
He did it so naturally that Amelia might not have noticed if she hadn’t been watching for it.
It wasn’t until the final course that the dowager managed to land a direct hit.
“I do hope, my dear,” she said to Amelia, “that you’ll consider redecorating the family drawing room.
It’s been quite some time since a woman’s touch graced these halls.
Though perhaps something subtle would be best. Given your background. ”
“Actually,” Hereford drawled before Amelia could respond, “I’ve given the drawing room considerable thought. It needs a complete overhaul—something bold and modern. The Review’s offices are particularly well designed. Perhaps you could offer some suggestions, my darling wife?”
Amelia looked at him sharply, but his expression revealed nothing beyond mild interest. The dowager, however, looked as though she’d swallowed something sour.
“Bold?” she repeated faintly. “But the drawing room has been the same since your grandmother’s time…”
“Exactly.” Hereford smiled. “Time for a change, wouldn’t you say? Though we can discuss the details another evening. You must be tired from your journey, Mother.”
The dismissal was gentle but clear. As servants appeared to escort the dowager to her carriage, Amelia found herself studying her husband with new eyes and reluctant appreciation.
Every barb had been deflected, every potential insult redirected, yet he’d done it so skillfully that his mother likely hadn’t even realized she’d been managed.
“Something on your mind, my lady?” he asked, catching her scrutiny.
“No,” she said slowly. “Though I do wonder—was there some reason you felt compelled to mention the Review’s circulation numbers?”
His lips curved slightly. “Merely establishing your credentials. Mother respects success, even if she disapproves of how it’s achieved.” He stood, adjusting his cuffs. “Though I should mention, your Latin may have been incorrect, but your point about classical education was rather well-argued.”
He left her there, staring after him in confusion. Had that been a compliment buried beneath the criticism? And why did she suddenly feel as though she’d underestimated him rather severely?
*
Amelia stood in her night rail before the connecting door between their chambers, her fingers hovering over the smooth wood.
From the other side came the muffled sounds of movement—the soft thud of boots being removed, the rustle of fabric, the quiet splash of water in a basin.
Such ordinary sounds, yet they painted vivid pictures in her mind: Hereford loosening his cravat, those elegant fingers unbuttoning his shirt, water trailing down his throat…
“This is madness,” she whispered to herself, drawing back. And yet she remained, caught between proper behavior and improper curiosity.
As she leaned closer, she recalled that the door didn’t properly close, leaving a sliver of space through which candlelight from his chamber spilled into her darkened room.
Through this narrow gap, she caught glimpses of him and his valet moving about: the broad expanse of his back as he removed his coat, the flex of muscle as he stretched his arms above his head.
He’d surprised her at dinner. The way he’d handled his mother, all subtle maneuvering beneath that indolent facade.
She’d glimpsed something of the real man tonight—clever, strategic, unexpectedly…
capable. It made her remember other glimpses she’d caught: the flex of muscle beneath his coat when he’d vaulted over her printing press, the grace of his movements during fencing practice, the intensity in his eyes even as he teased her.
A quiet curse from his chamber drew her attention back to the door.
She saw him now, struggling with his cufflinks, the gold buttons of his waistcoat partially undone.
A pair of hands appeared to lend assistance followed by Hereford’s low baritone murmuring something she couldn’t hear. Another male voice chuckled faintly.
The memory of his morning disarray rose unbidden: dark hair tousled from sleep, shirt wrinkled, that single undone button at his throat.
She’d noticed, God help her. Just as she’d noticed the breadth of his shoulders beneath his evening coat tonight, the strength in his hands as he’d gripped his wine glass, the way candlelight caught the angular planes of his face.
“Stop this,” she commanded herself. But her mind wandered treacherously to that day at Brooks, when the Duchess of Rutland’s foil had torn his trousers. She’d seen more than was proper then. The powerful muscles of his thigh, the tanned skin conjuring up images of him riding without…
Something crashed in his chamber, followed by more cursing. Amelia jumped back from the door, heart racing. What was she doing, standing here like some lovesick girl, pining after her fake… no, pretend? No, temporary husband.
And yet the way he’d defended her tonight… The way he’d known her breakfast preferences, remembered her editorials. The contradictions of him were maddening.