Chapter 16 Steady On, Old Boy
Steady On, Old Boy
Hereford was reviewing his notes before the railway investors’ meeting when a burst of masculine laughter drew his attention to the entrance. He looked up to find his wife—his wife—surrounded by a cluster of journalists, all hanging on her every word as if she were delivering the gospel itself.
He hadn’t expected her here. She’d made it abundantly clear their professional lives were to remain separate, yet there she stood, perfectly at ease among London’s leading newspapermen.
Her hair was coming loose from its pins—she must have walked rather than taken the carriage—and her cheeks were flushed with animation as she debated something with James Mitchell from the Times.
Mitchell was standing entirely too close.
“The railway commission’s report clearly indicates—” Amelia was saying, gesturing with her notebook in a way that made Mitchell lean in unnecessarily.
“Brilliant analysis as always, Miss Th—” Mitchell caught himself. “Lady Hereford.”
The correction drew Hereford’s attention to how the other men had adjusted to her new status.
Some seemed unsure whether to treat her as a peer or a marchioness.
Others—like Mitchell—appeared determined to maintain their previous familiarity.
One fellow had actually placed his hand on her elbow to draw her attention to something in his notes.
The crystal goblet in Hereford’s hand creaked ominously.
“Steady on, old boy,” Lancaster murmured beside him. “Your wife’s reputation among the press is beyond reproach.”
“I’m not concerned about her reputation,” Hereford said coolly, though he couldn’t quite drag his gaze away from where Dowson—wasn’t the man married?—was now showing Amelia something in his portfolio, standing close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
She’d never looked at him with such open interest.
“The factory safety regulations—” Blake was saying, and Hereford felt his stomach tighten. But Amelia was already turning away, her attention caught by another colleague.
She moved through the crowd of men with surprising grace despite the limp, her natural authority evident in how they deferred to her opinions, included her in their professional discourse. This was a side of his wife he’d never seen—confident, respected, completely in her element.
It was damnably attractive.
“Lady Hereford seems to have quite the following,” observed Carlisle, materializing at Hereford’s elbow. “One might almost forget she’s a woman at all.”
Hereford’s fingers tightened on his glass. “I assure you, Carlisle, no one who looks at my wife could forget she’s a woman.”
Carlisle’s eyebrows rose at his tone, shifting his attention when the meeting was called to order.
Hereford watched as the journalists settled into their designated area, noting how Mitchell and Blake both maneuvered to sit near Amelia.
She pulled out her notebook, all business now, but he caught the small smile she gave Mitchell when he passed her a spare pencil.
Had she smiled at him like that? He couldn’t recall.
The meeting proceeded, but Hereford found his attention divided between the railway proposals and the press section.
He noticed how Amelia paused writing to massage her fingers—something he’d observed during their marriage negotiations but hadn’t thought significant at the time.
Without seeming to think about it, Mitchell steadied her inkwell before it could spill.
The casual intimacy of the gesture made something hot and unfamiliar curl in Hereford’s chest.
These men knew his wife’s habits, her methods, her small struggles. They anticipated her needs with the ease of long familiarity while he, her own husband, was still learning how she took her tea.
When Blake leaned over to whisper something that made Amelia press her lips together to suppress a smile, Hereford nearly stood up.
Only years of social training kept him in his seat, maintained his expression of aristocratic boredom.
But beneath that careful facade, something primitive growled at the sight of another man making his wife smile.
Not your wife, he reminded himself harshly. Not really.
Yet as the meeting drew to a close, he found himself moving toward her before he could stop himself. She was gathering her things, still deep in discussion with Mitchell about some point of railway policy.
“My lady,” he said smoothly, noting how the other journalists straightened at his approach. “I trust you found the proceedings illuminating?”
She looked up, surprise flickering across her features before her professional mask slipped into place. “Quite, my lord. Though I have some questions about the proposed safety measures—”
“Perhaps we could discuss them over dinner tonight?” The invitation escaped before he could consider their prearranged schedule.
Now she was definitely staring at him. “I… have a deadline to meet.”
“Of course.” He kept his tone casual, though something in him bristled at her refusal. “Another time, perhaps.”
Mitchell was watching this exchange with entirely too much interest. Hereford felt a perverse need to demonstrate… something. Without allowing himself to examine his motives too closely, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
The gesture was proprietary, intimate, completely unlike their careful interactions thus far. He felt her sharp intake of breath, saw the color rise in her cheeks. Around them, the journalists suddenly found other places to be.
“Your hair was coming loose,” he said softly, letting his fingers brush her cheek as he withdrew his hand.
For a moment, they stared at each other. Something sparked in the air between them—awareness, possibility, danger.
Then she stepped back, clutching her notebook like a shield. “Good day, my lord.”
He watched her leave with her colleagues, noting how they maintained a more respectful distance now. The satisfaction he felt at this was ludicrous.
“Merely a business arrangement, eh?” Lancaster’s amused voice broke into his thoughts.
Hereford didn’t bother responding. He was too busy watching his wife disappear into a hackney with James Mitchell, discussing God knows what about railway safety regulations.
He was going to need a large brandy.
*
In the hackney, Amelia’s hands trembled slightly as she folded them on her lap, though whether from anger or something else entirely, she couldn’t quite say.
The memory of Hereford’s fingers brushing her cheek lingered like a brand, his touch far more intimate than their careful arrangement warranted.
She could still feel the weight of every journalist’s stare, the sudden shift in their demeanor after that calculated display of possession.
“Insufferable man,” she muttered, nearly dropping her inkwell. James Mitchell caught it before it could spill, his familiar efficiency now tinged with an awkwardness that hadn’t existed before Hereford’s intervention.
Mitchell attempted to resume their discussion about the railway safety regulations, but the easy flow of their usual debates was gone.
Every time she leaned forward to make a point, she caught him glancing at where Hereford had touched her hair, as if expecting her husband to materialize and stake his claim again.
“James.” She sighed, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I’m still the same person who argued with you about printer’s ink last week. The title doesn’t change that.”
But it had changed something. She could see it in how her colleague carefully maintained his distance now, how their easy camaraderie had been replaced by careful deference.
One touch, one possessive gesture from her husband, and years of professional respect had been overshadowed by her new social position.
“This is precisely why I wanted to keep our lives separate,” she said suddenly, cutting through Mitchell’s careful analysis of the proposed safety measures.
“My lady?”
“Nothing.” She turned to stare out the window, her reflection wavering in the glass. The loose strand of hair that had prompted Hereford’s display still refused to stay in place. She resisted the urge to touch it, to trace the path his fingers had taken.
What game was he playing? She was a means to an end. Yet the way he’d touched her, the casual intimacy of the gesture… it had felt like a display of possession. For a moment, she’d caught something in his eyes that looked almost like—
“No,” she whispered to herself. She would not read meaning into simple actions. Hereford was protecting his investment. Making it clear to Society that despite their unusual arrangement, she was still his wife. Still his property.
The thought should have angered her. Instead, she found herself remembering the warmth of his fingers against her skin, the subtle spice of his cologne as he’d leaned close. How his eyes looked almost molten as he’d staked his claim before all of London’s press.
“The Review offices, my lady?” Mitchell’s question startled her from her thoughts.
“Yes, of course.” She straightened her spine, forcing her mind back to work. She had an article to write, deadlines to meet. She would not waste time analyzing her husband’s contradictions.
Even if he was apparently reading her editorials “religiously.” Even if he’d defended her work while simultaneously mocking it. Even if the memory of his touch made her skin prickle with awareness hours later.