Chapter 18 No One Needs to Know
No One Needs to Know
“Good morning,” Hereford said over his coffee the next morning when Amelia joined him, not quite meeting his gaze. “I trust you slept well?”
Amelia sat across from him and immediately picked up a toast. “Yes, thank you. And you?”
He carefully buttered his own toast. “I did not, thanks to your late-night activities. London can be dangerous after dark. I was busy pondering providing you with a protection officer. Someone discreet.”
“No thank you to the protection officer. I spent enough time being afraid after my accident. Jumping at shadows, flinching at every loud noise. I refuse to live that way again.”
“This isn’t about fear,” he said, leaning back. “You’re a wealthy woman now. There are practical considerations.”
“Teach me to fence.”
The words hung between them. Hereford slowed his chewing. “We’ve already discussed this.”
Amelia studied his face as he tried to tamp his frustration. “I’m asking you again. You’re supposedly one of the finest swordsmen in London. Why won’t you even try to teach me?”
“I’ve told you before. No.” He picked up his coffee cup. “I can provide you with any protection you require—”
“I don’t want your protection. I want the skills to protect myself.”
He put down his cup with more force than necessary.
“It’s impractical for your injury. Should you be involved in a confrontation, you’ll lose.
Men are stronger, faster, and have likely been wielding the sword since childhood.
Your false confidence after a few lessons will be more dangerous than not knowing anything at all. ”
“You underestimate me as everyone does. Teach me unless you’re too busy with the Duchess of Rutland.”
His jaw tightened as he stood.
“Why do you persist in thinking the worst of me? Have I given you any reason, any at all, to doubt my fidelity since our marriage?”
“Your reputation—”
“Damn my reputation!” His hands flew up as he paced the length of the table. “You know nothing about me beyond Society gossip and your own prejudices. You’ve decided I’m some sort of rakehell who cares nothing for honor or duty, and no evidence to the contrary seems to sway your opinion.”
“My lord—”
“Perhaps I should live up to your expectations,” he cut in, his voice dangerously soft. “Since you’re determined to believe the worst, I might as well enjoy the benefits of such a reputation.”
“That would only prove my point,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Would it?” He whirled to face her. “Or would it simply make it easier for you to run to Norwich? Or one of your fellow journalists.”
For a moment, they stared at each other, the air between them crackling with something that wasn’t quite anger. Then Hereford straightened abruptly.
“Perhaps,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “we should discuss the real issue. Why maintain this pretense of propriety when we could simply consummate our marriage? No one needs to know if you still wish to leave after the year.”
Amelia’s hands trembled slightly as she placed her cup in its saucer. “If I recall correctly, my lord, you were the one who insisted on ending this marriage after a year.”
“That was before I knew you’d think the worst of me. If I’m bedding you, at least you won’t wonder if I’m bedding someone else.”
“And what happens when I’m with child and you’ve found a new widow to warm your sheets?”
“Confound it, Amelia! You’re my wife! I’d take care of you!”
“Beyond the one year?”
His expression hardened. “The one-year stipulation was for both of our sakes as you’ve made your opinion of my character quite clear. I don’t want to watch you suffer unnecessarily. However, it’s not a requirement.”
“All I want from you is fencing lessons.”
Something dangerous lurked in his chest. He bit out, “Seven tonight at Swordsman’s Society. This is for a trial, to determine whether you can learn to fence without jeopardizing your safety. Or mine. Don’t be late.”
He strode from the room without a backward glance, leaving Amelia to stare after him.
Hereford stalked into his bedchamber but almost retreated upon seeing his valet. He didn’t fancy receiving Barker’s tongue lashing in that dry way of his. He stood his ground, however. What kind of master would he be if he feared his servants?
“My lord,” Barker moved with his usual unflappable calm despite the obvious tension radiating from his employer. “You seem rather… animated after your discussion with her ladyship.”
“Animated,” Hereford repeated flatly. “Yes, that’s one word for it.”
“Indeed.” Barker disappeared into the dressing room and emerged with a fresh shirt. “I confess, I was somewhat startled by the volume of your… agreement to her ladyship’s request.”
Hereford shot him a dark look. “I suppose you heard everything.”
“Merely the general theme, my lord. Something about fencing lessons and jeopardized safety.” Barker spread the shirt perfectly on the bed. “I shall have your fencing attire prepared. The white kit, I assume? Or perhaps the black would better suit your current disposition.”
“This is madness, Barker. She could be seriously injured.”
“Quite possibly, my lord.” Barker straightened his back. “Though I suspect the greater danger lies in underestimating her determination. In my experience, such ladies tend to find alternative methods regardless, often more perilous than the original proposal.”
Hereford paused in his pacing. “Meaning?”
“Merely that her ladyship might seek… less qualified instruction elsewhere.” Barker’s tone remained mild. “I believe there are several establishments in Whitechapel that offer such services. Considerably less reputable than the Swordsman’s Society, naturally.”
The thought of Amelia in some back-alley fencing den made Hereford’s blood run cold. “Point taken.”
“I thought you might see the wisdom in it, my lord.” Barker moved toward the dressing room, then paused. “If I may suggest—perhaps approach this as you would training a spirited horse? Firm guidance, patience, and the occasional reward for good behavior.”
“Did you just compare my wife to a horse?”
“A particularly fine one, my lord. Superior intelligence, tenacity, and an unfortunate tendency toward independence.” Barker’s expression remained perfectly serious. “The sort that requires a skilled hand rather than a heavy one.”
*
The small practice room at the Swordsman’s Society felt even more confined as Hereford handed her the practice clothes. “It’s not equipped for female students,” he explained, positioning himself before the door. “You’ll have to change here.”
Amelia stared at the men’s trousers with sudden apprehension. She hadn’t considered this part—the close-fitting garment would make her prosthetic obvious. “Turn around,” she commanded, though anxiety made her voice sharper than intended.
He obeyed, facing the door, and she quickly changed, keeping her thick stockings on beneath the trousers. The fabric pulled oddly around her wooden leg, but perhaps in the dim light…
“The protective gear goes on over your clothes,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Let me know when you’re decent.”
“I’m ready.” She tugged self-consciously at the trousers, trying to arrange them to disguise the unnatural line of her leg.
His eyes flickered briefly to her left leg when he turned, but his expression remained impassive as he helped her into the padded jacket. His fingers were gentle as he adjusted the straps, his proximity making her heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with anxiety.
The real challenge began with the basic stance. The en garde position required both knees to bend slightly, both ankles to flex. Her wooden prosthetic refused to cooperate, remaining rigid and unyielding.
“Like this?” she asked, struggling to maintain her balance as she attempted to mirror his stance.
She saw the moment he truly noticed, saw his eyes narrow as he observed her left leg’s complete inability to bend at the ankle.
“You’re favoring your right side,” he said carefully, moving to support her elbow. “Try to distribute your weight more evenly.”
She gritted her teeth and tried to shift her weight, but the prosthetic fought against every movement. She wobbled, and his hand shot out to steady her waist, the touch far more intimate than she’d anticipated.
“Perhaps we should modify the traditional stance,” he suggested, his voice gentler than she’d ever heard it. “Find what works best for your particular…”
“I can do it,” she interrupted, heat flooding her cheeks. She didn’t want his pity, didn’t want him to treat her as fragile.
“My lady.” His hand remained at her waist, warm and steady. “There’s no shame in adapting technique. Every swordsman must work with their own physical realities.”
She met his eyes, searching for mockery or pity, but found only professional assessment. “You’re not going to ask?”
“About the extent of your injury?” His thumb moved slightly against her waist, an unconscious gesture that sent shivers down her spine. “No. You’ll tell me what I need to know to teach you effectively.”
Relief warred with something else. Something that felt dangerously like attraction. This wasn’t the rakish lord who flirted with duchesses. This was someone else entirely—patient, observant, astonishingly kind.
“The ankle doesn’t bend,” she admitted finally. “It’s… rigid.”
He nodded, processing this information. “Then we adjust. Here…” He shifted his grip to her hands, repositioning her. “Weight more on your right foot, left leg slightly back. Don’t fight against the rigidity—work with it.”
They spent the next hour finding adaptations that worked with her body rather than against it.
Each adjustment required his touch, his proximity.
By the end, Amelia wasn’t sure what made her more breathless—the physical exertion or the gentle authority in his hands as he guided her through modified forms.
“Enough for today,” he said finally, his voice rougher than usual. His hands lingered at her waist as he steadied her one last time. “You’ve done well.”
She looked up at him, suddenly aware of how close they stood, how his eyes had darkened as he watched her move through the sequences he’d created just for her.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked, cursing the breathlessness in her voice.
He hesitated. “Are you sure this is wise?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’m going to continue anyway.”
Something like admiration flickered across his features.
Then his eyes dropped to her left leg, and his expression turned serious.
“We’ll need to make some modifications to your practice clothes.
The current cut of the trousers isn’t…” He cleared his throat.
“I’ll have something more suitable made. ”
She stiffened, pride warring with practicality. “I don’t need—”
“Proper equipment is essential,” he cut in smoothly. “For any student.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, the air between them charged with everything unsaid. Finally, she nodded. “Thank you.”
He stepped back, creating distance between them. “I have a prior engagement this evening. Perhaps I will see you at breakfast. Otherwise, seven tomorrow.” He paused at the door. “And leave your corset at home. You need to be able to breathe and move freely.”
He was gone before she could respond, leaving her to wonder how this man, this startling version of her husband, could unsettle her so thoroughly with just a few kind words and careful touches.
She wasn’t sure which was more dangerous. His previous rakish charm or this new, gentle competence.