A Surprising Husband
Amelia had specificallyrequested 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 theReview’soffices. 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. “Goodmorning, 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 clearher 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 theReview.”
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 theReview? 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 surprisingman. “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.
