Different Strokes
“Remind me againwhy we’re attending your cousin’s wedding anniversary?” Amelia asked as their carriage rolled toward the Hollingshead estate. She smoothed her emerald silk gown, a creation far more elaborate than her usual practical attire. “Surely our own recent nuptials excuse us from social obligations for at least a month.”
Hereford, resplendent in black evening wear that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, looked up from adjusting his cufflinks. “Because Cousin Sophia is the dowager marchioness’ favorite niece, and defying both of them would be tantamount to declaring war on the entire eastern branch of the family.” His lips quirked upward. “Besides, I thought you might enjoy the spectacle of aristocrats engaging in their natural habitat—excessive consumption paired with vicious gossip.”
Amelia hid a smile. “You make your own class sound like exotic wildlife.”
“More dangerous, I assure you. Tigers are predictable by comparison.” He studied her for a moment, his expression softening. “You look lovely. The color suits you.”
The unexpected compliment caught her off guard. “Thank you,” she managed, fighting the heat rising in her cheeks. “Though I still think we should have prepared more thoroughly for the evening.”
“It’s a dinner, not a diplomatic mission.”
“It might as well be. Your mother has no doubt informed everyoneabout the penniless bluestocking who dared to set her cap at a marquess.”
Hereford’s expression turned wry. “Perhaps. Which is why we should convince them of our affection for each other.”
“Affection?”
Hereford gazed into her eyes with a soulful entreaty that had her almost believe in his sincerity. “The guests shall see the depth of my feelings for you by the way I regard you. They’ll be convinced that the notorious Marquess of Hereford was smitten by the brilliant Miss Thornton and simply couldn’t wait another moment to make her his marchioness,” he said with exaggerated flourish. “Society abhors a marriage of convenience almost as much as it loves a love match.”
Amelia raised an eyebrow. “And you think they’ll believe the infamous rake reformed overnight? Your mother certainly doesn’t.”
“People believe what they wish to believe.” He leaned forward, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I suggest we tell them I was captivated by your scathing editorial comparing aristocratic men’s moral fortitude to weathervanes.”
“You read that?” she asked, surprised.
“I read all your work,” he replied with unexpected seriousness before his customary smirk returned. “Your metaphors about the House of Lords were particularly creative.”
Before Amelia could respond, the carriage slowed as they approached Hollingshead House, a grand Georgian mansion blazing with lights. Footmen in elaborate livery stood ready to assist arriving guests, and strains of chamber music drifted through the open windows.
Hereford’s hand covered hers briefly. “Ready, Wife?”
The casual endearment sent an unexpected warmth through her. “As I’ll ever be.”
As they entered the grand ballroom, Amelia was acutely aware of the attention they attracted. Conversations paused, fans fluttered morerapidly, and heads bent together in whispered observations. Hereford, perfectly at ease in this environment, placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her forward with a protective assurance that she found both irritating and oddly comforting.
“Charles, darling!” The dowager marchioness materialized before them, resplendent in purple silk and ancestral diamonds. “And Amelia,” she added, as if the name tasted peculiar. “How… well you look.”
“Mother,” Hereford bent to kiss her cheek. “You’ve outdone yourself with the diamonds tonight. Planning to blind the competition?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, though she preened visibly under her son’s attention. “Lady Rutherford’s new necklace is positively vulgar. One must maintain standards.” Her gaze swept over Amelia with clinical assessment. “That shade of green is surprisingly flattering with your coloring, my dear. Though perhaps a higher neckline would be more appropriate for a woman of your… figure.”
“Thank you for your concern, my lady,” Amelia replied smoothly. “But Charles seems to appreciate the current design.”
Hereford’s arm slipped around her waist, drawing her closer against his side. “Immensely,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a register that made Amelia’s skin tingle.
The dowager’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “Yes, well. Everyone is most eager to meet the woman who captured my son’s heart so… precipitously. Lady Bancroft was particularly devastated by the news, you know. She had such hopes for her daughter this Season.”
“How fortunate I didn’t keep her waiting,” Hereford replied blandly. “Shall we pay our respects to Cousin Sophia?”
As they moved away, Amelia felt tension coiling between her shoulder blades. “This will be a very long evening,” she muttered.
“Indeed. Though you handled my mother admirably.”
“Years of dealing with hostile interview subjects,” she replied with forced lightness. “Though none quite so formidable.”
Hereford chuckled. “Wait until you meet Aunt Gertrude. Mother is the beacon of diplomacy by comparison.”
