Steady On, Old Boy
Hereford was reviewinghis 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—hiswife—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 theTimes.
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 athimwith 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 athimlike that? He couldn’t recall.
The meeting proceeded, but Hereford found his attention divided between the railway proposals and the press section. He noticed howAmelia 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.
