“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 She could see it in how her colleague carefully maintained his distance now, how their easy camaraderie had been replaced by careful deference.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 stillhis 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.
“TheReviewoffices, 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.
