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, Iassume? 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 practiceroom 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 herprosthetic 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. Theen gardeposition 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.
