“Yes,” she said softly. “Though perhaps with an extra strap this time?”
His answering smile was warm enough to make her forget, just for a moment, that she was supposed to dislike him.
She was beginning to suspect that nothing about Charles Bartholomew Hereford was quite what it seemed.
*
Hereford sat inhis study, a glass of brandy untouched before him, turning Amelia’s wooden prosthetic over and over in his mind. The moment of its discovery kept replaying. The hollow sound it made hitting the floor, the look of mortification on her face, the way she’d waited for him to recoil in horror.
What kind of life had she led to expect such a reaction? How many times had she seen disgust or pity in others’ eyes?
He picked up the brandy, then set it down again without drinking. His initial frustration with her seeming reluctance now filled him with shame. She’d been pushing herself far harder than he’d realized, working against limitations he hadn’t even understood.
And yet she’d never complained. Never made excuses. Never asked for special treatment.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing fatigue from his face. All those Society events where she’d stood for hours. All those times he’d watched her navigate crowded ballrooms and uneven garden paths. He’d known she had some sort of injury, yes, but this…
The memory of her demonstration rose unbidden. Her matter-of-fact explanation of straps and joints, her clever modifications to compensate for the prosthetic’s limitations. She’d turned catastrophic injury into an engineering problem to be solved.
He found himself desperately curious about the accident itself. A factory injury, he knew that much. But the details? She guarded them as carefully as she’d guarded the extent of her disability.
His eyes drifted to his desk where several sketches lay half-finished—ideas for improving the straps, for adding stability without sacrificing what little flexibility she had. He’d started envisioning them while she explained the prosthetic’s mechanics, his mind already racing ahead to solutions.
“Focus on the practical,” he told himself firmly. This wasn’t about his growing admiration for her determination, or the strange ache he’d felt watching her brace for his rejection. This was about ensuring his student had proper equipment.
But he couldn’t quite forget how her face had transformed when he’d treated her prosthetic as a technical challenge rather than a source of shame. For just a moment, her guard had dropped, revealing something vulnerable and wondering in her expression.
He’d seen Amelia angry, disdainful, coldly professional. He’d seen her match wits with journalists and trade barbs with Society’s elite. But he’d never seen her look quite so vulnerable. As if no one had ever simply accepted her exactly as she was.
The thought made something protective stir in his chest. Which was ridiculous, of course. She’d made it abundantly clear she neither wanted nor needed his protection. And this was still just a marriage of convenience with an expiration date.
Even if he was beginning to wonder what else he might have misunderstood about his wife.
“Right,” he said aloud, standing abruptly. “Seven tomorrow.” He had modifications to design, equipment to procure. He needed to focus on the practical aspects of teaching her to fence, not on the way her rare, genuine smile had made his chest tighten.
But as he moved to his desk to refine his sketches for improved straps, he couldn’t quite suppress a different kind of wondering. Whatelse was Amelia hiding beneath that carefully maintained facade of independence? What other surprises lay behind those walls she’d built so high?
For the first time since their marriage, he found himself genuinely looking forward to finding out.
