“Then I’ve already lost her, haven’t I?”
He strode out before Patrick could respond, the roaring in his ears drowning out everything but the relentless, tormenting vision of Amelia in another man’s arms.
*
Amelia waited forthe footsteps to disappear before slipping through the side door. It was likely a servant doing Hereford’s bidding or thecook completing preparations for the next day. She paused in the entrance hall, removing her worn cloak and plain bonnet, attire chosen specifically to blend into London’s poorer districts. Her shoulders ached from tension, and her wooden leg throbbed after hours of uneven cobblestones.
As she turned toward her quarters, a match flared in the darkness. Hereford sat in a wingback chair in an alcove, his face briefly illuminated as he lit a lamp.
“This is becoming quite the habit,” he said, his voice deceptively calm though his eyes glittered dangerously in the lamplight.
Amelia froze. “I didn’t realize you’d still be awake.”
“Evidently.” He rose, setting the lamp on a side table. Even in his disheveled state—cravat discarded, shirt partially unbuttoned—he maintained that aristocratic grace that both irritated and fascinated her. “Perhaps you expected me to be asleep. Conveniently unaware of my wife’s late-night wanderings.”
“I was working,” she said automatically, the lie falling from her lips.
“Were you? How curious.” He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of brandy on his breath. “Because I’ve been informed that you had left the office late afternoon.”
Her blood ran cold. “You’re still spying on me?”
“Like I said before, protecting,” he said, his voice hardening. “Though it seems what you truly need protection from is your own reckless behavior.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Then enlighten me.” He advanced until she was backed against the wall, his arms braced on either side of her. “Explain why my wife has been sneaking through London after dark.” His fingers traced the low line of her décolletage, her mounds pushed up to reveal her abundance with the fabric stretched taut over her bosom. His lips parted and breathing stilled for a moment. Amelia’s chest heavedunder his intense scrutiny, her pulse racing with anticipation. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Dressed in a manner no respectable woman would appear in public, entering a tavern…” He broke off, lifting his gaze to her face again, jaw clenching.
Humiliation and anger flooded her cheeks with heat. “You think I’m meeting someone? That I would betray our arrangement so blatantly?”
“What am I supposed to think?” His control slipped, revealing raw pain beneath his anger. “You disappear for hours, return in the dead of night, offer vague explanations that don’t align with what my sources tell me—”
“Your sources are wrong!” Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “I wasn’t there to entertain. I was investigating.”
Doubt, or perhaps desperate hope flickered in his eyes. “Investigating what?”
Amelia exhaled, suddenly exhausted beyond words. “Crown Street Textiles. The owners. Their practices.” She met his gaze steadily.
Disbelief warred with confusion on his face. “Why that factory specifically? Why risk your safety, your reputation?”
“Because they took my leg.” The words escaped before she could stop them, hanging in the air between them.
Hereford went very still.
“My accident…” Her voice trembled, the word catching in her throat. “It happened there. The owners decided amputation was…cheaper than proper care.” A bitter taste coated her tongue. “I’ve been tracking the current foreman, David Fardell, to discover who owns the factory.” She forced the words out, each one a shard of glass. “I cultivated friendships with the women of the night there to approach Mr. Fardell… to discover how much he knows.”
A dark line etched itself between his brows, deepening the intensity of his gaze. “And what price did you pay for such… access?”
Her gaze faltered, unable to hold the heat in his eyes. “Not what you’re implying.”
Skepticism clouded his features, hardening his jaw. “Then what, my lady wife? I find it difficult to believe a man would impart with secrets for merely pleasant conversation.”
“He saw me as a harmless diversion,” she retorted, a touch of defiance in her tone. “He wouldn’t suspect a woman, especially one he believes to be a courtesan, of investigating the factory.”
Hereford’s eyes blazed, the air around him crackling with a barely suppressed fury. “He believes you to be a courtesan? And you expect me to accept that your interactions were entirely chaste?” He pushed away from the wall and walked away from her, his back rigid, raking a hand through his dark hair. The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken accusations.
“I manipulated his vanity,” she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. “I played upon his pride.”
He turned toward her, stalking forward until she was pinned between his body and the cool plaster of the wall, his hands bracketing her head. The scent of him, sandalwood and something inherently masculine, filled her senses and stole her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, desperate yearning that coursed through her. She wished he’d step closer, and, paradoxically, yearned for him to retreat.
