As far as Amelia was concerned, the firm was running with authoritarian precision—the kind usually achieved only by His Majesty’s army, navy, and any household she ran. Benedict had given her free rein to contribute to his business however she saw fit, and in the space of two weeks, she’d used a lifetime’s experience managing a large household to increase efficiencies in the firm’s operations—from adjusting the workers’ timetables, to overhauling their inventory processes, to implementing a filing system so he could actually find his test results.
Now she leaned against the mezzanine railing and watched the workers do their jobs.
“You haven’t moved for an hour,” Benedict said, coming up behind her. He encircled her within his arms, nuzzling into her neck.
“I’m learning,” she said. “And you’re distracting.” The scent of him played with her focus, interrupting the mental paths of workers’ movements she’d been drawing in her mind, smudging the lines and rerouting the grooves.
“Maybe you need a break. Fiona and John aren’t here. We have the office to ourselves.” He pulled a lock of hair out of her chignon, sending a shiver right through her and causing her knees to go weak. His arms tightened around her in response, keeping her upright.
“We are supposed to be working,” she hissed, but she couldn’t keep her eyes on the factory floor beneath her. Instead she closed them, focusing her senses on the hot press of his chest against her back.
“Since when are you so dedicated to work?” he asked, leaving a trail of kisses from her nape to the collar of her dress. “It’s such a common endeavor.”
“Since I discovered that I’m rather good at it.”
And she was.
And it meant something.
Her entire life she’d been told that her only worth was the title she would marry, so she’d become excellent at everything a duchess should excel in—embroidery, watercolor, piano, polite conversation. All pointless activities which she didn’t particularly enjoy that served no purpose other than to generate praise and prestige.
But this past fortnight, she had made a real, useful difference.
According to Oliver, productivity was up by half a percent—not much in the grand scheme of things but a solid indicator of what was possible if she really applied herself. And while some of the workers were less than impressed at her “interfering” with their schedules, John and Fiona had been very clear. Her skills were wanted and appreciated.
And Benedict? He treated her like a partner rather than an accessory. After dinner they’d retire to his library, pour two glasses of brandy, and discuss the day.
A discussion usually followed by passionate lovemaking.
Benedict traced patterns across her ribs with his fingers. Each touch left traces of pure joy. She was happy. Against all expectations, she was happy.
“For an aristocrat, you have a good head for business,” Benedict said. “The place has never run more smoothly.”
His wife gave a satisfied little hmph—a sound he doubted she even noticed making. The same smug hmph that had infuriated him so many times. Her I’m-right-and-I-know-it hmph that had made his teeth grind only weeks earlier now ignited a little ball of pride inside him. That small sound felt like a whole different thing when they were working on the same team.
“Who needs society when you fit in here so perfectly?” he said as he pulled her closer. He rested his chin on the top of her head, fingers brushing against her hips, and looked out at the bustle of activity beneath him. This was his life’s work, and he’d never enjoyed it as much as he did now, with her beside him.
“He-hem.” Oliver cleared his throat. Somehow neither Benedict nor Amelia had heard him come up the stairs.
Amelia sidestepped out of Benedict’s arms. As much as the ice princess had warmed up in private, she was a stickler for propriety when others were around.
“I’m going to inspect the builders at the house,” she said. “They’re clearing out the old orangery, and I want to see the progress.” She gave an embarrassed little nod to Oliver and left.
“She runs a tight ship, that one. Wouldn’t have thought her so at home in a place like this.”
Neither had Benedict. That Amelia had not only accepted his line of business but worked to be part of it had shocked him. Where his mother would have been horrified, Amelia was determined. Where his mother would have cried and then pretended it didn’t exist, Amelia had balked, considered, embraced.
Everything his mother had taught him to be ashamed of felt normal—desirable even—around his wife.
She’d never shied away from his bulk or turned her face away in disgust when he’d lifted something heavy. She didn’t want him to be delicate or dainty. She would run her fingers through the hair on his chest like she was reveling in his size.
He wasn’t the fine and graceful gentleman his mother had wanted, or that Amelia was used to, but that was fine. She liked him just the way he was.
And that unexpected acceptance had begun to heal wounds he hadn’t cared to admit he had.
The fact that she was happy, here, with him and without the trappings of London society was more than he could ever have asked for.
And once the contract was signed, the firm in full production, life would be complete.