Книга - The Husband Campaign

The Husband Campaign
Regina Scott


A Marriage of NecessityThe moment John, Lord Hascot, encounters a young woman sheltering in his abandoned stable, his future is sealed. To prevent scandal–and protect Lady Amelia Jacoby from her parents' ire–he must propose. John's ability to trust vanished when his former love married his twin brother. Yet he offers Amelia everything she could want–except affection.Amelia sees John's true nature shine through when he cares for his horses. But the brooding aristocrat seems determined to keep her at arm's length. Little by little Amelia will turn Hollyoak Farm into a home, but can she turn a marriage of convenience into a joyful union?The Master Matchmakers: Wedding bells will ring when downstairs servants play Cupid for upstairs aristocracy







A Marriage of Necessity

The moment John, Lord Hascot, encounters a young woman sheltering in his abandoned stable, his future is sealed. To prevent scandal—and protect Lady Amelia Jacoby from her parents’ ire—he must propose. John’s ability to trust vanished when his former love married his twin brother. Yet he offers Amelia everything she could want—except affection.

Amelia sees John’s true nature shine through when he cares for his horses. But the brooding aristocrat seems determined to keep her at arm’s length. Little by little Amelia will turn Hollyoak Farm into a home, but can she turn a marriage of convenience into a joyful union?

The Master Matchmakers: Wedding bells will ring when downstairs servants play Cupid for upstairs aristocracy


“I married you, Amelia.

I will honor our vows.”

How could she help him understand? Amelia stood and approached him. “And if you cannot? ‘Forsaking all others,’ the rector said. Your wife is to have all your love and devotion.”

“And a husband should have all his wife’s,” John replied. “Do you tell me you’ve held nothing back?”

She stiffened. “No, nothing! I’ve never loved another.”

“And do you claim to love me?”

Amelia swallowed, her gaze falling to the black-and-green carpet even as she halted a few feet from him. “Perhaps not yet.” Her voice sounded so small. “But I’m trying.”

He moved to close the distance between them and touched her cheek, drawing her attention back to his face. Standing so close, she could see that gold flecks danced in the dark eyes, as if some part of him still clung to light, to hope.

“I know you are trying, Amelia,” he murmured. “You’ve turned this place into a home. You may well have saved Firenza’s life. I admire your efforts.”

A tear slid down her cheek. “Admiration is not love.”


REGINA SCOTT

started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages, including Dutch, German, Italian and Portuguese.

She and her husband of over twenty-five years reside in southeast Washington State with their overactive Irish terrier. Regina Scott is a decent fencer, owns a historical costume collection that takes up over a third of her large closet, and she is an active member of the Church of the Nazarene. You can find her online blogging at www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com (http://www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com). Learn more about her at www.reginascott.com (http://www.reginascott.com), or connect with her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/authorreginascott (http://www.facebook.com/authorreginascott).


The Husband Campaign

Regina Scott






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


A new commandment I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.

—John 13:34


To my dear Kris, who knows what it’s like to rearrange a life for those you love, and to the Lord, who is so much better at arranging things than I’ll ever be.


Contents

Chapter One (#u5e8fd138-6f45-53dd-979f-bc66d393a530)

Chapter Two (#ub519d77c-0f5d-5b00-bfcd-216aa6751f8e)

Chapter Three (#ud4241d62-8db8-50c2-846e-097c1b3ead75)

Chapter Four (#ud8911a0c-42e8-522f-923b-51248d2b64eb)

Chapter Five (#ub7138ab2-c1bb-5793-98a7-211e31d38333)

Chapter Six (#u50a28107-2d8c-555c-88d9-0b05ede10634)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Hollyoak Farm, Peak District, Derbyshire, England

July 1815

Why was the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance sleeping in his stable?

John, Lord Hascot, pushed a lock of rain-slicked dark hair out of his eyes and raised his lantern to peer more closely through the shadows. He hadn’t visited the crumbling, thatched-roof outbuilding near the River Bell since he’d first purchased the Derbyshire property five years ago. He and his horse Magnum wouldn’t be out this direction now if his horse Contessa hadn’t gone missing. Only a chance late-afternoon thunderstorm had driven him to seek shelter.

He hadn’t expected to find the place inhabited, and by Lady Amelia Jacoby, daughter of the Marquess of Wesworth, no less. Even if he hadn’t recognized the plum-colored riding habit of fine wool, he would have known those elegant features, that pale blond hair. In the light from the lantern, he could see golden lashes fanning her pearly cheeks.

He’d never mastered the rules of London Society, but he was fairly certain they didn’t cover how to properly react to a lady found sleeping in the straw. Some might expect him to take Magnum out in the rain from the opposite stall where he’d made his horse comfortable and leave her to her peace. He rejected the idea. For one, he refused to mistreat Magnum. For another, how could he call himself a man and abandon a defenseless woman in a storm?

John snorted. What, was he being chivalrous? He’d thought that habit long broken. He ought to wake her, order her to take her troubles elsewhere. Lady Amelia’s concerns were none of his affair.

The storm made the decision for him. Thunder rolled, shaking the stable. With a squeal of fear, a white-coated mare threw up her head from the next stall. With a cry, Lady Amelia jerked upright. It was either comfort her or her horse.

He had more faith in his ability to comfort the horse.

As she climbed to her feet, he handed her the lantern, then turned to the other stall before she could question him.

“Easy,” he murmured, moving slowly toward the mare. He kept his muscles loose and his face composed.

Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw Lady Amelia staring at him. He didn’t dare take his gaze off the mare. He stroked her withers, murmured assurances in her ears. He could feel the horse relaxing, settling back into the stall.

Turning, he found Lady Amelia’s pretty mouth hanging open. Very likely no one had ever favored her horse over her.

Then her eyes widened in recognition. “Lord Hascot?”

John inclined his head. “Lady Amelia.”

Lightening flashed, and she glanced up with a gasp. John came around the wall before thinking better of it.

“Easy,” he said, putting a hand on her arm and taking the lantern back from her before she dropped it in the dry straw. “It’s just a storm.”

She nodded, drawing in a longer breath this time as if trying to settle herself, as well. Odd. He could feel the dampness in the wool of her habit, yet the mare had been dry, and now he noticed a sidesaddle slung over the low wall separating the stalls. Had she seen to her horse’s comfort before her own?

“Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t be so timid. I simply wasn’t expecting such a storm. Will it pass soon, do you think?”

The quick recitation sounded breathless. He couldn’t blame her if she was nervous. Very likely he wasn’t the most comforting sight to a well-bred young lady. He didn’t bother with navy coats and cream trousers when working. His tan greatcoat covered a rough tweed jacket and chamois breeches that were more practical for a horse farm. And he’d been told more than once that his black hair and angular features could be intimidating. Particularly when he scowled.

He could feel himself scowling.

“Summer rains generally pass quickly in the peaks,” he told her. “Best to wait it out.”

She nodded, then hurried to the other stall. “Did you hear that, Belle?” she murmured, stroking the mare’s mane. “We’ll just wait a moment, and then we’ll be able to go back to Lord Danning’s. There’s my sweet girl.”

She talked to her horse as if the mare was a person. She might be the only one besides him who treated a horse like a friend, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t the typical Society miss, self-absorbed, fixed on marrying the finest. She would have no use for a country baron, which was all for the best.

“Why are you here, Lady Amelia?” he asked, locating a nail in the beam above his head and hanging the lantern from it.

Her hand fell away from Belle, but she didn’t look at him. “I was caught in the rain and sought shelter.”

In an old building that contained only straw left over from the last cutting? And she stated the fact carefully, as if unwilling to offer more information. Yet he wanted more. He wanted to understand her as he understood his horses. “Where is your groom?”

She met his gaze, arching delicate brows more golden than the hair gathered in a bun behind her head. “I haven’t needed a groom when riding since I was five, sir.”

Neither had he. Yet the rules were different for women. That much he knew. “Even so far from Lord Danning’s lodge?” he argued. “He’s still hosting that house party, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” she said, so faintly he had to move closer to be certain. “Yes,” she repeated with more conviction, as if to forestall other questions. “We visited your farm early in the stay, so I expect the party to last another week.”

He could not help remembering that visit. He didn’t care for people who came to visit his farm merely to ogle the horses, with no true concern for the animals’ well-being. That sort of visitor reminded him of the shallow Society he had left behind when he’d exiled himself to Hollyoak Farm two years ago. Then he’d wanted only to escape, away from the woman he’d loved, away from the brother who’d betrayed him. But he’d known Whitfield Calder, Earl of Danning, since they’d been boys together at Eton. Calder understood the value of a good horse, and something about his friend’s note requesting a visit had hinted of despair. John knew something of despair. He could not be the agent to visit it upon another, nor would he walk away without attempting to resolve it. So he’d agreed to the visit, and five women and four men had descended upon him, expecting entertainment.

He was never entertaining.

His guests, to his surprise, had been. Over the years, he’d learned to watch people, to know what he might expect from them, to be prepared to respond. A man who insisted on riding with spurs was often a man who mistreated his horses. There was never enough gold for John to sell to him. And a lady who fluttered her lashes and smiled behind her fan was to be avoided at all costs. She was too much like the woman who’d preferred his brother to him.

Lord Danning’s lady visitors were not like that. Two were older wives, one with a doting husband in tow. The other three were clearly eligible misses, and unless he was off his game, their quarry was the earl himself. Indeed, Danning seemed to have his hands full with an outspoken redhead.

And choosing the redhead, John had thought at the time, was a mistake. He knew bloodlines—strength in the limbs and a loyal heart—would tell in a person’s behavior, and it was clear to him which lady had those traits in abundance.

Lady Amelia Jacoby.

She’d been so far above the others that John could only wonder why she was even part of the group. He wondered the same thing now. Had she set her heart on marrying Danning and been so crushed when he preferred another that she’d run away? The drops he saw glistening on her cheeks now that he was closer could as easily be from tears as rain. Why else would a woman who had everything—family, wealth, beauty—cry herself to sleep?

“Has Lord Danning made his decision, then?” John asked.

She drew herself up. “I am no gossip, sir. You would have to ask the earl that question.”

She might not be a gossip, but she had answered the question. The stiffness in her shoulders said Danning had chosen a bride, and it wasn’t her. Why should that fact please him?

Thunder rumbled again, drawing nearer. She set about soothing Belle once more. John glanced at the big stallion across the way, and Magnum raised his head as if with pride. He trusted John to care for him, whatever happened. And John would never let him down.

At the moment, however, he could do nothing more for the horse. John knew Magnum had eaten plenty earlier that day, for rich pastures surrounded the farm. As soon as the rain let up, John could send Lady Amelia on her way and take Magnum back to the main stables and bed. With any luck, the others would have found Contessa by now. He had never met a horse who knew more ways to escape a fenced pasture, or one more determined to do so. Normally his men kept an eye on her, but a new groom had been preoccupied with learning his duties, and the mare had slipped away.

Now lightning set shadows in sharp relief, and he saw Lady Amelia shudder. “You would be wise to sit down,” he advised.

She glanced about as if trying to determine where. What, did she think stables came with gilded chairs or cushioned benches? To John’s mind the most likely spot to sit was on an old grain bin along the back wall. She must have reached the same conclusion, for she went to settle her skirts about her on the bin as if ready to pour tea.

“Won’t you join me, my lord?” she asked, patting the other side of the wooden slats.

She was only being polite. He could not conceive that she would truly wish his company. But he moved closer and convinced himself to sit beside her. Through the musty scent of earth and straw came the incongruous perfume of orange blossoms. Was that the scent of her hair? Surely it was poor manners to bury his nose in the silky-looking tresses as if they were a feed sack. Yet some part of him was tempted to do just that.

“I didn’t realize this was your property,” she said by way of conversation. “How far do your holdings stretch?”

It was an expected topic, and a gentleman was supposed to prose on at great length, he was certain. He didn’t prose. “Far enough to provide food and a good run,” he replied.

“I’m sure that must be very gratifying for your horses,” she said. “What brought you out in the storm, my lord?”

Thunder boomed, and she shuddered again. In fact, he could feel her least movement, the moment she yawned behind her hand, the shiver that went through her. Was she cold? Hungry?

Whatever you did for the least of my brothers, you did for me.

The remembered verse demanded his attention. But he couldn’t believe the Lord would answer a prayer half formed. He hadn’t answered any of John’s prayers since before his brother had died.

Still, John pulled his greatcoat from his shoulders and draped it around her.

“Oh, Lord Hascot, I couldn’t,” she protested.

“Take it,” John insisted. “I must see to my horse.”

He slid off the box and started forward, but he couldn’t help glancing back at her. Her fingers, as long and elegant as the rest of her, clutched at the wool as she pulled it closer. Her sigh of thanks was as soft as a kitten’s.

Something inside him melted.

John lifted his head, turned his back on her and forced himself to march to Magnum’s stall. His horse eyed him.

“Don’t start,” John said. He sank onto the straw and put his back against the stone wall. Drawing up his knees, he crossed his arms over the top of his chamois breeches.

He didn’t have to speak with Lady Amelia, tend to her like a nursery maid. He’d play the gentleman and protect her, but nothing more. He’d already had his heart carved from his chest by a beautiful woman who’d claimed allegiance. He wasn’t about to offer the knife to another, even the lovely Lady Amelia.

* * *

Amelia didn’t remember falling asleep. Certainly, she knew it her duty to keep Lord Hascot company, though he had abandoned hers. She tossed out a few polite questions, all of which were met with terse responses from the other stall. She might have thought she had offended him, only he’d been as short with everyone else when she’d visited his farm with Lord Danning a few days ago. Apparently Lord Hascot did not like people nearly as much as he liked his horses.

But one moment she’d been yawning on the grain bin, and the next she was waking up on a bed of straw. She frowned at the change and couldn’t help wondering how she’d reached this spot.

Then the day’s events rushed back at her. She’d been at Fern Lodge keeping Mr. Calder busy so her new friend Henrietta Stokely-Trent could chaperone her other new friend Ruby Hollingsford on an outing with their host, Lord Danning. She thought she’d done rather well to follow Mr. Calder’s instructions and affix a creature of feather and horsehair he called a fly onto a brass hook and toss it into the river by way of a long, jointed pole. But Mr. Calder had forsaken his fishing lesson to search for Henrietta, and Amelia had been disappointed with herself for failing to keep him occupied and away from the courting couple.

Her disappointment was nothing to how her mother had reacted.

“And why are you keeping company with Mr. Calder in any regard?” she’d demanded after she’d found Amelia changing into her riding habit with the idea of going after the group. “He is the son of a second son, a nobody. We came here for Danning.”

Her mother had come for Danning. Lady Wesworth had decided the wealthy earl held promise for her daughter. Amelia had had hopes Lord Danning might have the makings of a good husband. He was kind, considerate and affable, everything her father was not. It had been rather exciting to be one of three women invited to a house party to determine which was best suited to be his bride. But it was quickly evident that he favored Ruby Hollingsford, and why not? Ruby was outspoken, fearless, bold.

Everything Amelia was not.

But some of Ruby’s boldness must have rubbed off, for Amelia had answered her mother, “I do not intend to marry Lord Danning. If I marry, I will marry for love.”

Her mother had puffed up like a thundercloud gathering. It was truly a fearsome sight, and one Amelia had witnessed only a few times in her life and never with good results.

“Your father will have something to say about that,” her mother had threatened.

The subsequent argument had so overset Amelia that she’d run for the stable at Fern Lodge, called for Belle and ridden as far and as fast as she could, seeking only escape.

Escape from a mother who could not understand.

Escape from a father who could not care.

Escape from expectations she could not meet.

Only when she’d felt the rain cooling her tears had she sought shelter, which was where Lord Hascot had found her.

She sat up, and his greatcoat slid down her form.

“Lord Hascot?” she asked, climbing to her feet and tucking her riding train up over one arm.

The door of the stable stood open, a shaft of sunlight stabbing through the darkness. A man stepped from the shadows into the beam of light. She recognized him immediately—that thatch of midnight-black hair, the sharp planes of his features, the still way he held himself as if ready for anything.

“Easy,” he said. “There’s no need for concern.”

Oh, there was every reason for concern. She knew what must happen next. If she hoped for any peace, she would have to apologize to her mother. She had long ago learned the many ways to turn criticism into commendation.

Unfortunately, this time would be more difficult. She knew what her mother wanted, what her father expected. They insisted that she marry a wealthy, titled gentleman who would bring further acclaim to the name of Jacoby, the House of Wesworth. No amount of positive thinking, prayer or discussion had changed their minds.

But wealthy, titled bachelors of marrying mind, she had learned, were not at all plentiful, and the competition to secure them was stiff. While she’d enjoyed the glittering balls, the witty conversations that were part and parcel to a London Season, she had not liked participating in the marriage mart. Men were quick to praise her beauty, but their attentions seemed shallow.

Indeed, it was rather degrading to have to parade herself, gowned in her best, hair just so, smiling, always smiling. Sometimes she felt as if she was one of the horses at Tattersalls, the famed horse auctioneers in London. She would not have been surprised if one of the gentlemen asked to examine her teeth!

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, my lord,” she told Lord Hascot. She bent, retrieved his greatcoat and held it out to him. “And thank the Lord the storm has ended.”

He came forward and accepted the coat as solemnly as if it were a royal robe. “You’ll want to be on your way, I suspect.”

“Yes, thank you.” She slipped into the box next to hers and reached for Belle’s headstall, which was hanging from a hook at the end of the box. “My mother will be worried.”

“I sent word to Fern Lodge this morning,” he said.

Her fingers froze. Indeed, she was surprised she could even blink. “This morning?”

“It is past dawn,” he said. “One of my grooms just came in search of me. You slept through the night.”

She clutched the leather of the reins and managed to turn and look at his scowling face. “And where did you sleep?”

“I didn’t. I was over there.” He lifted his chin toward the far wall. “You were not disturbed.”

She nodded. She had to nod, for every part of her was shaking. She’d spent the night alone with a gentleman. It didn’t matter that nothing untoward had happened. It didn’t matter that he had merely kept watch over her from the opposite side of the stable.

She was ruined.

Ruined.

No one of consequence would offer for her now. All her father’s expectations, all her mother’s hopes for an alliance with a highborn family were utterly, irrevocably dashed.

She was free!

Thank You, Lord!

Her joy was singing so loudly she almost missed hearing Lord Hascot say, “I will, of course, do the expected and offer for your hand.”


Chapter Two

What could possibly have forced those words from his mouth? John had known he was taking a chance by staying with her. He’d expected one of his staff to come looking for him long before dawn. But his men had all assumed he was out searching as they were for Contessa amidst the pouring rain. John had already sent the groom back to the house with Magnum and instructions to contact Fern Lodge, for very likely the Earl of Danning was equally concerned for his lost guest, and her mother must be frantic.

Lady Amelia looked nearly as frantic, standing before him, gaze flickering about the old stable as if she hoped to spy a stray chaperone perched in the corner. She knew the penalty for spending the night with him, even on the opposite side of the stable. Yet he had no interest in bringing a near stranger to Hollyoak as his wife. He’d worked hard to make this farm the best in England. A Hascot colt was widely recognized as the mark of a prosperous man. Having a wife would be little asset there.

As for preserving the line, at times he was certain the idea was inadvisable. He knew weak stock when he saw it. Perhaps a long-lost cousin of stronger stuff could be found to take over the barony when John died without issue.

So why had he just made the ultimate sacrifice and offered this woman a place at his side?

“How very kind of you, Lord Hascot,” she said, interrupting his thoughts and pausing to bite her petal-pink lip a moment as if choosing her words with care. “But there’s really no need. You were merely being a gentleman to watch over me during the storm.”

Relief at his narrow escape from parson’s mousetrap was not as strong as it should have been. He told himself to be glad she was so practical, so quick to spot the truth. He hadn’t the time, patience or inclination to make a decent husband. His feelings ran too deep; he never expressed them well.

“As you wish, Lady Amelia,” he said with a nod. “I offer you the hospitality of my home, such as it is, before you return to Fern Lodge.”

Her hand touched her hair above her ear, where the strands had come loose from her pins. A piece of straw stuck out like the ostrich plumes she must wear to her balls in London. Straw speckled her riding habit as well, clinging to the fabric as the wool outlined every curve of her slender form. John forced his gaze to her face, which was growing decidedly pinker, as if she’d noticed his scrutiny.

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied with obvious relief. She turned to Belle, then paused as if wondering how to put the saddle back into place.

“Allow me,” John said.

She stepped aside with another smile.

But in this he wasn’t being chivalrous. She’d done well to remove the tack the previous night, but in his experience, few women knew how to take care of their own horses. They’d never had to learn. Grooms attended them, beaux helped them in and out of sidesaddles. He personally thought sidesaddles ridiculous contraptions that hampered a woman’s ability to control her animal, but he doubted any word from him would make the fashionable change their minds.

So he laid the saddle on the mare’s back and cinched it up from long experience. He slipped on the headstall, checked that the brass was properly buckled. All the while the mare stool docile, placid. For all her good lines, he sensed very little fire in her.

He’d always thought the horse reflected its rider. Lady Amelia had called herself timid in passing. Was her polite demeanor truly a sign of a timid heart?

For she stood waiting as well, a pleasant smile on her face as if she was quite used to gentlemen serving her. He bent and cupped his hands, and she put her foot in his grip. It was long and shapely, even in her riding boot, and she lifted herself easily into the saddle, where she draped her skirts about her. With a cluck, she urged Belle into a walk out of the stall.

And John walked beside her, feeling a bit like a stable lad attending the queen.

“What a lovely day,” she said as they exited the building.

In truth, it was a fine day. The storm had carried off the last cloud, and the field sparkled with the remaining raindrops. Dovecote Dale stretched in either direction, following the chatter of the River Bell, the fields lush and alive. He always felt as if he could breathe easier here.

But not with the woman beside him. She was trying to initiate conversation, just as she had last night. He remembered the London routine: mention the weather, ask after a gentleman’s horses, talk about family or mutual friends. Had she no more purposeful topics?

When he did no more than nod in reply, she tried again, gesturing to where several of his animals were out in the pasture. “Your horses look fit.”

John nearly choked. “Fit, madam? Yes, I warrant they could make it across the field without collapsing, particularly in such excellent weather.”

Her cheeks were darkening again, the color as pink as her lips. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to give false praise.”

“No,” John said, forcing his gaze away from her once more. “Forgive me. I haven’t mixed in Society for a while. I find the forms stifling.”

“I quite understand.”

The certainty of the statement said she found them equally so, but he suspected she was more in agreement with the assessment of his social skills.

“Is there something you’d prefer to discuss?” she asked politely.

None of the banal topics London appeared to thrive on. In fact, he had only one question plaguing him. “Why exactly were you out in the storm yesterday?”

She was silent a moment, her gaze on the house, which could now be seen in the distance. Her head was so high the straw in her hair stood at attention. Finally she said, “I had a disagreement with my mother. Riding away seemed the wisest course.”

He’d met her mother when Danning’s guests had come to tour the farm. A tall woman like her daughter, with a sturdier frame and ample figure, she had a way of making her presence felt. And it didn’t help that she had a voice as sharp as a cavalry sword. Riding away probably had been the best choice.

“You never answered my question last night, either,” she reminded him. “What brought you out in the storm?”

“One of my horses is unaccounted for,” he said. “I thought perhaps she’d made for the river.”

She reined in, pulling him up short. “Oh, Lord Hascot, if she is missing you must find her!”

Her eyes, bluer than the sky, were wide in alarm, her cheeks pale. John raised his brows. “I have grooms out even now. I’ve no doubt they’ll bring her in.”

“Are you certain?” she begged, glancing around as if she might spy Contessa trailing them. “This place is so wild.”

If she thought his tended fields wild he did not want to know what she’d make of the grasses of Calder Edge, the grit stone cliff above his property.

“Hollyoak Farm is bounded by the river to the south,” he explained, pointing out the features as he talked, “and Calder Edge to the north. If Contessa goes east, she’ll run into the Rotherford mine, and they know where to return her. West, and she’ll eventually hit Bellweather Hall. The duke’s staff will send for me. Either way, I’ll fetch her home.”

She seemed to sag in the saddle. “Oh, I’m so glad.”

“Why do you care?” John asked, catching the reins before she could start forward again. “Most people treat a horse as nothing but a possession.”

Her pretty mouth thinned. “For shame, sir.” Her hand stroked her horse’s crest as lovingly as the head of a child. “Belle is no possession. I’m honored to call her my friend. I assumed you felt the same way about your horses, even that black brute I heard you call Magnum.”

John’s face was heating, and he released the reins as he looked away. “You would not be wrong. Sometimes I’m certain I spend more time in conversation with him than anyone else. Perhaps that’s why I’m so bad at conversing with a lady.”

“I’m not much of a conversationalist myself,” she admitted, urging Belle forward once more. Her look down to John was kind. “I always seem to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Please forgive me.”

Either she was too used to taking the blame for the failings of others or she was trying to impress him with her condescension. Still, John found it all too easy to forgive her. For one thing, he had the same affliction when it came to conversation. He found his horses easier to converse with than people. And for another, there was something utterly guileless about Lady Amelia.

Part of him protested. He’d been down this road before and been left standing alone at the end. It was probably best to walk the other way this time.

* * *

Amelia had always prided herself on her congenial demeanor, honed by years of criticism from her parents and her governess. But Lord Hascot challenged even her abilities. He reminded her of a cat that had been petted the wrong way—fur up and claws extended.

Hollyoak Farm was nearly as unwelcoming. When she’d visited with Lord Danning a few days ago, she’d thought the red stone house a boxy affair, as angular as its owner. Even the bow window of the withdrawing room sat out squarely as if giving no quarter. Now all the drapes were drawn and the doors shut. Lord Hascot led her to the stable yard, a gravel expanse between the two flanking stable wings, where he helped her alight on a mounting block. Taking Belle’s reins himself, he nodded toward the house.

“You’ll find a maid waiting to attend you,” he said. “If I do not see you again before Lord Danning comes to collect you, know that I am your devoted servant.”

Though his voice was gruff and his statement an expected one, something simmered under the words, the echo of concern. Amelia smiled at him.

“Thank you, Lord Hascot,” she said, trying for a similar sincerity in the oft-used phrase. “I appreciate everything you did for me and Belle.”

One of his hands strayed to Belle’s nose, the touch soft, and those stern lips lifted in a smile. Why, he could be quite handsome when he smiled, his dark locks falling across his forehead and the sunlight brightening his brown eyes to gold. Before she could say anything more, he turned away, and she fancied she felt the chill of winter in the summer air.

Such an odd man. Amelia shook her head as she made for the house. He acted as if he was much better off without people around. Still, he had been kind to stay with her and offer for her when needed. Now she had to prepare herself to face the true consequences of the night’s events: her mother’s disapproval. Help me, Lord!

She was thankful to see the young woman waiting for her in the corridor, just as Lord Hascot had predicted. The maid had light brown hair peeking out of her white lace-edge cap, a round face and a firm figure swathed in a gray dress and white apron. On seeing Amelia, she immediately bobbed a curtsy.

“Dorcus Turner of Rotherford Grange, your ladyship,” she announced. “His lordship sent for help, seeing as how he has no lady on staff. How might I be of assistance?”

Another oddity. Surely a house this size required several maids to keep it clean. Or did Lord Hascot disdain even the services of a female?

“Thank you for coming all this way, Turner,” Amelia answered. “Is there somewhere I might tidy up?”

Turner wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t been told, but I imagine there must be some spare room in this dismal pile.” Amelia’s surprise at her outspoken manner must have been evident, for the maid dipped another curtsy. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship. This way.”

She led Amelia down the dim corridor paneled in squares of dark wood, and Amelia soon agreed with the maid’s assessment of the house. Though it was now midmorning, every velvet drape remained closed, every candle unlit, making the place a house of shadow. Combined with the dark paneling that covered at least half of every room she glanced into as they passed, she could easily imagine the mistress of the house curling away in a corner to cry. Small wonder Lord Hascot rarely smiled!

She followed Turner up a set of stairs with a brass-topped banister to a room on the chamber story, where the maid set about taking down Amelia’s hair.

“I warrant you’re the first lady to set foot in this house for a long while,” she said as she worked. “I hear tell Lord Hascot never lets his visitors closer than the stables.”

Perhaps because he knew the house to be so uninviting. “I imagine most of his visitors come to see the horses, in any event,” Amelia replied. Certainly that was why Lord Danning had brought his guests to Hollyoak Farm.

“Oh, aye,” Turner agreed, pulling a silver-backed brush from the pocket of her apron and proceeding to run it over Amelia’s long, curly hair. “Everyone around here knows he’s a great one for the horses, but not with the ladies. It won’t take much for you to turn him up sweet, your ladyship.”

Amelia stiffened. “That will do, Turner. I have no interest in being courted by Lord Hascot.”

She had never spoken so sternly to a servant. She’d never had to. The staff at home was too afraid of her father and mother to ever speak out of turn. Turner, however, merely grimaced before setting about repinning Amelia’s hair.

“Sorry, your ladyship,” she said. “You might as well know that I tend to speak my mind. This could be a fine house, and I warrant his lordship could be a fine husband, for a lady with a bit of grit and a lot of determination.”

Grit and determination. She’d never considered herself particularly gifted in either. And after spending a little time in the gentleman’s company, she could only wish his future bride luck, for it would take quite a campaign to turn Lord Hascot into the proper husband.


Chapter Three

John was certain he’d seen the last of Lady Amelia. Her family had no reason to interact with his. He’d already refused her father’s attempt to purchase a horse, twice. Something about the Marquess of Wesworth struck him as cold, calculating. Any kindness in the man had obviously been passed to his daughter.

Yet as John checked with his head groom and learned that Contessa was still missing, he could not seem to forget the woman he’d found sleeping in the straw. Perhaps that was why he hurried out of the stables at the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel.

A lavish landau sat on the yard, brass appointments gleaming in the morning light. The four matched grays pulling it had the sleek, well-kept look of carriage horses. He would not have allowed one in his stable, and he was none too sure the same might not be said of the lady perched on the leather-upholstered seats of the open carriage. Lady Wesworth’s back was ramrod straight in her serpentine pelisse, the peacock feather in her bonnet waving in the breeze.

Most of his grooms were still out searching for Contessa, but his veterinarian, Marcus Fletcher, must have heard the carriage as well, for he came out of the opposite stable block. A tall, gangly fellow with a riot of curly red hair and gold-rimmed spectacles, he was generally good with people for all he’d chosen to be a horse doctor instead of a physician. By the imperious frown on Lady Wesworth’s face, however, John thought even Fletcher’s good nature might not be sufficient.

“Lord Hascot,” she said as John approached, Fletcher falling into step beside him. “What have you done with my daughter?”

She made it sound as if John had stolen Amelia from her home. Luckily, he was spared an answer by the opening of the rear door of the house and the entrance of the lady herself, followed by the maid John had requested from Rotherford Grange.

“Amelia!” Lady Wesworth cried as her daughter drew closer. “Are you hurt?”

A reasonable question, but it was said with a note of accusation, as if only injury would allow her mother to condone her actions.

“Good morning, Mother,” Lady Amelia answered pleasantly, as if she usually started the day in a strange house. “I’m very sorry if I concerned you. I’m fine.”

Indeed, she looked quite fine. The maid had done an excellent job of smoothing her platinum hair, brushing out the plum habit. Her blue eyes sparkling, Lady Amelia was nothing short of perfection.

Unfortunately, her mother did not appear to agree. Her chilly gaze swept over her daughter, as if seeking any fault.

“Of course you concerned me,” she all but scolded. “You are my daughter, our only child.” She affixed her gaze on John and held out her hand in a clear order to help her from the carriage.

He ignored her and turned to Lady Amelia. He had done his duty and delivered her safely back to her family. Surely that would silence the nagging voice in his head that he should do more.

“I trust the rest of your visit to Dovecote Dale will be unmarred by further unpleasantries, your ladyship,” he said with a bow. “Safe travels.”

Was it his imagination, or did her smile warm at his gesture? “Thank you, Lord Hascot. I hope you find your missing horse.”

Despite everything that had happened, she remembered Contessa. That alone made her remarkable in John’s eyes. As his head groom brought out a brushed and watered Belle, her smile only grew.

So did her mother’s frown. Indeed, she had turned an unbecoming shade of red.

“Lord Hascot,” she said, eyes narrowed, “my husband will expect you in London within the week. Come along, Amelia.”

Lady Wesworth obviously expected not only instant obedience but humble gratitude for being given the benefit of her exalted command. John knew a sprightly mare generally resulted in a sprightly colt, but he found it difficult to believe Lady Amelia shared much in common with her mother.

And he no longer danced to anyone’s tune.

He bowed to Lady Amelia, then turned his back on her mother and strode to the stables. The Jacoby women no doubt had a social calendar filled with appointments, and he had work to do. But he had only reached the door of the main stables before Fletcher caught up to him.

“She’ll have to pay for this, I fear,” he said.

John eyed his veterinarian. Marcus Fletcher had been in his employ since John had first bought Hollyoak Farm and started raising horses. He very nearly hadn’t hired the fellow, for Fletcher did not exude confidence. His hands, however, were large and capable, his smile generous and his good nature without limit. Now, by the way he kept glancing back toward the house, he was concerned for their departing guest.

“I’ve no doubt she’s well acquainted with her parents’ strictures,” John said, pulling open the door and heading inside. As always, the cool air of the stable welcomed him, brought him the scent of fresh hay, clean water and well-cared-for horses. Most of his stock had already been let out to pasture, and his footsteps rang against the cobbles as he made his way down the center aisle.

“Oh, assuredly,” Fletcher agreed, following him. “She seems a very obedient daughter. But you didn’t see her face as they left. It was as if she’d lost her last friend.”

Something was tugging at him again, but he pushed it down. He’d been chivalrous enough where Lady Amelia was concerned. He had no reason to go haring off to London to fight the lady’s dragon parents. And nothing to be gained by it. Lady Amelia, like other women of her class, married for position and power, and he was certain her father would agree that John as a baron had too little of either.

He glanced at the empty stall partway down the row. Where could Contessa have gotten to this time? “We have more important matters at hand,” he told his veterinarian. “Send word to the village—a one hundred pound reward for Contessa’s safe return.”

Fletcher’s red-gold brows rose. “Generous. You do realize, however, that the last horse you sold went for a thousand pounds. There is money in a Hascot horse.”

“Only if you can prove it’s a Hascot horse,” John countered, heading for the rear of the stables. “No more than a few know her bloodlines. And with that game leg, she can’t have gone far. I’ll take Magnum out again. They generally find each other in the fields.”

“And what of Lady Amelia?” Fletcher pressed, following him. “I suspect some would say you owe her a duty, as well.”

Magnum nickered in greeting. John stroked his horse’s nose and nodded to the groom who had hurried up with the tooled leather saddle. “I offered, she refused. That’s all that need concern you.”

Magnum shook his head as if he quite disagreed. Fletcher went so far as to jerk to a stop on the cobbles. “You offered?”

John crossed his arms over his chest as the groom laid on the saddle that had been made especially for the broad-backed horse and set about cinching it in place. “It was expected.”

“If I may,” Fletcher said, pausing to clear his throat, “you are not known for doing the expected.”

John dropped his arms, put a foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. “Then be glad.”

“She is lovely,” Fletcher ventured, looking up at him.

She was beautiful—a porcelain princess and apparently nearly as fragile. John didn’t answer as he took the reins from his groom.

“Sweet natured,” Fletcher continued as if to encourage him. “And accomplished, too, I hear.”

“So are half the mares in my stable,” John replied, “and you don’t see me running to court them.”

Fletcher made a face as he stepped back out of Magnum’s way. “Certainly not! But, my lord, you must admit you could do far worse than Lady Amelia.”

John gathered the reins. “And you must admit that she could do far better. I’ll start in the east and work my way west. Send word if you find Contessa.”

“But, my lord,” Fletcher protested.

John didn’t wait to hear another word. He’d already determined that he would likely never see Lady Amelia again. The sooner he forgot about her, the better for all concerned.

* * *

She was in disgrace. Amelia kept her usual smile as she rode Belle alongside her mother’s carriage. The harangue had started before they’d even cleared the drive from Hollyoak Farm, and it continued now as they took the bridge over the River Bell that marked the edge of Lord Danning’s property. She was certain a few days ago she would have been crushed by the complaints.

Today she could only watch as the doves vaulted from the trees at the sound of her mother’s strident voice. Amelia took strength in her position. Her motives to marry for love were right and pure. Surely the Lord would honor them. She merely had to suffer through, and all would be well.

Her new attitude, she suspected, was a result of her acquaintance with Ruby Hollingsford, that bold young lady Amelia had met at Lord Danning’s house party. Amelia knew less was expected of Ruby, who was the daughter of a prosperous jeweler. Her father did not expect her to marry a titled gentleman—although he clearly had hopes of a match between his daughter and Lord Danning. Ruby’s father seemed to dote on her every word, her least action.

Amelia’s father did not dote. On anyone. Neither did her mother.

So Amelia answered her mother’s questions about the situation and Lord Hascot calmly, agreed that they should return to London immediately and made her excuses to Lord Danning and Ruby. Ruby seemed the only one truly saddened to see her go.

“You stick to your guns,” she said, giving Amelia’s hands a squeeze. “You promised me you’d only marry for love.”

“Never fear,” Amelia told her. “I won’t forget.”

But her promise was easier to keep with Ruby nodding encouragement than when she faced her father in London.

“You are a very great disappointment to me, Amelia,” he said.

He had called her into his study the day after she’d returned. His perfectly organized desk sat before floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the boxed-in formal garden behind the house. Every book was lined up properly on the white-lacquered shelves, every paper neatly filed away. Her father stood at the window, addressing the tops of the trees. Not a single strand of his sandy hair was out of place; his dove-gray coat had nary a crease. He wouldn’t have allowed it.

She was aware of every least wrinkle in her muslin gown, of the crumb of toast that had fallen on her lacy sleeve as she’d hurriedly quit the breakfast table to answer his summons. She wasn’t sure why she’d been so quick to answer. She’d known what he’d say. And she should be used to his disappointment by now. It had started the day she hadn’t been born a boy.

But the truth was, it hurt. When she was younger, she used to think she could earn his love. If she wore her hair perfectly combed, if she curtsied without wobbling, if she played a sonata with no mistakes, he would recognize her as having worth. But he never noticed her hair, paid no attention to her curtsy, was too busy to listen to a sonata. If her governess praised her French, he would ask why she hadn’t mastered Latin, as well. If she rode with the hunt, he would ask why she hadn’t led the field. There was no pleasing her father.

And yet she could not seem to stop trying.

“I’m very sorry, Father,” she said to his back, attempting to stand as still and composed as he was. “But I can assure you that nothing untoward happened at Hollyoak Farm. Lord Hascot offered for me and I refused. The matter is settled.”

He turned from the view at last, his pale blue eyes showing not the least emotion. “I fear the matter cannot be settled so easily. Hascot would be a decent alliance for you. I intend to have him.”

“A shame you’re already wed, then,” Amelia said.

Her father stiffened, and she wanted to sink into the floor. Where had that come from? How could she be so disrespectful?

“Forgive me, Father,” she said. “I suppose I meant that as a joke, and it was a poor one. I merely thought we would have more discussion when it came time to choose a suitor.”

“Your mother and I have discussed the matter,” he replied as if that were sufficient. “I have written to Hascot and requested that he attend me.”

His note might have been couched as a request, but it would have been an order. She felt as if something was crawling up inside her, choking her, making her fists clench. Her parents were going to force her to wed.

Lord, show me how to stop them!

Calm welled up. She would prevail. And Lord Hascot would have something to say in the matter. For one thing, he knew he and Amelia had settled things. For another, he bore her no love. How could he?

She’d read a number of stories in which the hero conceived undying devotion for the heroine the moment he saw her, but in her experience it took a bit more time and proximity to develop lasting emotions. At least, that was what she hoped. For if men were supposed to wish to marry her on sight, something was very wrong indeed.

“Please don’t press me on this, Father,” she said.

Her father was watching her with a slight frown, as if he wondered what woman was masquerading as his daughter. “If it is that business with Lady Hascot that concerns you,” he said, “I can assure you her interests lay elsewhere.”

“Lady Hascot?” Amelia asked, confused. “Lord Hascot’s mother?”

“His older brother’s widow, the former Lady Caroline Musgrave,” her father corrected her, with a look that said she should have known that. “As the wife of the previous titleholder, she is beholden to the Hascot estate for her living. I understand there has been a question about whether Lord Hascot intends to honor his brother’s wishes, but his actions should have no bearing on you.”

The only thing she’d seen about Lord Hascot that could make her admire his character was his care for his horses. He might be handsome, in a dark, brooding sort of way, and he had been kind to assure her safety that night in the stable. But he was stiff in conversation, sharp in manner, rough in voice and dismal in attitude. Now it seemed he could not even care for a poor widow!

“His actions have no bearing on me at all,” Amelia said. “I don’t intend to see him again.”

Her father’s look was enough to make her knees start shaking under her petticoat. “Make no mistake, Amelia,” he said. “Bringing the appropriate son-in-law into the family is the one consolation for having a daughter. Hascot may not have the fortune or influence in Parliament I wanted, but his reputation as a horseman is unparalleled. I can make use of that. Therefore, you will accept him when he offers.”

She dipped a curtsy. Better that than to let him see the frustration surging up. She didn’t want to be angry at her father, didn’t want to be a disobedient daughter. But she had seen enough of John, Lord Hascot, to know that he was a man as cold as her father, and she would not wed him. And she would tell the horseman that in no uncertain terms if he bowed to her father’s demands and came calling.


Chapter Four

John hadn’t intended to call on Lady Amelia, even after her father’s imperious note demanding his presence in London. He generally came to town once a year for one of the larger sales at Tattersalls, and then he was careful never to cross paths with Caro. He was never comfortable dealing with the woman he’d thought to marry, especially now that she was his widowed sister-in-law, but it wasn’t as if she had scared him out of town. Hollyoak Farm had ever been more of a home to him than London. He’d only spent the Season in town to humor his brother.

He had no interest in humoring Lady Amelia’s father. The Jacoby family and the Wesworth title were well known for their pretensions. He had met the current titleholder twice, both times when Wesworth had come seeking a mount. Both times he’d made it seem as if John should be honored to receive him.

The letter Lady Amelia’s father had sent him held the same tone, but something in it hinted of consequences. John very much doubted the marquess could do anything to diminish the reputation of Hollyoak Farm. Hascot horses led the hunting field from Cornwall to Carlisle. They had, to John’s dismay, carried Hussars into battle. It would take more than the sneer of the Jacobys to sway the horse-loving gentlemen of the ton.

But even as he was tempted to dismiss the letter, he couldn’t help wondering about the consequences to Lady Amelia. Surely Society wouldn’t shun her for sleeping in his stable one night. And marrying her would hardly improve her standing with the ton. He wasn’t known for his cutting wit or dashing style.

Still, Fletcher’s prediction that she would pay for her lapse refused to leave John, so he rode to London with the idea of assuring Lady Amelia’s father that the marquess need not concern himself for her reputation.

But the meeting with Lord Wesworth did not go as he had expected.

“We are practical gentlemen,” Lady Amelia’s father said when he received John in his study. “This emotional business associated with marriage does not become us.”

John could not argue with that. He’d grown emotional about marriage once. He still bore the scars. He took the seat his lordship indicated before the desk. “Then you had another reason for writing to me.”

Wesworth perched behind the desk, his lips twitching as if he could not decide whether to smile. Or perhaps he was simply unused to the gesture. A spare man with a balding pate, he was so still and pale that he reminded John of grain left too long in the rain.

“I see this contretemps in Derby as an opportunity for the both of us,” he explained.

John cocked his head. “I don’t follow you.”

He rearranged the quills laid out on his desk, from longest to shortest, the sharp ends all pointing inward. “I am speaking of a connection between our houses. You are a man who understands breeding, sir. You know my daughter’s worth.”

Would he compare his daughter to a horse? John must have frowned, for the marquess looked up and elaborated.

“She is beautiful, well trained in the art of managing a household, a talented singer, I’m told. You would be aligning yourself to a powerful family, able to arrange matters in Parliament to your liking.”

John leaned back. “The last time I checked, Parliament had enough on its hands settling the affairs in France to worry about the regulation of the horse trade.”

“Ah,” the marquess said, hands stilling, “but there is more of interest to a horse breeder, say the right to enclose certain property.”

Enclosure gave the landowner the right to keep the local citizens from using property once held in common. Some of his pasture was unenclosed land. His frown grew. “Are you threatening me?”

Still the marquess did not smile. “I should not need to threaten you, Hascot. You wronged my daughter. I merely seek restitution.”

“I wronged no one,” John insisted, pushing himself to his feet. “Good day, my lord.” He turned for the door, but the quiet words stopped him.

“You’d have her shamed, then.”

John looked back at him. He remained calm, as if he had no more than commented on the weather. “She’s your daughter, Wesworth,” John reminded him. “A word from you would likely cure any ill in Society.”

The marquess was watching him. “And what if I should refuse to say a word? Or worse, be sadly forced to agree that you ruined her?”

John felt his hand fisting and forced his fingers to relax. “Why?” he demanded. “What would be gained by such actions? I might lose a few sales to ladies outraged by my supposed lack of morals, but the gentlemen will still come for my hunters. Your daughter stands to lose the most.”

His fingers set to rearranging the quills once more, shortest to longest this time, and now the points were aimed toward John. “My daughter’s situation is immaterial. This is a discussion between gentlemen.” As if assuming John had capitulated, he leaned forward and raised his gaze. “For the privilege of marrying into my family, I expect a colt every other year.”

Anger was overtaking him, and he was thankful it only came out of his mouth. “If you treat your own daughter like cattle, sir, I wouldn’t trust you with one of my horses.”

The marquess recoiled, color flushing up his lean face at last. “How dare you!”

John returned to the desk in two strides, leaned over, braced both hands on the polished surface and met the marquess’s cold gaze straight on. “I will marry your daughter, but you will only receive one of my colts when you can treat it and her with the respect they are due. That is my offer. Take it or leave it.”

“Done,” the fellow said, as if he’d just commissioned a new coat and was haggling over the buttons. “My wife is waiting in the withdrawing room. You may pay your addresses to my daughter.”

John quit the study before he said anything further. If he truly was going to marry into this family, the less time he spent with Amelia’s father, the better.

Standing in the withdrawing room of the Wesworth town house, however, he had to convince himself not to squirm. The spindle-legged, gilded chairs that rested against the papered walls looked as if they, too, feared to sully the cream-patterned carpet. Every picture, every knickknack was placed precisely in the center of whatever space it had been given. Lady Wesworth, seated on a white satin-striped sofa with a square back, did not even look as if she was breathing.

But that might have more to do with her fear that she was about to give her daughter away to a lesser being.

The paneled door opened, and Amelia entered the room. Somehow, life seemed to come with her. Though she wore one of the frilly white muslin gowns that remained the fashion, her color was high. Her smile as she approached him, however, was more strained than welcoming.

“Lord Hascot,” she said, inclining her head so that the light from the window gilded her pale hair. “What a surprise.”

Had her mother and father kept their machinations from her? “You did not know I was coming?” He glanced at her mother, who rose and came forward.

“Lord Wesworth and I find it best to make decisions without concerning Amelia,” she informed John.

Amelia blushed. “How kind, Mother, but some decisions concern me more than you know.”

Her mother frowned as if she could not imagine such a circumstance.

He certainly could. Amelia had a right to decide who to wed, and her choices must be legion. He was mad to even consider proposing. But hearing her father attempt to bargain for her future—never questioning whether John would make a good husband, whether she’d be cared for, appreciated—had touched something inside him. He could not willingly leave her to her fate.

He should assure her he meant the best for her, that he would give her a secure future. Yet the words refused to leave his mouth. It had ever been this way. When he was a child, he’d stammered, and his already shy nature had combined with the trait to keep him largely silent. Even though the stammer had faded with maturity, he still found it remarkably hard to make conversation, particularly when he was the center of attention, as now.

Lady Wesworth was obviously losing patience with him, for as the silence stretched, she moved to assist. “Lord Hascot has something he wishes to say to you, Amelia,” she announced with a pointed look to him.

At this, Amelia straightened, her composed face tightening as if it mirrored her convictions. “Lord Hascot and I have nothing further to say to each other.”

She had little use for him, and he could not blame her for it. “I had a similar reaction when I read your father’s note,” he assured her. “I came to London to make certain you had taken no harm from your short stay at Hollyoak Farm.”

Her color was fading, but she spread her hands, graceful. “As you can see, my lord,” she said, “I am fine. Perhaps if you could explain that to my mother and father, we can put all this behind us. You know I already refused you once.”

And would do so again. She did not have to say it aloud. He could see it in the height of her chin, hear it in the strength of her voice. Just contemplating his next move made him as jittery as a colt taking its first steps.

Her mother moved to her side, the rustle of her skirts loud against the carpet. “Things have changed, Amelia. Lord Hascot has already spoken to your father. He is aware that this is not the match we wanted for you, but we are persuaded that he will make you a good husband.”

Were they? He wished he had that confidence. He was certain he’d make a wretched husband, but after meeting Lady Amelia’s father, he could only pray that life with him would be an improvement for her.

Now, how was he to convince her of that?

* * *

So it was true. Her mother and father had somehow persuaded themselves and Lord Hascot that he should wed her. No doubt the thought of aligning himself with her father had sweetened the pot.

“I hope Father at least laid claim to a Hascot colt for his trouble,” she said.

Oh, but why did those unkind words keep coming from her mouth? Yet even as she regretted them, she saw Lord Hascot’s face reddening, and she knew her accusation was true. Her father had traded her for a horse! And this man, this lord who clearly preferred horses to people, had agreed to it. Words failed her.

They did not, of course, fail her mother.

“You are, no doubt, overcome by the thought of marrying, Amelia,” she said, jaw tight, “so I will forgive you for that outburst.” She turned to Lord Hascot. “Please know that Amelia is normally obedient in all things, my lord. You need have no concerns that she will make you an excellent wife.”

Of course she’d make an excellent wife. She’d been trained since birth to manage a household, to oversee the education of children, to sing and play and dance, to make her husband happy. She was docile, sweet natured, eager to please.

“Yes, I’m quite the catch,” she said, hysteria forcing out a high, brittle laugh. “I dare say I’m a great deal more biddable than his stock.”

“Excuse us a moment, my lord,” her mother said. She seized Amelia’s elbow and drew her back toward the door.

“What is this?” she hissed, blocking Lord Hascot’s view of Amelia by turning her back. “You run away, spend the night in a stable like a milkmaid and then dare defy your father’s attempt to salvage your reputation? What has happened to you, Amelia?”

What was happening to her? She felt the image she’d held of herself melting like silver purified, and she wasn’t sure yet what shape it might form.

“I don’t wish to marry him, Mother,” she tried. “I don’t love him. Nor does he love me.”

Her mother sighed. “Love, again. I wish you had never met that Hollingsford girl! You must think logically, Amelia. Lord Hascot has five thousand pounds per annum, his horses are widely admired and he was willing to take you. Be happy with that.”

She did not wait for Amelia’s reply but only turned to Lord Hascot once more. “I would prefer Amelia be married here, my lord. A quiet ceremony with a few friends and family, by special license.”

Her mother would even dictate the ceremony. Think! There had to be something she could say, something she could do, to make them all change their minds. Please, Lord, help me!

No inspiration struck. But now that her mother had moved away a little, Amelia could see Lord Hascot standing tall and proud where they had left him.

“Impossible,” he said to her mother’s dictates. “We will be wed in a church, after the banns are read.”

“The banns?” Amelia could hear the confusion in her mother’s voice. Common folk married by banns, their names read out for three Sundays in a row in their home churches. The aristocracy married by license or special license, away from prying eyes, among their own kind.

“The banns,” he insisted. He met Amelia’s gaze. “That way, if anyone chooses to object, he can.”

He was giving her a chance. She didn’t understand why, but she knew it. He would not force himself on her after all. By having the banns read, he gave some other gentleman who cared about her the opportunity to come forward, protest the wedding, state his former claim on Amelia’s affections.

If only she had such a gentleman to defend her!

A quiet voice inside her urged her to defend herself. But how? Her father had made his wishes clear. She could run away, but how would she live? She wouldn’t be old enough to marry without consent for another three months, even if she found a man she could love. No other relation would take her in, knowing she’d defied her father. And with no reference, who would hire her as a governess or teacher? Sadly, she wasn’t trained to be useful in any other legitimate profession, and she refused to think of the illegitimate ones.

In fact, the only person who would support Amelia’s position was away on her honeymoon. Ruby Hollingsford and the Earl of Danning had wed by special license and were off on their wedding trip to Yorkshire, where the fishing was supposed to be excellent.

Still, she thought and prayed as the next three weeks passed, but no solution presented itself. Each Sunday, she sat in church, listened to her name and Lord Hascot’s being read aloud, endured the stares and murmurs that inevitably started anew. She kept her head high, accepted the congratulations offered her, fended off the questions, the conjectures. The ton was agog that the beautiful, talented Lady Amelia, daughter of the powerful Marquess of Wesworth, had settled on a taciturn provincial baron. They expected her to confess an undying devotion, a sudden passion.

She refused to lie. So she said nothing.

But she didn’t stop thinking. She thought while her mother had her measured for a wedding gown of creamy satin. She thought while she embroidered the last pink rose on the lawn nightgown for her trousseau. She thought as she directed the servants in packing her belongings—clothing, books, sheet music, favorite furniture, watercolors she’d painted—for the trip to Hollyoak Farm.

She had two choices she could see—to convince her father that Lord Hascot wasn’t the right son-in-law to bring credit to the Wesworth title or to convince Lord Hascot that marriage to her served no one. She thought she’d have better luck with Lord Hascot, but he had immediately decamped for Derby, intending to return just before the wedding, and it was not a subject to be presented by a letter. That left her father.

She’d never had luck simply wandering into his study for a conversation. For one, he was more often to be found at his club or Parliament. For another, even when he was home, he always had more important matters that required his attention. To Amelia’s mind, nothing should be more important than his daughter’s marriage, so she lay in wait for him in the breakfast room three days running before finally catching him.

“Is there a problem?” he asked as he looked up from that morning’s Times to find her standing by his side.

Every other man of her acquaintance rose in her presence. “Yes, Father,” she said, forcing herself to say the words she had rehearsed. “I am convinced that Lord Hascot will not be an asset to the family. He lacks address, he has no influence on Parliament, as you pointed out, and his title is far inferior to yours. We can do better.”

He took a sip of his tea before answering her, fingers firm on the handle of the gilt-edged cup. “No doubt. But plans are in place, Amelia. Promises have been made. I need this alliance. If he treats you badly, you can always come home.”

He seemed to think that a kindness, and she did not know how to tell him that home had always been where she was treated worst of all.

That night, she threw herself on her knees beside her tester bed, hands clasped and gaze on the gold drape of the half canopy. “Father, help me! I don’t know what else to do, where else to turn. Surely this isn’t Your will.”

Yet what if it was, that voice inside her whispered. God could turn ashes to beauty, make good come from tragedy. Could He make something from this marriage?

The answer came the night before her wedding and from an unexpected source.

Amelia had not seen Lord Hascot since the day he had proposed, but her mother assured her he had returned to London and was staying at the Fenton. How she knew this, Amelia didn’t question. All the servants reported to her mother anything they saw or heard. That was one of the reasons Amelia intended to leave her maid behind if she married Lord Hascot. The outspoken Dorcus Turner would suit the woman Amelia was becoming much better than the cowed creatures her mother seemed to hire. In fact, it was her mother who came to tell Amelia that Lord Hascot wished to speak to her.

“I tried to dissuade him,” her mother complained, pacing in the bedchamber where she’d come to announce their visitor. “You are far too busy with preparations at this time to speak with him.”

All the preparations were made for the wedding at St. George’s Hanover Square at nine o’clock with a breakfast to follow at the house. All Amelia had to do was convince herself to go through with it. What, was her mother worried that she’d take this opportunity to refuse him?

The very thought forced her to her feet, had her eagerly following her mother down to the withdrawing room, thanking God for the opportunity and praying for the words to persuade her unwanted betrothed to cry off.

Lord Hascot was waiting, standing by the hearth, though his gaze was on the door. At the sight of her, he stood taller and inclined his head in greeting. Some of his coal-black hair fell across his forehead. He must have been in a hurry, for he hadn’t even given his greatcoat to their servants. She remembered the soft wool that had covered her that night in the abandoned stable.

She hadn’t realized she’d be trading it for a wedding ring.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said, following her mother into the room.

“Yes, good evening,” her mother said, as if remembering her own manners. She hovered around as Amelia seated herself on the sofa, asking about refreshments, his activities in London, the state of his stock. Odd. She had never known her mother to chatter.

When she stopped for a breath, he said, “I’d like to speak to Amelia. Alone.”

Her mother visibly swallowed, skin paling. She was afraid! Her stubborn, demanding mother was afraid to see her plans dashed. Pity stung her, and Amelia put a hand on her arm.

“It’s all right, Mother. I’m sure Lord Hascot simply wishes to speak of things that will follow our wedding.”

Now her mother’s color came flooding back, and she hurriedly excused herself.

“Nicely done,” Lord Hascot said as the door shut behind her.

Amelia managed a smile. “Thank you. But I wasn’t trying to mislead her. Why else would you come but to tell me your expectations?”

He licked his lips. Like the rest of his features, they were firm and sharp, as if chiseled that day from fresh marble. But what surprised her was that she saw a sheen of perspiration under the fall of his black hair.

“Are you certain you want to go through with this?” she marveled.

She wasn’t sure how he would respond. Perhaps some part of her hoped for a declaration of secret devotion. The rest of her could only pray she’d given him license to beg off. Instead, he motioned her to the sofa and came to sit next to her, so gingerly she wondered if he thought he might stain the white upholstery.

“I’m not in the slightest certain,” he told her. “But I see no other way. I have given my word.”

Could it be so easy to rid herself of this stone-cold lord? Amelia found it hard to breathe with the possibility. “If you don’t wish to marry me, sir, simply tell me.”

He took a deep breath as if he fought for air, as well. “It is not what I wish, but what you wish.”

The statement was so far beyond anything she had ever experienced that Amelia blinked. “What?”

He rubbed his hands along his coat, gaze on the movement of his fingers. “I never planned to marry. I have no time to be a doting husband. But if you wish to be my wife, you are welcome at Hollyoak Farm. I will keep the stables and the horses. The house will be yours to command. And I will expect you to manage any visitors who come merely to look.”

He made it sound as if she was accepting a position. “And the payment for my services?” she couldn’t help asking.

He frowned as if he didn’t understand her. “You will have a home, the funding to furnish and decorate it as you like and as much as you could want for dresses, though I can’t imagine you will need many out in Derby. Know that I will honor my vows, and I will treat you with respect.”

Respect. Not love, not devotion. It was less than what she’d prayed for, but the new woman who was emerging seemed drawn to it. It was something she’d never had after all. And if he intended to honor his vows, then someday she might hope for children.

Something fierce and strong rose up inside her. She would have children to love, to dote upon as surely as if she had wished it for herself. That would be the good to come from this marriage, that would be God’s blessing for her trials.

“Very well, my lord,” she said. “I accept your offer. We will marry in the morning. And may God smile upon our union.”


Chapter Five

And so she was married. She stood before the rector, her parents and a few friends among the dark wood paneling and soaring stained glass windows of St. George’s Hanover Square. She repeated her vows and listened to John repeat his in that gruff voice. It wasn’t until she said, “Till death do us part,” that a tremor ran through her. She could only hope no one else noticed.

She continued smiling as they returned to her parents’ home and the receiving line down the corridor as guests progressed to the wedding breakfast at tables her mother had had erected in the withdrawing room. She accepted congratulations, thanked the noble guests for their good wishes. She counted three dukes, two marquesses and an earl who was related to the king. And all of them seemed far more interested in making her husband’s acquaintance than in wishing her well.

John did not appear the least bit humbled by the attentions paid him. He stood beside her, nodding, exchanging few words. His sharp features and hooded gaze reminded her of a falcon she’d seen once. That bird had been wary, gaze sweeping the grassy lands for prey. She didn’t like the thought that perhaps this time she was the mouse.

“Well done,” Lord Danning said, next in line to congratulate them. A tall man with golden hair, his ready smile to her and John eased her tension. But it was the sight of Ruby beside him that truly raised her spirits.

Marriage obviously agreed with her friend, for Ruby’s green eyes positively sparkled, and her mouth was stretched wide in a grin. Her red hair was tamed under a fashionable chip hat, an ostrich plume curling down around her ear to tease her cheek.

“As soon as you’re finished,” she said, giving Amelia’s arm a squeeze, “come find me. I can’t wait to hear all.”

Amelia wasn’t sure how much she dared relate with so many other people about. But after the guests had been seated for the wedding breakfast, she managed to slip away with Ruby into the gardens behind the house.

“I know the two of you met when you were up at Fern Lodge with us, but I won’t believe it was love at first sight,” Ruby declared in her forthright manner. She linked arms with Amelia as they strolled the white-rocked paths among the low boxwood hedges. “So what happened? Did he follow you to London? Plead his case on bended knee?”

“Not quite,” Amelia admitted, going on to explain the situation. When she finished, Ruby’s face tightened.

“Not the most auspicious of beginnings,” she agreed. “Do you at least admire him?”

Amelia thought hard. He was cool but generally considerate in a rough sort of way. He was not much of a conversationalist. He did not seem to be particularly devoted to family.

“He is by all accounts good with his horses,” she finally said.

The faint praise hung in the sunny morning air a moment. She glanced at Ruby, and suddenly they were both giggling.

“He looks presentable in a jacket and trousers,” Ruby offered.

“His nose is not offensive,” Amelia countered.

“He does slip out of services on Sunday to race his carriage,” Ruby assured her.

“And he isn’t an avid fisherman,” Amelia proclaimed triumphantly.

Ruby hugged the sides of her emerald gown as if to hold in her laughter. “Oh, so true! You are very fortunate there, you know. On my honeymoon, I learned fifteen different ways to entice a trout to rise. Who would have thought the silly things so fussy!”

“Or so determined,” Amelia agreed.

Ruby sobered. “Indeed. I never thought I’d give the time of day to a trout other than to gobble him down for dinner. But I have come to care about such things as fishing because he cares about them. I’m sure it will be the same with you and Lord Hascot.”

Amelia could only hope her friend was right. In truth, she’d always enjoyed riding. Why shouldn’t she enjoy helping John with his horses? Perhaps they could find companionship of a sort, at the very least.

Her doubts returned the moment they stepped out of the house for the carriage.

She had changed into her travel attire, a corded surge gown of navy blue with a feather-trimmed bonnet, and John had changed into a rough tweed coat and brown trousers. Her mother took one look at his scuffed boots and turned her back on him. But Amelia could see him frowning at the lumbering travel coach and wagon standing behind his trim carriage.

“What’s all this?” he asked.

Before Amelia could answer, her mother drew herself up. She’d been far too busy with her other guests the past few hours to pay much attention to her daughter or new son-in-law. Now she affixed him with an imperial glare.

“These are Amelia’s belongings, her contribution to your home, sir,” she informed him.

He eyed the chair leg poking out of the canvas covering the back of the wagon. “My home is sufficiently furnished, madam. You may keep your castoffs.”

“Well, I never!” her mother cried, face reddening.

Amelia stepped in the middle from long practice. “They are not castoffs, my lord, but a few pieces of which I am very fond. Being a bachelor household, your home likely lacks some of the things a woman needs.”

Now he frowned at her. As frowns went, it was fairly formidable. His dark brows drew down over his long nose in a V that made his deep brown eyes cavernous. She imagined his staff must duck and scurry when they saw such a look. Being her father’s daughter, she had seen worse.

“Such as?” he demanded.

“A jewelry case?” Amelia guessed. “A dressing table? Poetry by Shakespeare and Everard?”

His brow cleared. “Very well. But it will all have to come later. I intend to make Dovecote Dale by dinner tomorrow, and I won’t be held up by the pace of that wagon.”

“Now, see here,” her mother started, but Amelia’s father came out of the house just then, approaching them with measured tread. As if Amelia’s mother saw defeat coming, she called to her servants to do as Lord Hascot requested.

That necessitated a rush among her parents’ staff to ensure Amelia had what she’d need for the next three or four days before the coach and wagon reached the farm. Then it was time to say goodbye.

Her mother went so far as to hug her, her arms wrapped around Amelia’s shoulders, her head resting against Amelia’s. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had been so demonstrative, and tears pricked her eyes.

Then her mother whispered, “Remember your vows, Amelia.”

Her vows? Did her mother think she would be unfaithful? The very idea hurt so much that the tears overflowed. Her mother must have noticed them as she disengaged, because she patted Amelia’s hand.

“There now, it shouldn’t be so hard,” she said, voice unusually quiet for her. “You were always an obedient child, until recently. Just see that you treat your husband with a similar level of agreeability.”

Obedience. Agreeability. That was what her mother expected of her. Normally, it was what Amelia expected of herself, as well. “Honor thy father and mother,” the Bible said. She would continue to honor them, but she was no longer their child. And though she was Lord Hascot’s wife, she could not help feeling that perhaps she might at last become her own person.

Her father merely extended his hand, and she accepted it in farewell.

“I trust we will see you in London this fall,” he said, and Amelia could tell by the way his pale blue gaze shifted to John that he was addressing her new husband.

She couldn’t help glancing at John, as well. He stood next to the open door of the carriage, waiting for her to climb in.

“I come to London in the spring for a sale at Tattersalls,” he said. “Amelia is free to come whenever she likes.”

Her father released her hand and turned to offer his arm to his wife. That was all that need be said. She blinked back the tears and went to join John in the carriage. When would she learn that nothing about her warranted her father’s attention?

Would it merit her husband’s? And if it did, would she want his attention?

She watched him as the coach sped out of Mayfair. He had taken the rear-facing bench with his back to the driver, leaving her the leather-upholstered forward-facing seat. With the curtains drawn back from the windows, light flooded the compartment so that she could see every plane of his face, the way his coat draped his tall frame, the grip of his gloved fists on the edge of the bench. This was the man with whom she would spend the rest of her life.

The man who would sire her children.

Heat flushed up her face. Surely they needn’t discuss children so soon. They had just wed. He was in a rush to return home. But he’d said he wished to reach the farm by tomorrow dinner. That meant they would spend the night together along the way.

Lord, help me! I don’t think I can do this.

* * *

Across the coach, John watched Amelia. Her face had turned that delicate pink it did when she was concerned about something, and now she took a deep breath and folded her hands in the lap of her dark blue gown. She was frightened and trying to pretend otherwise. He’d seen similar behavior in a horse new to the herd.

Of course, she’d been tense all day. In the pale satin gown beside him at the altar she’d stood so still she’d looked as if she was made of fine crystal. He’d felt the tremor pass through her when she’d said her vows. She was still no surer of their decision to marry than he was.

He leaned back, but the leather behind him was less forgiving than the look on her face. “You will make an excellent wife, you know.”

She raised a brow. “On what do you base that assessment, sir?”

She seemed to think his confidence a complaint. Given the man who was her father, he could understand why.

“It is my impression that all young ladies in Society are schooled in the efficient running of a household,” he explained.

She continued to regard him. “So you lack a housekeeper, a butler.”

“I have a butler.” Why was the seat feeling harder every moment? John shifted, trying to get comfortable. “I have an entire staff, but they have received little attention with my efforts focused on the horses. I’m sure improvements could be made.”

He thought she relaxed a little. “I’d be happy to help there. And I’m looking forward to helping with your horses, as well.”

His muscles stiffened as if in protest. “I need no help with the horses.”

She inclined her head. “I didn’t mean to imply that you did, my lord. I trust you located the one that had disappeared the day you found me in the stable.”

John nodded. If she intended to merely talk about his horses instead of attempting to manage them, he could oblige. It was the one topic of conversation where he actually felt confident. “We did. She crossed the bridge and wandered toward town. A farmer alerted us, and we brought her home.”

“Do they wander a great deal?” she asked, surprise in her voice.

“Not at all. Horses are herd animals. They feel safer together. But Contessa is another matter.”

“Contessa.” She smiled as if the name pleased her. “Quite a lady, I take it.”

“Our queen. She leads the herd. Contessa is a direct-line descendent of the Byerley Turk and one of the finest animals you’ll find in England.”

“I’ve heard of the Turk,” she said, eyes wide as if the relationship impressed her. “Father has several descendants. They are all exceptionally fine animals. Did Contessa race?”

“No,” John said, and even now the memory hurt. “She was the first horse I bought myself when I was still at university. My father thought I was becoming too attached. Maudlin sentimentality, he called it. He sold her to a colonel who took her to the Peninsula.”

Her hand pressed against her pretty pink lips a moment. “Oh, no! Did she see action, then?”

“A great deal. She was finally pulled down on the Spanish frontier. The colonel thought enough of her to send her home to recuperate, but it was clear she’d never support a cavalry run again. And I was able then to buy her back. She was the first horse I brought to Hollyoak.”

Could she hear the pride in his words? Did she appreciate its source? He’d never met anyone who could understand his devotion to his horses. He knew most men saw them as nothing more than transportation, perhaps an acknowledgment of their prestige. They were far more to him. No horse had ever spurned his friendship, lied to his face or stabbed him in the back.

“Small wonder you went looking for her in a thunderstorm.” She smiled at him, and even though he’d felt justified in his efforts for the mare, his work suddenly felt noble. It was as if Amelia approved of him.

Dangerous stuff that, his emotions turning on her smile. He refused to be so easily led again.

“You needn’t be concerned I’ll set you a similar task,” he assured her. “You’ll have enough to keep you busy without dealing with the horses. Buyers appear frequently, often without warning. As I said, I expect you to deal with those who come merely to look. That includes keeping the wives and daughters occupied.”

“And safely away from the horses,” she said.

It was in him to agree, but something in the way she said it told him agreement wasn’t wise.

“I’m more than happy to show a lady my stock,” he said instead. “But I’ve found most have little interest.”

“Perhaps if you asked,” she replied, gaze dropping at last, “you might find them quite interested indeed.”

Was she talking about his buyers or herself? She certainly seemed interested in the conversation. She had looked out for Belle as best she could that night in the stable, and she had risen to Contessa’s defense when she’d initially heard the mare was missing. Still, he could not believe his horses would ever be as important to her as they were to him.

She seemed to think the conversation finished, for she lapsed into silence. Her gaze went to the window as if hoping to see their destination in the distance. He knew they had far to go yet. Gazing backward from where he sat on the rear-facing bench, he could see that the stone buildings of London were disappearing to be replaced by golden fields of grain and neat hedgerows. As they took a bend in the road, he spotted another fellow following them. John frowned.

“Something wrong, my lord?” Amelia asked.

Had she been watching him? John shook his head, as much at his vanity as to answer her question. “There’s someone behind us,” he said. “Cob of a horse, swaybacked, hollow sides, which generally means poor pasture or not enough grain. And he pulls too hard on the bit.”

Amelia turned to eye the road back. “You can tell all that at a glance?”

John shrugged. “You can tell a lot about a horse and his rider if you know where to look. This fellow isn’t comfortable riding. He’s holding the reins too far out from his body and using his heels over much.”

“I see what you mean.” She turned to eye John now. “Is he following us?”

Was that worry he heard in her voice?

“Anyone can use the king’s highway,” he replied. “But there have been no reports of highwaymen along this route. I wouldn’t be concerned.”

She nodded, but he wasn’t sure she believed him.

The afternoon stretched. John busied himself planning an extension to the main stable block, but when the coach finally pulled into the yard of the Fox and Hound Inn that evening, Amelia still sat primly across the coach, hands folded in her lap. He offered her a smile as the carriage stopped. The smile she returned was small and tight.

What had he done to offend her? Had she expected scintillating conversation after their other encounters? Or was she a woman who held a grudge for every little slight? He didn’t like thinking about his future in that case. The good Lord knew there were all too many ways John had found to offend people, even without trying!

“Lord Hascot, Lady Hascot, welcome!” the innkeeper warbled on seeing them, his broad smile at odds with his lean frame. “Your rooms are ready, just as you requested, my lord. May I serve dinner in the private parlor in an hour?”

“Make it a half hour,” John told him. “I’m famished. This way, my lady.”

“Rooms?” she whispered as he led her toward the stairs, and something trembled in her voice. “Separate rooms?”

“Of course,” he said.

Then she finally smiled at him, and he nearly missed a step from the blinding brilliance.

She’d thought he’d intended them to sleep together, and she clearly wasn’t thrilled with the idea. He should have expected that. Caro had cooed over him, calling him her brooding darling, but he had never been sure that was a compliment. Certainly he’d never mastered the flowery language that was supposed to set women dreaming of sweet kisses. Perhaps he should have let Amelia bring her poetry in the coach.

Then again, he wasn’t ready to consummate the marriage, either. He would have to be six feet under not to find those platinum tresses, that lithe figure attractive. But people were not as simple as horses, and it took more than attraction to make a good marriage, the kind that nurtured children.

His father might have questioned John’s attachment to his horses, but John thought a proper father would take an interest in his offspring, show them how to get on in the world, introduce them to important things like prayer and riding. Right now he stumbled over the former and would probably be too critical of the latter. And he would certainly never condone raising a hand to his child.

“Never fear, your ladyship,” he said as he left her at her room, the scent of orange blossoms hanging tantalizingly in the air. “I do not intend to claim my matrimonial rights until we are both satisfied it is the best course.”

If he was not the man he was, he might have taken exception with how happy that seemed to make her.

Still, he could not fault her that evening. Now that she was no longer concerned about how they would spend the night, she was pleasing company.

She presided over the meal; he could think of no other word for it. She folded her elegant hands once more and recited the grace with bowed head. As if she was honoring him as a guest in her own house, she served him from the ragout of beef the innkeeper brought, offered him seconds when he gulped it down and made sure he was given the largest piece of the peach tart that accompanied the meal. Through it all, she kept up a steady stream of polite conversation that required no more than a nod from him unless he wished otherwise.

Indeed, the evening and the next day passed in such undemanding comfort that he was surprised to hear the rumble of the wheels as they crossed the River Bell, which marked the edge of his property.

He had purchased Hollyoak Farm on his twenty-fifth birthday with monies left him by his mother and immediately set about improving it. Now solid stable wings stretched parallel to each other out behind the house, pasture and planted grain waving away in all directions. He could see Contessa dashing across the nearest field with the odd gait the old lady had conceived to compensate for her injury. The very air smelled sweeter as he opened the carriage door in the yard behind the house.

Across the back of the building, his staff had lined up to welcome him and his new bride in the glow of a setting sun. John walked beside her, told her names and positions, nodded his appreciation for their gesture. Amelia smiled graciously, greeted each person by name after John had introduced him and made an appropriate remark about their positions.

By the time they reached the end of the line, he couldn’t help noticing that half his men were grinning like idiots and another third were blushing like debutantes at their first ball. A few, however, frowned, clearly skeptical of the success of this newcomer in their ranks.

He was not nearly so skeptical. In fact, he had a feeling that, unless he was very careful, Amelia was going to be entirely too successful—at managing his life.


Chapter Six

So many people, and all here to greet her. It was rather gratifying. Amelia turned her smile on her new husband, who did not look nearly as happy as she felt.

“And may I see the stables?” she asked sweetly.

If anything, his scowl deepened. “Perhaps another time.”

As he took her arm, his men melted into the background, away from his scowl. They knew to be obedient. She was beginning to think obedience to be overrated. It was clear that if she wanted to learn more about her husband’s horses, she would have to insist.

For now, she focused instead on the house. She knew from her previous visit that the corridor from the rear door led straight through to the front. As she entered this time, she smelled garlic as if from a recent meal emanating from the room to the left.

“The kitchen,” John confirmed with a nod in that direction. “And the staff hall. My library is opposite.”

An odd place for a library, but then she supposed it gave him a clear view out to the stables while he worked.

The way along the dark-paneled walls and through an arch under the main stairs was familiar. The man waiting by the front door was not. He was not as tall as John, his arms and legs stuck out as if someone had sewed them on carelessly and his red hair was so curly it looked as if a rouged puff sat on his head. His smile was the widest she’d seen at Hollyoak Farm.

“Lady Hascot,” he said with a bow so deep he nearly lost his spectacles. “Welcome home.”

“This is our resident veterinarian,” John said as he straightened. “Marcus Fletcher.”

“Dr. Fletcher,” Amelia said, offering him her hand, which disappeared inside his long-fingered grip. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Fletcher has his own quarters on the property,” John explained as the man released her hand. “He generally takes his meals with me.”

“If that pleases you, your ladyship,” the veterinarian hurried to add.

She imagined some brides would be highly incensed to find another person sitting daily at the table. All she could think was that at least she and John would not be stuck trying to converse with one another again. “I’m sure that will be delightful, Doctor,” she told him.

He beamed at her. “Excellent! Not tonight, of course. I have a patient I must see to.”

John stiffened beside her. “One of the horses is ill?”

“Firenza,” his veterinarian replied with a grimace. “I think she may have found some water hemlock by the creek. I noticed it last week and had Peters root it up, but she may have stumbled on a stray patch. All the symptoms are there.”

“Is it deadly?” Amelia asked, but John had already stepped away from her to take the doctor’s arm.

“You’ve purged her, of course? Good man. Can she stand? We should walk her about the stables to keep her breathing.”

“She’s still having convulsions.” Dr. Fletcher was moving back the way they had come, John pacing him. “I’ve taken the liberty of clearing out the other horses near her to keep from frightening them.”

Would they simply leave her standing there? “My lord?” Amelia tried.

“Good thought,” John agreed. “I can’t believe she’d eat the hemlock. She turns up her nose at apples! I’ve never seen such a picky eater.”

They were nearly to the arch. Amelia took a step forward and raised her voice. “John!”

He stopped and looked back at her as if surprised to find her in his home. “Yes, your ladyship?”

“I understand this is an emergency,” Amelia said, keeping her voice calm as she always did when her mother made unreasonable demands. “But perhaps you could show me to my room first?”

He waved a hand up the stairs beside her. “Next floor up, first door on the left. That maid should be waiting.” He disappeared under the arch with his veterinarian.

Well! Amelia shook her head, gathered her skirts and marched up the stairs to the next floor. Four doors opened off the U-shaped corridor, and she easily found the room he’d indicated. His staff must have been apprised of the arrangements, for the trunk and bandboxes she’d been able to bring with her were waiting at the foot of the bed.

So was Turner. The maid also gave Amelia a big smile before spreading her gray skirts in a curtsy. “Welcome home, your ladyship. I’m honored to be serving you again.”

She seemed so glad to see Amelia that the room felt warmer. “Thank you, Turner,” Amelia replied. “I shall have to write to your mistress to thank her as well for allowing me to make use of your skills.”

Turner’s smile faded. “My mistress was moved to London, your ladyship. And the new mistress of Rotherford Grange chose another girl for her maid.”

Amelia didn’t know the situation, but she couldn’t help thinking the mistress of Rotherford Grange had made a mistake. The maid clearly knew her job. She proved it by setting to work unpacking Amelia’s things.

As Amelia helped, she studied her new bedchamber. Like much of the rest of the house she’d seen so far, the paneling on the walls was so dark it was nearly black. The hangings on the walnut bed were navy chintz, the carpet forest-green. She felt as if she had wandered into the woods on a moonless night. It was not a promising beginning.

So she set to work to improve things. She lit all the lamps, brightening the space, and unpacked her toiletries and arranged them on the highboy dresser along one wall. The gleaming glass of the perfume bottles reflected in the polished wood.

The dark covering on the bed would have to stay until the rest of her things arrived in a few days, but she envisioned it with the white lace edging her mother had had made. Even better was the pocket door Turner discovered on the other side of the bed, leading to a decent-size dressing room with space for all Amelia’s gowns.

Having a few of her things around her made the room feel even more welcoming. Turner helped her change from her travel attire into a day dress and brushed and repinned her hair, which made her feel better, too. She could do this. She was born to do this. Mistress of Hollyoak Farm had a fine ring to it.

A protest from her stomach reminded Amelia that she hadn’t had dinner. She checked the black-lacquered ormolu clock on the serpentine marble fireplace and frowned. What sort of hours did they keep here? She’d always heard people complain of the early bedtimes in the country, but surely the members of Hollyoak Farm ate before retiring.

Knowing Turner was as new to the farm as she was, Amelia rang for the footman, who arrived at the door a short time later.

“When will dinner be served?” Amelia asked.

He shifted on the carpet. None of the men she’d met wore any standard attire. His coat was brown, his breeches gray, and his shoes had not been shined in some time. “His lordship never asked for dinner tonight, your ladyship,” he offered. “He and Dr. Fletcher will likely be too busy to eat.”





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