The Husband Campaign

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.”