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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.
