Regina Scott - The Husband Campaign

“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.