Regina Scott - The Husband Campaign

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.