The Husband Campaign

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.