The Husband Campaign

Her joy was singing so loudly she almost missed hearing Lord Hascot say, “I will, of course, do the expected and offer for your hand.”

Chapter Two

What could possibly have forced those words from his mouth? John had known he was taking a chance by staying with her. He’d expected one of his staff to come looking for him long before dawn. But his men had all assumed he was out searching as they were for Contessa amidst the pouring rain. John had already sent the groom back to the house with Magnum and instructions to contact Fern Lodge, for very likely the Earl of Danning was equally concerned for his lost guest, and her mother must be frantic.

Lady Amelia looked nearly as frantic, standing before him, gaze flickering about the old stable as if she hoped to spy a stray chaperone perched in the corner. She knew the penalty for spending the night with him, even on the opposite side of the stable. Yet he had no interest in bringing a near stranger to Hollyoak as his wife. He’d worked hard to make this farm the best in England. A Hascot colt was widely recognized as the mark of a prosperous man. Having a wife would be little asset there.

As for preserving the line, at times he was certain the idea was inadvisable. He knew weak stock when he saw it. Perhaps a long-lost cousin of stronger stuff could be found to take over the barony when John died without issue.

So why had he just made the ultimate sacrifice and offered this woman a place at his side?

“How very kind of you, Lord Hascot,” she said, interrupting his thoughts and pausing to bite her petal-pink lip a moment as if choosing her words with care. “But there’s really no need. You were merely being a gentleman to watch over me during the storm.”

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.