Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (5 page)

Still, she thought and prayed as the next three weeks passed, but no solution presented itself. Each Sunday, she sat in church, listened to her name and Lord Hascot's being read aloud, endured the stares and murmurs that inevitably started anew. She kept her head high, accepted the congratulations offered her, fended off the questions, the conjectures. The
ton
was agog that the beautiful, talented Lady Amelia, daughter of the powerful Marquess of Wesworth, had settled on a taciturn provincial baron. They expected her to confess an undying devotion, a sudden passion.

She refused to lie. So she said nothing.

But she didn't stop thinking. She thought while her mother had her measured for a wedding gown of creamy satin. She thought while she embroidered the last pink rose on the lawn nightgown for her trousseau. She thought as she directed the servants in packing her belongings—clothing, books, sheet music, favorite furniture, watercolors she'd painted—for the trip to Hollyoak Farm.

She had two choices she could see—to convince her father that Lord Hascot wasn't the right son-in-law to bring credit to the Wesworth title or to convince Lord Hascot that marriage to her served no one. She thought she'd have better luck with Lord Hascot, but he had immediately decamped for Derby, intending to return just before the wedding, and it was not a subject to be presented by a letter. That left her father.

She'd never had luck simply wandering into his study for a conversation. For one, he was more often to be found at his club or Parliament. For another, even when he was home, he always had more important matters that required his attention. To Amelia's mind, nothing should be more important than his daughter's marriage, so she lay in wait for him in the breakfast room three days running before finally catching him.

“Is there a problem?” he asked as he looked up from that morning's
Times
to find her standing by his side.

Every other man of her acquaintance rose in her presence. “Yes, Father,” she said, forcing herself to say the words she had rehearsed. “I am convinced that Lord Hascot will not be an asset to the family. He lacks address, he has no influence on Parliament, as you pointed out, and his title is far inferior to yours. We can do better.”

He took a sip of his tea before answering her, fingers firm on the handle of the gilt-edged cup. “No doubt. But plans are in place, Amelia. Promises have been made. I need this alliance. If he treats you badly, you can always come home.”

He seemed to think that a kindness, and she did not know how to tell him that home had always been where she was treated worst of all.

That night, she threw herself on her knees beside her tester bed, hands clasped and gaze on the gold drape of the half canopy. “Father, help me! I don't know what else to do, where else to turn. Surely this isn't Your will.”

Yet what if it was, that voice inside her whispered. God could turn ashes to beauty, make good come from tragedy. Could He make something from this marriage?

The answer came the night before her wedding and from an unexpected source.

Amelia had not seen Lord Hascot since the day he had proposed, but her mother assured her he had returned to London and was staying at the Fenton. How she knew this, Amelia didn't question. All the servants reported to her mother anything they saw or heard. That was one of the reasons Amelia intended to leave her maid behind if she married Lord Hascot. The outspoken Dorcus Turner would suit the woman Amelia was becoming much better than the cowed creatures her mother seemed to hire. In fact, it was her mother who came to tell Amelia that Lord Hascot wished to speak to her.

“I tried to dissuade him,” her mother complained, pacing in the bedchamber where she'd come to announce their visitor. “You are far too busy with preparations at this time to speak with him.”

All the preparations were made for the wedding at St. George's Hanover Square at nine o'clock with a breakfast to follow at the house. All Amelia had to do was convince herself to go through with it. What, was her mother worried that she'd take this opportunity to refuse him?

The very thought forced her to her feet, had her eagerly following her mother down to the withdrawing room, thanking God for the opportunity and praying for the words to persuade her unwanted betrothed to cry off.

Lord Hascot was waiting, standing by the hearth, though his gaze was on the door. At the sight of her, he stood taller and inclined his head in greeting. Some of his coal-black hair fell across his forehead. He must have been in a hurry, for he hadn't even given his greatcoat to their servants. She remembered the soft wool that had covered her that night in the abandoned stable.

She hadn't realized she'd be trading it for a wedding ring.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said, following her mother into the room.

“Yes, good evening,” her mother said, as if remembering her own manners. She hovered around as Amelia seated herself on the sofa, asking about refreshments, his activities in London, the state of his stock. Odd. She had never known her mother to chatter.

When she stopped for a breath, he said, “I'd like to speak to Amelia. Alone.”

Her mother visibly swallowed, skin paling. She was afraid! Her stubborn, demanding mother was afraid to see her plans dashed. Pity stung her, and Amelia put a hand on her arm.

“It's all right, Mother. I'm sure Lord Hascot simply wishes to speak of things that will follow our wedding.”

Now her mother's color came flooding back, and she hurriedly excused herself.

“Nicely done,” Lord Hascot said as the door shut behind her.

Amelia managed a smile. “Thank you. But I wasn't trying to mislead her. Why else would you come but to tell me your expectations?”

He licked his lips. Like the rest of his features, they were firm and sharp, as if chiseled that day from fresh marble. But what surprised her was that she saw a sheen of perspiration under the fall of his black hair.

“Are you certain you want to go through with this?” she marveled.

She wasn't sure how he would respond. Perhaps some part of her hoped for a declaration of secret devotion. The rest of her could only pray she'd given him license to beg off. Instead, he motioned her to the sofa and came to sit next to her, so gingerly she wondered if he thought he might stain the white upholstery.

“I'm not in the slightest certain,” he told her. “But I see no other way. I have given my word.”

Could it be so easy to rid herself of this stone-cold lord? Amelia found it hard to breathe with the possibility. “If you don't wish to marry me, sir, simply tell me.”

He took a deep breath as if he fought for air, as well. “It is not what I wish, but what you wish.”

The statement was so far beyond anything she had ever experienced that Amelia blinked. “What?”

He rubbed his hands along his coat, gaze on the movement of his fingers. “I never planned to marry. I have no time to be a doting husband. But if you wish to be my wife, you are welcome at Hollyoak Farm. I will keep the stables and the horses. The house will be yours to command. And I will expect you to manage any visitors who come merely to look.”

He made it sound as if she was accepting a position. “And the payment for my services?” she couldn't help asking.

He frowned as if he didn't understand her. “You will have a home, the funding to furnish and decorate it as you like and as much as you could want for dresses, though I can't imagine you will need many out in Derby. Know that I will honor my vows, and I will treat you with respect.”

Respect. Not love, not devotion. It was less than what she'd prayed for, but the new woman who was emerging seemed drawn to it. It was something she'd never had after all. And if he intended to honor his vows, then someday she might hope for children.

Something fierce and strong rose up inside her. She would have children to love, to dote upon as surely as if she had wished it for herself. That would be the good to come from this marriage, that would be God's blessing for her trials.

“Very well, my lord,” she said. “I accept your offer. We will marry in the morning. And may God smile upon our union.”

Chapter Five

A
nd so she was married. She stood before the rector, her parents and a few friends among the dark wood paneling and soaring stained glass windows of St. George's Hanover Square. She repeated her vows and listened to John repeat his in that gruff voice. It wasn't until she said, “Till death do us part,” that a tremor ran through her. She could only hope no one else noticed.

She continued smiling as they returned to her parents' home and the receiving line down the corridor as guests progressed to the wedding breakfast at tables her mother had had erected in the withdrawing room. She accepted congratulations, thanked the noble guests for their good wishes. She counted three dukes, two marquesses and an earl who was related to the king. And all of them seemed far more interested in making her husband's acquaintance than in wishing her well.

John did not appear the least bit humbled by the attentions paid him. He stood beside her, nodding, exchanging few words. His sharp features and hooded gaze reminded her of a falcon she'd seen once. That bird had been wary, gaze sweeping the grassy lands for prey. She didn't like the thought that perhaps this time she was the mouse.

“Well done,” Lord Danning said, next in line to congratulate them. A tall man with golden hair, his ready smile to her and John eased her tension. But it was the sight of Ruby beside him that truly raised her spirits.

Marriage obviously agreed with her friend, for Ruby's green eyes positively sparkled, and her mouth was stretched wide in a grin. Her red hair was tamed under a fashionable chip hat, an ostrich plume curling down around her ear to tease her cheek.

“As soon as you're finished,” she said, giving Amelia's arm a squeeze, “come find me. I can't wait to hear all.”

Amelia wasn't sure how much she dared relate with so many other people about. But after the guests had been seated for the wedding breakfast, she managed to slip away with Ruby into the gardens behind the house.

“I know the two of you met when you were up at Fern Lodge with us, but I won't believe it was love at first sight,” Ruby declared in her forthright manner. She linked arms with Amelia as they strolled the white-rocked paths among the low boxwood hedges. “So what happened? Did he follow you to London? Plead his case on bended knee?”

“Not quite,” Amelia admitted, going on to explain the situation. When she finished, Ruby's face tightened.

“Not the most auspicious of beginnings,” she agreed. “Do you at least admire him?”

Amelia thought hard. He was cool but generally considerate in a rough sort of way. He was not much of a conversationalist. He did not seem to be particularly devoted to family.

“He is by all accounts good with his horses,” she finally said.

The faint praise hung in the sunny morning air a moment. She glanced at Ruby, and suddenly they were both giggling.

“He looks presentable in a jacket and trousers,” Ruby offered.

“His nose is not offensive,” Amelia countered.

“He does slip out of services on Sunday to race his carriage,” Ruby assured her.

“And he isn't an avid fisherman,” Amelia proclaimed triumphantly.

Ruby hugged the sides of her emerald gown as if to hold in her laughter. “Oh, so true! You are very fortunate there, you know. On my honeymoon, I learned fifteen different ways to entice a trout to rise. Who would have thought the silly things so fussy!”

“Or so determined,” Amelia agreed.

Ruby sobered. “Indeed. I never thought I'd give the time of day to a trout other than to gobble him down for dinner. But I have come to care about such things as fishing because
he
cares about them. I'm sure it will be the same with you and Lord Hascot.”

Amelia could only hope her friend was right. In truth, she'd always enjoyed riding. Why shouldn't she enjoy helping John with his horses? Perhaps they could find companionship of a sort, at the very least.

Her doubts returned the moment they stepped out of the house for the carriage.

She had changed into her travel attire, a corded surge gown of navy blue with a feather-trimmed bonnet, and John had changed into a rough tweed coat and brown trousers. Her mother took one look at his scuffed boots and turned her back on him. But Amelia could see him frowning at the lumbering travel coach and wagon standing behind his trim carriage.

“What's all this?” he asked.

Before Amelia could answer, her mother drew herself up. She'd been far too busy with her other guests the past few hours to pay much attention to her daughter or new son-in-law. Now she affixed him with an imperial glare.

“These are Amelia's belongings, her contribution to your home, sir,” she informed him.

He eyed the chair leg poking out of the canvas covering the back of the wagon. “My home is sufficiently furnished, madam. You may keep your castoffs.”

“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.

Dangerous stuff that, his emotions turning on her smile. He refused to be so easily led again.

“You needn't be concerned I'll set you a similar task,” he assured her. “You'll have enough to keep you busy without dealing with the horses. Buyers appear frequently, often without warning. As I said, I expect you to deal with those who come merely to look. That includes keeping the wives and daughters occupied.”

“And safely away from the horses,” she said.

It was in him to agree, but something in the way she said it told him agreement wasn't wise.

“I'm more than happy to show a lady my stock,” he said instead. “But I've found most have little interest.”

“Perhaps if you asked,” she replied, gaze dropping at last, “you might find them quite interested indeed.”

Was she talking about his buyers or herself? She certainly seemed interested in the conversation. She had looked out for Belle as best she could that night in the stable, and she had risen to Contessa's defense when she'd initially heard the mare was missing. Still, he could not believe his horses would ever be as important to her as they were to him.

She seemed to think the conversation finished, for she lapsed into silence. Her gaze went to the window as if hoping to see their destination in the distance. He knew they had far to go yet. Gazing backward from where he sat on the rear-facing bench, he could see that the stone buildings of London were disappearing to be replaced by golden fields of grain and neat hedgerows. As they took a bend in the road, he spotted another fellow following them. John frowned.