Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (12 page)

Love. Was that what the Lord wanted of him? That he should drop his guard and let Amelia in? Yet why would God put such a strong emotion as love before John once more? The last time had nearly been John's undoing. Was he any stronger now?

Chapter Twelve

A
melia could not remember a finer service. No one looked down on her that her gown, a favorite muslin with lace at the cuffs and hem, was last year's fashion. Indeed, with John in a navy coat and fawn trousers the footman had found at the back of his wardrobe, a tall-crowned hat on his dark head, hair finally in place, the two of them made a handsome pair.

Then, too, no one complained as her mother often did that the rector spoke too long or on too personal a subject. And Amelia could not fault John's attendance to the service. It had been a comfort to have him beside her, hearing his deep voice joining with hers as they responded to the rector, feeling his fingers brush hers as they shared the
Book of Common Prayer.

Yet she could not help sensing that the service had been more to John than a chance to gather with others of the faith to worship. That intensity she sometimes noticed had seemed to gather around him like a thundercloud building on the horizon, and his sharp gaze had devoured the rector as if hungry for every word. She had found herself listening more closely than usual as a result, trying to sense what he sensed. But instead of gaining insights, she had felt a welcome peace.

Thank You, Lord, for bringing me to a very good place!

“And this must be the Lady Hascot of whom I've heard so much,” the rector called out as John passed him at the end of service. Amelia stopped, forcing John to pause, as well. The Reverend Mr. Battersea was an older man with flyaway white hair and a manner of looking over his spectacles that made it seem as if he was sharing a particularly good joke. Now his gray eyes positively twinkled at her.

“My wife, Amelia, Lady Hascot,” John said in his gruff voice. “May I present our rector, Mr. Horatio Battersea.”

His wife. Something inside her fluttered when she heard John say those words. She smiled and offered the rector her hand, and he took it in both of his.

“Delighted, your ladyship,” he said, voice as friendly as his look. “I only wish I might have had the privilege of conducting the marriage ceremony, but perhaps we will have cause for other celebrations in the future.” He released her hand to beam at John. “Say, perhaps, a christening?”

“You have other parishioners waiting, I see,” John replied with a nod to the people who clustered around them as if to hear his answer to the rector's question. “Forgive us for keeping you.” He tugged Amelia onto the flagstone path that led through the graveyard toward where their carriage was waiting. Though she was glad not to have to answer the question, she knew they could not keep dodging it forever.

Nor could she dodge the duchess and her daughter. The Bellington coach was waiting right behind theirs, and Lady Bellington and Lady Prudence were standing next to it as if expecting conversation with their neighbors. Had they been in London, Amelia was certain many would have rushed to curry favor with so highly placed a family. Now, however, the other members of the congregation seemed to be going out of their way to avoid the two.

“We should say good morning,” she murmured to John.

She heard him sigh. “Yes, we probably should.” Still, he kept walking toward their own carriage.

Amelia gave his arm a squeeze. “A big strong fellow like you can't fear two little ladies.”

He shuddered. “With every fiber of my being, I assure you, madam.” But he allowed her to lead him from the path and over to them.

“Lady Bellington, Lady Prudence,” Amelia greeted the pair, “how nice to see you.”

Lady Prudence sneezed. “Pollen,” she explained and proceeded to blow her nose loudly and at length. “My Castleton physician says it can cause a scurrilous coruscation of the bowel.”

“Luckily,” Amelia said, aware of John shifting uncomfortably beside her, “it also results from the most beautiful flowers.” She nodded to the daisies growing along the edge of the yard. “How wonderful we can share them with you.”

“And I have something to share!” the duchess crowed, leaning forward, her taffeta gown rustling against the grass. “Bell is finally to marry!”

That was good news. “How marvelous,” Amelia said with a smile. “May I know the name of the bride so that I can send our congratulations?”

“I don't know her name,” the duchess confessed. “He couldn't come out and say it, you understand. It was all in the subtext of his note to me.” She lifted her reticule with one hand and began digging through it with the other. “Ah, yes, here it is.”

Would she read the entire thing to Amelia now? Had they been sitting in the withdrawing room, it might have been fine, but Amelia knew John would have a hard time being so patient.

“How kind of you to offer the information,” she tried, “but surely such correspondence must be between a mother and son.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Lady Bellington insisted. She opened the parchment and held it far out in front of her, peering at the bold black lines. “Oh, I cannot read it in this light. Here, Lady Hascot, your voice is better for this sort of thing. See, what he writes there?”

She thrust the note at Amelia, who took it with some trepidation. It was mercifully short.

“Am bringing friends with me next week,” she read aloud.

“There, you see?” the duchess declared, snatching it back from her as if it was a treasured heirloom. She folded it carefully away, chortling the entire time. “Oh, I can hardly wait! Grandchildren to dandle on my knee.”

“I'm not sure Dr. Willingston-Pratchard would allow me to dandle,” Lady Prudence said with a frown.

John's grip on Amelia's arm tightened. “I believe the horses have stood long enough,” he said. “Good day, ladies.”

“We should have encouraged her,” Amelia protested as he all but dragged her to their coach. “She says so many dismal things that surely we can celebrate when she says something positive for a change.”

“We'd do better to encourage the truth,” John said, opening the door and helping her climb in. “Bellington may be a duke with funds to spare, but he's had a difficult time convincing the right lady to marry into his family. And none can blame him for that fact.” He shuddered again.

“I think you are too hard on them,” Amelia insisted as he took his seat beside her. “No one is perfect.”

“See that you remember that,” he replied, then thumped on the roof to signal their coachman to set out for home.

Did he think she expected perfection? The idea refused to leave Amelia the rest of the day. As usual, John changed his clothes the moment they reached the farm and spent the afternoon out with the horses. Amelia tried to read an uplifting book, returning to her copy of
Waverly,
but the story of adventure on the Scottish highlands did not sweep her away as it usually did.

She had spent her life avoiding unpleasantness, ignoring slights and slurs. Perhaps it was time she took them on directly.

Accordingly, when John joined her for dinner, she broached the topic straightaway.

“I do not expect you to be perfect, my lord,” she said.

John paused, lamb raised halfway to his mouth. “I am very pleased to hear that.”

He said it so cautiously, as if preparing to fend off whatever Amelia was going to say next. Amelia set down her own fork.

“You don't like to fight either, do you?”

As if to deny it, he shoved the lamb into his mouth and chewed furiously a moment before answering. “A gentleman knows when to say his piece and when to hold his tongue.”

“So does a lady,” Amelia agreed. “But I am beginning to realize those rules are different between a husband and a wife.”

He frowned. “Why?”

Amelia wiggled her lips, trying to find a way to explain the certainty that was growing. “A husband and wife are closer. Partners, if you will. They must know each other's thoughts, anticipate needs.”

He shook his head and returned to his food. “You ask the impossible.”

“No, I don't think I do.” Amelia leaned closer to him. His strong hands never stopped moving; the glower never left his face. “You, for instance, require a certain amount of solitude to be happy.”

His look softened, and he chuckled. “You didn't need to be my wife to discover that. I'm not exactly social.”

“Indeed. But only someone close to you would understand. I am not attempting to change you, my lord.”

He cocked his head, dark eyes watchful. “Aren't you? Can you truly say you accept me just as I am, Amelia? That you have no regrets in marrying me?”

“My regrets,” Amelia said, “are not with the past, my lord. My regrets have to do with the future.”

“There is no sense worrying about the future,” he countered. “What will be, will be. It's up to us to make the best of it.”

* * *

She was to remember those words the next day. She'd thought hard and prayed harder about how to win her husband over. She felt as if she was missing some piece of the puzzle that was John, some aspect of his character that would unlock his heart. A campaigning general, after all, required reconnaissance. Perhaps a consultation with the veterinarian was in order. He clearly saw more of John than she did. Accordingly, she asked Marcus Fletcher to attend her when he had a moment.

“Dr. Fletcher,” she said when he made his bow where she sat at the little secretary that afternoon, “I would like your advice.”

He glanced around the room as if looking for a place to hide. Fortunately for Amelia, it was no longer the shadowed cave it had been when she'd arrived at Hollyoak Farm. Bright paintings of country landscapes graced the walls, and filmy curtains let in the light from the two windows. As if he realized that he could not escape her question, the veterinarian ventured closer.

“How might I be of assistance, your ladyship?” he asked, tugging down on his paisley waistcoat.

“You have worked for my husband for quite a while, have you not?” Amelia returned.

“Since he purchased Hollyoak Farm,” he confirmed. He cocked his head, gaze going to the parchment in front of her. Like Turner, he seemed inordinately interested in what she had written, but she knew the veterinarian could read.

“I would imagine you've spent a great deal of time together,” Amelia continued with a smile. “He must greatly admire your efforts.”

He stood a little taller. “I like to think so. And I admire his, your ladyship. He has a way with the animals, an understanding, if you will. I've never seen its like.”

That yearning was rising up inside her again. Why should even horses know affection when it had been denied her?

“He has a gift,” she agreed. She faced the veterinarian fully. “I have come to greatly admire him, as well, Dr. Fletcher. I've tried to make things pleasant for him.”

“Oh, you have, your ladyship,” he assured her. “You've only to look at this room to see that.”

“But is he happy?” Amelia protested. “Do you see him smile more often?”

Fletcher ran a hand back through his hair, fingers sticking in the red curls. “By your leave, your ladyship, he isn't a man to smile all that much to begin with.”

“I know.”

Her sorrow must have been evident, for he hurried forward and knelt beside her, putting his face on a level with hers.

“Now, you mustn't blame yourself, your ladyship,” he said, gray eyes earnest. “That's just his nature. I've read it's even in a man's spleen, whether he's happy or melancholy.”

He was a doctor, but she found his theory difficult to believe. “I've always thought that happiness is more of a choice, sir,” she said. “We are born with a temperament, to be sure, and our surroundings shape it. But we can choose to be content in our circumstances. Didn't the Apostle Paul say so?”

“He did,” he acknowledged. “But he'd never met Lord Hascot.”

Amelia couldn't help laughing. “That I cannot argue. But I wish I knew what more I could do to please him.”

He sighed. “I'm hard-pressed to say, your ladyship. Except, perhaps...”

Amelia leaned forward. “Yes?”

“Give him a little time?” He ducked his head as if he knew she wouldn't like the suggestion. “He's a proud man, a determined man. He doesn't change easily, even when he knows it's for the best.”

Amelia nodded, leaning back. “So I have noticed. It's just so hard to wait!”

He patted her hand on the desk. “I know.” He climbed to his feet. “But you've made a big difference already. Just keep at it, and I promise you won't be disappointed.”

She wished she could believe that. She was about to thank him for his time when Reams rushed into the room.

“Begging your pardon, your ladyship, Dr. Fletcher,” he managed, body trembling and coat askew. “But we have visitors.”

Amelia rose. “Her Grace and Lady Prudence?”

“No, your ladyship.” He visibly swallowed. “Mr. Hennessy says it's a Hascot coach and a big wagon.”

“A Hascot coach?” Amelia frowned. “But my things have already arrived.”

“Only one other person's allowed to use a coach marked with the Hascot insignia,” Dr. Fletcher said. He met Amelia's gaze, and dread washed over her.

“You mean...” She couldn't bring herself to say the name aloud.

He nodded, color fleeing. “That's right, your ladyship. The Dowager Lady Hascot is here, and by the sound of it, she intends to stay awhile.”

* * *

John sighted the cavalcade from the field. He'd been out with Magnum, making sure Contessa was behaving for once, and he'd taken the opportunity to check the creek for any more of the water hemlock that had sickened Firenza. As they rode back toward the stables, Magnum had bugled in warning.

“Buyers,” he told the black with a pat on the horse's muscular neck. “Never you fear. You're not for sale.”

Still, he knew his duty, so he urged the stallion across the grass, jumping this ditch and that wall. It was a show, an exhibition. Gentlemen saw Magnum's abilities and hungered for a horse of his caliber. He had several hunters ready to take to the field. Perhaps one of these people would be a good match.