Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (3 page)

Chapter Three

J
ohn was certain he'd seen the last of Lady Amelia. Her family had no reason to interact with his. He'd already refused her father's attempt to purchase a horse, twice. Something about the Marquess of Wesworth struck him as cold, calculating. Any kindness in the man had obviously been passed to his daughter.

Yet as John checked with his head groom and learned that Contessa was still missing, he could not seem to forget the woman he'd found sleeping in the straw. Perhaps that was why he hurried out of the stables at the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel.

A lavish landau sat on the yard, brass appointments gleaming in the morning light. The four matched grays pulling it had the sleek, well-kept look of carriage horses. He would not have allowed one in his stable, and he was none too sure the same might not be said of the lady perched on the leather-upholstered seats of the open carriage. Lady Wesworth's back was ramrod straight in her serpentine pelisse, the peacock feather in her bonnet waving in the breeze.

Most of his grooms were still out searching for Contessa, but his veterinarian, Marcus Fletcher, must have heard the carriage as well, for he came out of the opposite stable block. A tall, gangly fellow with a riot of curly red hair and gold-rimmed spectacles, he was generally good with people for all he'd chosen to be a horse doctor instead of a physician. By the imperious frown on Lady Wesworth's face, however, John thought even Fletcher's good nature might not be sufficient.

“Lord Hascot,” she said as John approached, Fletcher falling into step beside him. “What have you done with my daughter?”

She made it sound as if John had stolen Amelia from her home. Luckily, he was spared an answer by the opening of the rear door of the house and the entrance of the lady herself, followed by the maid John had requested from Rotherford Grange.

“Amelia!” Lady Wesworth cried as her daughter drew closer. “Are you hurt?”

A reasonable question, but it was said with a note of accusation, as if only injury would allow her mother to condone her actions.

“Good morning, Mother,” Lady Amelia answered pleasantly, as if she usually started the day in a strange house. “I'm very sorry if I concerned you. I'm fine.”

Indeed, she looked quite fine. The maid had done an excellent job of smoothing her platinum hair, brushing out the plum habit. Her blue eyes sparkling, Lady Amelia was nothing short of perfection.

Unfortunately, her mother did not appear to agree. Her chilly gaze swept over her daughter, as if seeking any fault.

“Of course you concerned me,” she all but scolded. “You are my daughter, our only child.” She affixed her gaze on John and held out her hand in a clear order to help her from the carriage.

He ignored her and turned to Lady Amelia. He had done his duty and delivered her safely back to her family. Surely that would silence the nagging voice in his head that he should do more.

“I trust the rest of your visit to Dovecote Dale will be unmarred by further unpleasantries, your ladyship,” he said with a bow. “Safe travels.”

Was it his imagination, or did her smile warm at his gesture? “Thank you, Lord Hascot. I hope you find your missing horse.”

Despite everything that had happened, she remembered Contessa. That alone made her remarkable in John's eyes. As his head groom brought out a brushed and watered Belle, her smile only grew.

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.

And yet she could not seem to stop trying.

“I'm very sorry, Father,” she said to his back, attempting to stand as still and composed as he was. “But I can assure you that nothing untoward happened at Hollyoak Farm. Lord Hascot offered for me and I refused. The matter is settled.”

He turned from the view at last, his pale blue eyes showing not the least emotion. “I fear the matter cannot be settled so easily. Hascot would be a decent alliance for you. I intend to have him.”

“A shame you're already wed, then,” Amelia said.

Her father stiffened, and she wanted to sink into the floor. Where had that come from? How could she be so disrespectful?

“Forgive me, Father,” she said. “I suppose I meant that as a joke, and it was a poor one. I merely thought we would have more discussion when it came time to choose a suitor.”

“Your mother and I have discussed the matter,” he replied as if that were sufficient. “I have written to Hascot and requested that he attend me.”

His note might have been couched as a request, but it would have been an order. She felt as if something was crawling up inside her, choking her, making her fists clench. Her parents were going to force her to wed.

Lord, show me how to stop them!

Calm welled up. She would prevail. And Lord Hascot would have something to say in the matter. For one thing, he knew he and Amelia had settled things. For another, he bore her no love. How could he?

She'd read a number of stories in which the hero conceived undying devotion for the heroine the moment he saw her, but in her experience it took a bit more time and proximity to develop lasting emotions. At least, that was what she hoped. For if men were supposed to wish to marry her on sight, something was very wrong indeed.

“Please don't press me on this, Father,” she said.

Her father was watching her with a slight frown, as if he wondered what woman was masquerading as his daughter. “If it is that business with Lady Hascot that concerns you,” he said, “I can assure you her interests lay elsewhere.”

“Lady Hascot?” Amelia asked, confused. “Lord Hascot's mother?”

“His older brother's widow, the former Lady Caroline Musgrave,” her father corrected her, with a look that said she should have known that. “As the wife of the previous titleholder, she is beholden to the Hascot estate for her living. I understand there has been a question about whether Lord Hascot intends to honor his brother's wishes, but his actions should have no bearing on you.”

The only thing she'd seen about Lord Hascot that could make her admire his character was his care for his horses. He might be handsome, in a dark, brooding sort of way, and he had been kind to assure her safety that night in the stable. But he was stiff in conversation, sharp in manner, rough in voice and dismal in attitude. Now it seemed he could not even care for a poor widow!