by Regina Scott
But one moment she’d been yawning on the grain bin, and the next she was waking up on a bed of straw. She frowned at the change and couldn’t help wondering how she’d reached this spot.
Then the day’s events rushed back at her. She’d been at Fern Lodge keeping Mr. Calder busy so her new friend Henrietta Stokely-Trent could chaperone her other new friend Ruby Hollingsford on an outing with their host, Lord Danning. She thought she’d done rather well to follow Mr. Calder’s instructions and affix a creature of feather and horsehair he called a fly onto a brass hook and toss it into the river by way of a long, jointed pole. But Mr. Calder had forsaken his fishing lesson to search for Henrietta, and Amelia had been disappointed with herself for failing to keep him occupied and away from the courting couple.
Her disappointment was nothing to how her mother had reacted.
“And why are you keeping company with Mr. Calder in any regard?” she’d demanded after she’d found Amelia changing into her riding habit with the idea of going after the group. “He is the son of a second son, a nobody. We came here for Danning.”
Her mother had come for Danning. Lady Wesworth had decided the wealthy earl held promise for her daughter. Amelia had had hopes Lord Danning might have the makings of a good husband. He was kind, considerate and affable, everything her father was not. It had been rather exciting to be one of three women invited to a house party to determine which was best suited to be his bride. But it was quickly evident that he favored Ruby Hollingsford, and why not? Ruby was outspoken, fearless, bold.
Everything Amelia was not.
But some of Ruby’s boldness must have rubbed off, for Amelia had answered her mother, “I do not intend to marry Lord Danning. If I marry, I will marry for love.”
Her mother had puffed up like a thundercloud gathering. It was truly a fearsome sight, and one Amelia had witnessed only a few times in her life and never with good results.
“Your father will have something to say about that,” her mother had threatened.
The subsequent argument had so overset Amelia that she’d run for the stable at Fern Lodge, called for Belle and ridden as far and as fast as she could, seeking only escape.
Escape from a mother who could not understand.
Escape from a father who could not care.
Escape from expectations she could not meet.
Only when she’d felt the rain cooling her tears had she sought shelter, which was where Lord Hascot had found her.
She sat up, and his greatcoat slid down her form.
“Lord Hascot?” she asked, climbing to her feet and tucking her riding train up over one arm.
The door of the stable stood open, a shaft of sunlight stabbing through the darkness. A man stepped from the shadows into the beam of light. She recognized him immediately—that thatch of midnight-black hair, the sharp planes of his features, the still way he held himself as if ready for anything.
“Easy,” he said. “There’s no need for concern.”
Oh, there was every reason for concern. She knew what must happen next. If she hoped for any peace, she would have to apologize to her mother. She had long ago learned the many ways to turn criticism into commendation.
Unfortunately, this time would be more difficult. She knew what her mother wanted, what her father expected. They insisted that she marry a wealthy, titled gentleman who would bring further acclaim to the name of Jacoby, the House of Wesworth. No amount of positive thinking, prayer or discussion had changed their minds.
But wealthy, titled bachelors of marrying mind, she had learned, were not at all plentiful, and the competition to secure them was stiff. While she’d enjoyed the glittering balls, the witty conversations that were part and parcel to a London Season, she had not liked participating in the marriage mart. Men were quick to praise her beauty, but their attentions seemed shallow.
Indeed, it was rather degrading to have to parade herself, gowned in her best, hair just so, smiling, always smiling. Sometimes she felt as if she was one of the horses at Tattersalls, the famed horse auctioneers in London. She would not have been surprised if one of the gentlemen asked to examine her teeth!
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, my lord,” she told Lord Hascot. She bent, retrieved his greatcoat and held it out to him. “And thank the Lord the storm has ended.”
He came forward and accepted the coat as solemnly as if it were a royal robe. “You’ll want to be on your way, I suspect.”
“Yes, thank you.” She slipped into the box next to hers and reached for Belle’s headstall, which was hanging from a hook at the end of the box. “My mother will be worried.”
“I sent word to Fern Lodge this morning,” he said.
Her fingers froze. Indeed, she was surprised she could even blink. “This morning?”
“It is past dawn,” he said. “One of my grooms just came in search of me. You slept through the night.”
She clutched the leather of the reins and managed to turn and look at his scowling face. “And where did you sleep?”
“I didn’t. I was over there.” He lifted his chin toward the far wall. “You were not disturbed.”
She nodded. She had to nod, for every part of her was shaking. She’d spent the night alone with a gentleman. It didn’t matter that nothing untoward had happened. It didn’t matter that he had merely kept watch over her from the opposite side of the stable.
She was ruined.
Ruined.
No one of consequence would offer for her now. All her father’s expectations, all her mother’s hopes for an alliance with a highborn family were utterly, irrevocably dashed.
She was free!
Thank You, Lord!
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, cl
inging 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.
“Thank you, Lord Hascot,” she said, trying for a similar sincerity in the oft-used phrase. “I appreciate everything you did for me and Belle.”
One of his hands strayed to Belle’s nose, the touch soft, and those stern lips lifted in a smile. Why, he could be quite handsome when he smiled, his dark locks falling across his forehead and the sunlight brightening his brown eyes to gold. Before she could say anything more, he turned away, and she fancied she felt the chill of winter in the summer air.
Such an odd man. Amelia shook her head as she made for the house. He acted as if he was much bet
ter off without people around. Still, he had been kind to stay with her and offer for her when needed. Now she had to prepare herself to face the true consequences of the night’s events: her mother’s disapproval. Help me, Lord!
She was thankful to see the young woman waiting for her in the corridor, just as Lord Hascot had predicted. The maid had light brown hair peeking out of her white lace-edge cap, a round face and a firm figure swathed in a gray dress and white apron. On seeing Amelia, she immediately bobbed a curtsy.
“Dorcus Turner of Rotherford Grange, your ladyship,” she announced. “His lordship sent for help, seeing as how he has no lady on staff. How might I be of assistance?”
Another oddity. Surely a house this size required several maids to keep it clean. Or did Lord Hascot disdain even the services of a female?
“Thank you for coming all this way, Turner,” Amelia answered. “Is there somewhere I might tidy up?”
Turner wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t been told, but I imagine there must be some spare room in this dismal pile.” Amelia’s surprise at her outspoken manner must have been evident, for the maid dipped another curtsy. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship. This way.”
She led Amelia down the dim corridor paneled in squares of dark wood, and Amelia soon agreed with the maid’s assessment of the house. Though it was now midmorning, every velvet drape remained closed, every candle unlit, making the place a house of shadow. Combined with the dark paneling that covered at least half of every room she glanced into as they passed, she could easily imagine the mistress of the house curling away in a corner to cry. Small wonder Lord Hascot rarely smiled!
She followed Turner up a set of stairs with a brass-topped banister to a room on the chamber story, where the maid set about taking down Amelia’s hair.
“I warrant you’re the first lady to set foot in this house for a long while,” she said as she worked. “I hear tell Lord Hascot never lets his visitors closer than the stables.”
