by Regina Scott
And Caro had been smart to make sure she married the title. That was where the power and security lay after all. No one had foreseen that James would die of heart failure a year later, leaving the title and a grieving widow to John.
Custom had prevented Caro from attending the funeral, but she’d sobbed against John’s waistcoat when he’d visited the house afterward.
“What am I to do, John?” she’d asked. “How am I to get on?”
“Nothing will change,” he’d promised, wanting only to escape the memories that assaulted him in her presence. “You have the London house and the Hascot seat. I’ll stay at Hollyoak.”
“You needn’t do that,” she’d protested, but he’d known it was the only solution. Spending time in her company was too painful. And the church decreed that by marrying his brother, she had put herself forever beyond his reach.
“How is she?”
John blinked, the memories fading. Amelia was standing at the edge of the stall, pelisse covering her nightclothes. Her hair was unpinned, flowing down her back, her face soft and concerned. In her hands was a tray with several cups and a silver pot that steamed.
“Still laboring,” John confirmed, trying to gather his wits. “I told Fletcher I’d stay until dawn.” He wasn’t so far from Society that he’d forgotten he was to stand in the presence of a lady, so he started to rise. She nodded for him to remain seated.
Her gaze, however, was on the mare below. “I know her. That’s the horse that kicked Lord Danning.”
John chuckled, remembering. “Yes. She has a lot of fire, this one.”
“That’s why she’s still fighting.” She ventured closer, and her gaze met his. “May I?”
John made room for her beside him. As she lowered the tray past his gaze, he noticed several biscuits and some cheese and grapes beside the pot.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Amelia said as if she’d seen his look.
All at once he was famished. He grabbed a piece of cheese and bit into it as she poured him a cup of tea.
“Sugar?” she asked as if they were meeting in a cheery sitting room instead of a shadowed stable.
“No, thank you.” His mother would have been pleased to know he remembered some of the manners she’d tried to instill in him.
Though there was plenty of food for Amelia as well, she seemed more interested in the mare. Cautiously, she reached out a hand and stroked the horse’s hock. Firenza lay down her head with a sigh.
“She’s trembling,” Amelia whispered, eyes wide as she glanced at John. “Is she in pain?”
“We don’t think so,” John replied, setting down his empty cup. “And the convulsions have stopped. But she can’t seem to settle.”
“Perhaps she needs a distraction,” Amelia said, pulling back her hand. “Belle likes when I sing to her.”
His face must have betrayed his surprise, for she smiled. “It’s not uncommon. I’ve heard of others who sing to their beasts to calm them. May I try?” she asked.
John spread his hands. “It couldn’t hurt.”
Her mouth quirked as if she was used to such lackluster encouragement. But she rose onto her knees and began to sing.
Afterward, John couldn’t remember the words. He only knew how they made him feel. The pure tone of her voice, the soft lilt of the song, seemed to sink into him. Tense muscles relaxed, concerns drifted away. It was as if he was floating, rising, darkness brightening into light at last.
Is this what it sounds like in Your temple in heaven, Lord?
The thought came unbidden, yet it felt right, and he fancied he knew the answer.
As the last note faded, Amelia sat back, watching the roan’s sides rise and fall. Even John could see the rhythm was even, normal. She glanced at him.
“I think that helped,” she said, and he could hear the hope in her voice. She wanted his approval. “What do you think?”
“I think, madam,” he said, “that you are a very great blessing.”
She ducked her head, coloring, but John could see the smile curving her pretty lips. If he leaned forward, he could touch them, perhaps feel them warm under his.
He didn’t lean forward. He didn’t move. He had no doubt that Lady Amelia was the blessing he’d named her. He simply couldn’t believe that blessing was meant for him.
Chapter Eight
He liked the way she sang.
Amelia smiled as she sat in the stall next to John. She’d received any number of compliments on her voice since her debut in Society two years ago, but part of her had always wondered about the sincerity. It was expected to praise a young lady’s attempts at the arts. The comments were not necessarily commensurate with her actual abilities, especially if she was pretty or wealthy or the daughter of a powerful family. As Amelia was all three, she had never been certain the praise she received was merited.
But John already had access to whatever dowry her father had granted. There was no reason for him to attempt to impress Lord Wesworth, particularly in a stable so far from London. And she could not mistake the admiration warming his dark eyes.
Besides, it was rather satisfying to know she’d eased Firenza’s pain. She could see that the horse was more relaxed, her breathing more regular.
Thank You, Lord, that I could help!
She was quite content to sit here and bask in her accomplishment. But their companionable silence was remarkably short-lived.
“You needn’t stay up,” John said, shifting on the straw.
Was he trying to get rid of her? Disappointment bit. Surely her company was preferable to sitting alone in a stable that was rapidly growing cooler as night darkened the dale. Or was Turner wrong about his loneliness?
“I don’t mind waiting,” she assured him.
He frowned. “Is something wrong with your room, the bed?”
She felt her cheeks warming again. “It is a fine room, a comfortable bed. It will do quite nicely until…we decide on other arrangements.”
She wasn’t sure how else to state the matter. Married or not, one did not ask a gentleman when he would be comfortable enough to sire a child.
As if he understood her cryptic comment, his brow cleared, and his gaze focused on her. It was rather unnerving being the center of his attention. Every line of his body, from his sharp features to his lean muscles, seemed tensed to penetrate her defenses. Was this how the hare felt when the hawk hovered above?
“There will be no need to make other arrangements,” he said. “I do not intend to share your bed.”
Relief vied with chagrin. It took a moment for the implication to sink in. Then Amelia stared at him. “Ever?”
He grimaced, looking away from her at last. “Let us say for the foreseeable future.”
“Oh.” The enormity of it settled over her. He did not intend to consummate the marriage. She would have no children to love, no example to set. She’d spend every day as she’d done today, alone in the house. She knew from her time at Lord Danning’s that Dovecote Dale boasted only three other houses of the aristocracy, and two were only occasionally occupied. She might as well be living on the moon.
“If you like children,” he said as if discussing her preference in meals, “there are a number of fine charities you could support. Danning gives to the orphan asylum.”
And her friend Ruby, now Lady Danning, was building a school in the poorest part of London, Amelia knew. She dared to glance at him. “So you are not opposed to children per se.”
He shook his head, hair falling onto his forehead, a swath of black across the sun-tanned skin. “I don’t have time or patience to be a husband, much less a father.”
“Oh.” Why did she keep repeating that insipid word? All her hopes, all her dreams, lay dead at her feet. Didn’t they deserve a better eulogy?
Didn’t they deserve a fight?
As silence fell once more, the idea Turner had planted took root and started to grow. Why shouldn’t she fight for what she wanted? She’d rarely prevailed
against her parents, but this was her life, and she was becoming a new woman. She had convictions, as strong as his. Why must she give them up?
She watched this man, her husband, sitting beside her. John’s hawklike gaze never faltered. The tension that she had felt now turned on Firenza, intensified. He was as tight as a well-placed thread, so determined to miss no nuance in the mare’s condition, so dedicated to keeping her safe.
What if Amelia could turn that attention to her?
The thought sent a shiver through her.
“Here.” John must have noticed her movement, for he reached for a blanket draping the stall and tossed it to her. Though it smelled of horse, she pulled it about her shoulders.
As she had suspected, those dark eyes missed nothing. How could she help him see things differently?
Her mother and governess had instructed her how to use her beauty as a weapon. She’d rarely taken advantage of the tactics they’d advised. Flaunting her face and figure was no better than her father flaunting his prestige. In the end, such actions only made the other person feel smaller. She didn’t want to do that to anyone else.
But perhaps she needn’t go so far. Perhaps she could find more appropriate ways to encourage her husband see her in a new light. She could make his home brighter, his life better. If he saw her dedication, he’d realize she would be a good mother and that the two of them together could deal well with a child.
He might even come to love her.
The last thought took her breath away, and she closed her eyes a moment at the emotions surging through her. She hadn’t realized how hungry her heart was until it was offered the chance for something more.
Heavenly Father, would it be too much to ask for someone to love me?
What a dangerous prayer, for how she would hurt if it wasn’t answered the way she hoped!
Indeed, from any angle she considered, attempting to help John would be risky. He might never notice her actions. Worse, he might resent what could be seen as interference in the life he had carefully planned for himself.
But, oh, wasn’t the risk worth the potential reward?
She opened her eyes and raised her head. She would do it. She would start a campaign to win her husband’s heart, for her sake and his.
*
John thought surely Amelia would either fall asleep on his shoulder or decamp for the house partway through the night. Instead, she stayed beside him, the orange-blossom scent of her hair drifting on the air. She was as watchful as he was, pointing out when the mare’s breathing became labored again, stroking the horse’s coat when Firenza grew restless. She helped the mare to drink when John brought fresh water, evened out the straw when John forked in a fresh batch. And all with a pleasant smile and a kind word.
He’d never met a woman like her.
His mother had always encouraged both her sons to remember their duty and explore their gifts. Like John’s father, however, she had not understood her younger son’s fascination with horses. From an early age, he’d been enamored with the powerful creatures who could fly around the fields. And when he learned they could soar over fences and across ditches, too, he’d known he’d found his true calling.
His mother had tried to dissuade him when he’d stammered out his intentions.
“A gentleman might own horses, John,” she’d said. “He does not start them from scratch.”
He’d smiled at the way she’d made it sound as if he was pursuing a career in baking. She had found it difficult to even acknowledge the breeding side of his efforts.
And even Caro hadn’t liked the location of the farm.
“So far from London?” she’d said with a wrinkle of her pert nose when he’d told her about Hollyoak Farm, which he’d purchased three years before meeting her. “What do you do for Society?”
He should have known then that Caro was not the woman for him. Society—the gaiety, the whirl—had ever been her delight. He’d never enjoyed the politics of Society, fueled by gossip and petty intrigues. His horses had more character and were far more loyal than most of the people he’d met in London.
He had to admit, however, that his new bride did not seem to be missing Society overmuch. Nor did she disdain John’s efforts. Indeed, she walked with him back to the house when Fletcher came to take his turn, then woke a few hours later to support the unpacking of her things, which had arrived from London.
He did not see her until later in the day, when she came to where he and Fletcher were standing beside the main paddock behind the west stable block. Then she exclaimed with pleasure when she saw the groom leading Firenza around the square.
“You saved her!”
John clapped Fletcher, who was watching the mare’s progress, on the back. “We have Dr. Fletcher to thank for that.”
“No, indeed,” the veterinarian assured him with a smile to Amelia, as well. “It was a joint effort. I understand you helped, too, Lady Hascot.”
Amelia demurred, but just then the mare tugged on her lead, jerking it from the groom’s hand. Firenza trotted up to the fence in front of Amelia and nickered in greeting.
“Oh, aren’t you a darling?” Amelia crooned. She stroked the mare’s nose with gentle fingers.
Fletcher elbowed John. “I think you’ve finally found a rider for your roan.”
“Firenza’s still not at full strength,” John replied, knowing how fractious the mare had been. “I’ll not put Lady Hascot on her.”
Amelia lowered her hand and turned to the men. Her color was once more high, but he wasn’t sure the reason.
“I am a decent rider, my lord,” she said.
Did she think he meant to disparage her? “You may well be, madam,” he replied. “But Firenza has proved impossible to ride, for anyone but me. I would not see you injured.”
She inclined her head. “How kind of you to think of me. Might I tear you away from your work a moment?”
Though the words were as sweet as always, something stronger swam beneath them. Fletcher must have heard it as well, for he hurried to excuse himself, and the groom retrieved the lead and led Firenza away.
Amelia moved closer to John. She wore one of her muslin gowns that he found difficult to tell apart. They all seemed to combine lace and yards of pale material, and she floated about in them as if she was a dainty cloud come to earth. Now, however, by the frown gathering on her golden brow, he thought a storm might be brewing.
“Is there a difficulty?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” she acknowledged. “You asked me to manage the entertainment of your guests. Your butler tells me that you rarely entertain. Are you planning something more elaborate than in the past, or is he mistaken?”
John turned for the pasture and motioned her to join him. Together, they started out across the grass.
“We have company often enough,” he explained as she lifted her skirts to keep the lace from the grass. “Perhaps once a month, June through September. And nearly every week in May, after most of the horses foal.”
Her steps faltered as if she hadn’t expected his answer. “How many at a time?” she asked as she caught up to him.
John stopped to watch a group of the horses walk together across the green, the silver-coated Contessa in the lead. “Anywhere from one to a dozen, some with servants in tow.”
Now her frown deepened, as if his math did not add up. She pushed back a strand of hair that had blown free in the breeze. “And do you house them, feed them, provide entertainment beyond the horses?”
He had never considered his horses entertainment, but he knew others did. “I have not allowed them to stay, and I do not encourage other pastimes beyond buying. However, we are forced to feed them on occasion. Why the concern?”
She sighed, gaze on the horses, as well. “We have a butler who does not appear to appreciate hard work, a footman who has too much work and a cook who finds his work too difficult. The three of them are utterly insufficient even if we do not intend to entertain.”
; John shrugged. “Then change things.”
She rubbed her hand along the drape of her skirt, his gaze following the movement of her fingers. She had nice fingers—long, supple. He ought to buy a spinet so she could accompany her singing. He’d warrant she played beautifully.
Where had that thought come from?
“I would like to change things,” she admitted. Then, as if expecting him to disagree, she hurried on. “Nothing tremendously noticeable. Just improving efficiencies, perhaps brightening the rooms.”
She paused as if seeking his approval, and John nodded for her to continue. Apparently emboldened, she raised her head. Then her frown returned.
“What are they doing?”
John glanced out into the field. Contessa had herded the other mares into formation. As a group, they trotted and turned, weaving about the grass in a complex dance.
“Cavalry drills,” John explained. “She was well trained, and the training never left her. We have another mare who also served on the Peninsula, though she came back in better shape. She knows to follow Contessa’s lead.”
Amelia was quiet for a moment, and he could see she was watching the horses. They gathered, then charged across the field, hooves as loud as thunder, grass flying up behind them. He could almost hear the bugle blowing.
“We all march to the drum,” she murmured. “However we are raised, however we are trained, it never seems to leave us. Do you think we can break free?”
John frowned, glancing at her. Her gaze never left the horses, but her hands were clasped in front of her so tightly her knuckles showed white.
“I have done everything to make Contessa comfortable,” he assured her. “For all intents and purposes, she is a hunter again.”
“And yet she remembers. I wonder if the same could be said of people.”
Was that her worry? Did she think herself too used to London Society to deal well in the country? She seemed to have acclimated well, if he was any judge.
“We can all learn,” he answered. “All grow and change. That choice is ours to make.”
She unclasped her hands and turned to him, taking a deep breath as if his words had given her hope.
