by Regina Scott
But he knew exactly what could happen when he allowed anyone too close—betrayal and pain. Amelia seemed to be different—he was surprised how much he wanted her to be different, but only time would tell if his fledgling feelings were justified.
He released her from his embrace, and the room felt somehow colder as she stepped back.
“We’ll take our own time,” he promised her. “Very likely we’ll be fine so long as we ignore the well-meaning advice of our friends and neighbors. This matter is between the two of us. We must be the ones to determine the outcome.”
She curtsied. “Yes, my lord.”
He hated when she was subservient. He always felt as if he’d kicked a puppy. “I like you better when you fight me.”
Her head came up, brow furrowed. “You want me to be unpleasant?”
“I don’t think you know how,” John replied. “You are always kind, always considerate. But if you have an opinion on a matter, madam, state it. I may be the king of my castle, but I am not a despot.”
She nodded. “Very well.” She put her hands on her hips and raised her head. He was in for it now. He waited for her to demand another increase in the household allowance, to order him to let her ride Magnum.
“This is the ugliest room in the house,” she said. “And I wish you’d give me leave to redecorate.”
John blinked, then glanced around. He hadn’t really looked at his library for a long time. He used the room to update his breeding book, to draft correspondence, to review matters with Fletcher or another member of his staff. The space was a bit on the dark side, and he’d never been particularly fond of those leather armchairs by the fire. No matter how many times he had sat in them, they had never conformed to his shape.
Returning his gaze to hers, he spread his hands. “There is nothing sacred here. Do what you wish with it.”
By the light in her eyes, he knew she would. He managed to make his escape to the stables before she suggested other things that needed to be altered in his life.
“Why do women always want to change a fellow?” he complained to Fletcher later that day as they examined a mare that had come up lame.
“My mother had a theory,” Fletcher said, running his large hands up the injured leg, checking for lumps or bruises. “She said Adam was imperfect. That’s why God made Eve.”
John grimaced. “To remind him of his shortcomings.”
“I believe it was actually to help him,” Fletcher said with a smile, light flashing in his spectacles. “Ah, there’s the culprit—damaged tendon, not too bad right now, but we want to nip it in the bud. Hand me the liniment, if you will.”
John reached into the carpet bag the veterinarian had brought with him to the stables and pulled out the jar of cream. Opening it, he wrinkled his nose. “Rue?” he asked as he handed the jar to his friend.
“To reduce swelling,” Fletcher said. “There’s also arnica for pain and other ingredients, too. My father swore by it.”
His father, John knew, had raised sturdy highland ponies, the type that worked for their supper. “And what did he advise in matters of the heart?”
Fletcher grinned. “That a gentleman should merely nod and say yes.”
John chuckled. “I wish it was that easy.”
“Why do you make it difficult?” Fletcher asked, rubbing the cream into the mare’s fetlock. “I cannot imagine our sweet Lady Hascot is so demanding.”
“She wants to redecorate the library,” John said.
Fletcher’s hand stilled. “The library? Oh, that is cutting close to the bone.” He glanced at John. “What did you say?”
“I nodded and said yes.”
Fletcher shook his head as he returned to his work, red curls brushing the mare’s belly. “See? You’re doing splendidly.” He leaned back, wiped his hands on a rag and patted the mare. “And so is this little lady.”
John reached into the bag and pulled out the roll of bandages. “You’ll want these next.”
Fletcher accepted the cloth with a nod of thanks. “I’d say,” he ventured as he unwound a length, “that you are remarkably fortunate in your choice of brides. Your lady doesn’t pick at a fellow, as I’ve seen some do, questioning his choices.”
“Lady Caroline did that,” John remembered. “Subtly, mind you. She had a way of looking at my cravat or boots that told me they weren’t up to snuff.”
“Thank the Lord your wife is not so inclined.” He busied himself wrapping the mare’s leg. “And if she has a larger complaint, it’s likely justified.”
“Whose side are you on?” John demanded.
“Yours,” Fletcher assured him. He tore off the end of the bandage and tied it in place. “But I’d be no kind of friend if I didn’t want the best for you, and it seems to me your wife feels the same way.”
Did she? John thought about it more that day and the next morning as the footman helped him dress for Sunday services. He had told Amelia to state her opinions, her needs, and she was beginning to take his advice. Why, then, couldn’t he bring himself to give his heart? She’d improved the house, in looks and operation, just as he’d hoped. She was good with the horses, with the possible exception of Magnum. She was relentlessly kind. Surely he could trust her.
Together, could they make a family?
The matter was so much on his mind that he found himself unable to attend to the readings as he sat beside Amelia in the Hascot pew that day at St. Andrew’s in the village of Dovecote. He had always liked the church. Though it was merely a country chapel, all the landowners in the area had donated to make it the finest, from the new pipe organ to the stained glass windows beaming down on the congregation. And it was an orderly church, with the tombstones in the churchyard sitting as straight as the boxed pews. The Reverend Mr. Battersea would have had it no other way.
Usually John searched the words in the reading and the rector’s lecture, looking for something from the Lord. Ever since his brother and Caro had betrayed him he’d felt as if God had distanced himself, as well. Certainly John’s prayers never seemed to go higher than the vaulted ceiling.
Did You put Amelia in my life for a reason, Lord? Am I to learn something from all this?
“And thus,” the rector concluded, peering at his alert congregation through his silver-rimmed spectacles, “we are reminded that all things work to the good for those who love the Lord and are called according to His purposes. Join me in singing.”
John rose with Amelia, and she held the songbook so he could see the words. But he didn’t need it. Her perfect voice was written on his heart.
“Gracious Spirit! Love divine!
Let Thy light within me shine;
All my guilty fears remove;
Fill me with Thy heavenly love.”
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
Amelia 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 campaig
ning 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.”
