by Regina Scott
What would he do? What had he planned? Oh, please, Lord, show me how to love him, whatever he does!
She was on her way to her room to change for dinner when Turner met her at the top of the stairs.
“There was a bit of a mess, your ladyship,” she said, “as I predicted. Things aren’t quite settled. I have everything you need for this evening in the other room.”
Well, that was odd. Perhaps she should supervise her staff more closely!
“Very well,” Amelia agreed.
In the small room, one of her favorite evening gowns lay spread on the covers. It was simple, with white lace at the curved neck and puffed sleeves and a fall of sky-blue satin. She smiled as Turner settled the folds around her.
“I have in mind a different style tonight,” the maid confessed. “I think you’ll like it, and so will his lordship.”
She set about taking down Amelia’s pins and combing out the tresses until they shone. Then she pulled them back from Amelia’s face to allow them to flow down her back.
“Daring,” Amelia said, turning her head to regard the coiffure in the hand mirror. “I like it. I feel daring tonight. But the drape of this gown demands a necklace.”
Turner made a face. “The jewel case is still locked up, your ladyship. But I wouldn’t worry. You sparkle better than any diamond.”
Amelia thought she was right. She felt light as a bubble as she came down the stairs to the dining room. Inside, candlelight glowed on the gilt-edged plates, the crystal goblets. A man stood by the hearth with his back to her, black tailcoat emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, hair pomaded in place. Disappointment shot through her.
Father, please not another Amble By!
“Forgive me, sir,” she said, venturing into the room. “I didn’t realize we had company.”
“Company?” There was no mistaking that deep, rough voice. John turned and scowled at her. “I specifically said we were not to be disturbed.”
Amelia’s hand flew to her mouth. His waistcoat was of finest Marcella silk, patterned in blue diamonds on white, but it was open at the neck, showing the skin of his throat. He had refused to wear a cravat.
“Oh, John, please forgive me,” Amelia said, going to join him near the fire. “I still find it hard to recognize you when you dress for dinner.”
He grimaced. “My fault entirely. A lady has a right to see her husband decked out on occasion.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “It is only your due, Amelia. You are the mistress of this house, my wife, and it is long past time I started treating you with the honor you deserve.”
Amelia blushed as he led her to her seat. “Thank you, John. You would do justice to any London event.”
His mouth lifted. “I’m only thankful we are not there now.” He nodded toward her place.
An oblong velvet box sat in the center of her plate. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” John said, waiting.
She willed her fingers not to shake as she worked the clasp.
Inside lay a perfect set of pearls, each iridescent bead exactly the same size as the others. She knew where she had seen such a set before.
“Oh, John,” Amelia breathed.
“Do you like them?” He reached around her and removed them from the box. They brightened in the candlelight. “They were my mother’s, and she left them for my wife. It seems she had more faith in me than I did. I wanted you to have them.”
Tears were coming, but she blinked them back. She didn’t want tears, even ones of joy, tonight. “They’re beautiful. But you didn’t have to go to such trouble. I found your note.”
He had been lifting the pearls from the box. Now he stilled. “It was an early draft. I will do better in the future.”
She caught his hand. “You have no need to do better, sir. What you wrote was perfection. Thank you.”
His gaze met hers, warmed, even as the planes of his face softened. “May I put the pearls on you?”
She nodded, releasing his hand to sweep up her hair so he could clasp them behind her neck. His fingers brushed the tender skin, and she shivered as he stepped back.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and she knew he didn’t mean the necklace.
He went to sit beside her at the head of the table and tapped his glass with a silver fork. At the sound of the chime, Reams brought in a porcelain tureen and proceeded to ladle them each a bowl of mulligatawny soup. Amelia caught sight of Mr. Shanter, Turner and Mr. Hennessy grinning at the door before they respectfully withdrew.
She had taken three spoonsful of the spicy soup when she realized John was merely watching her. She lowered her spoon. “Don’t you like it?”
“I’m sure it’s delicious,” he replied. “I consulted the cook this afternoon, and he assured me it was one of your favorites. I simply find myself less hungry than I expected.”
Amelia swallowed, though she hadn’t taken another spoonful. “What else did you have planned for the evening, my lord?”
He rested both hands on the pristine linen. “I think we should reach a new agreement, on a number of issues. For one, from now on we are partners, in every sense of the word. I want your opinions on how to manage the stables, what to do with the horses.”
Amelia nodded. “You honor me, my lord. We will make all decisions together, then, whether inside this house or out. And neither of us will avoid difficult situations.”
“Agreed.” He toyed with his spoon but still did not take a bite. “Along that line, I will confess to making a decision without you. I had your things moved to my room. I know some couples do not share, but I’d like us to be that close. I can have a builder cut a door through to the room on the other side so you have your own sitting room and dressing room. What do you think?” He glanced up as if to gauge her response.
He truly was giving her every part of himself. How could she refuse?
Still, he must have read refusal in her hesitation, for he sagged. “I feared I was precipitous. Forgive me, Amelia. It’s just that I realize how much I love you, how I have come to depend on you. You are the very air I breathe.”
Amelia smiled at him. “Beautifully put, my love. I feel the same. But being here with you, seeing the pains you’ve taken to honor me, I suddenly find myself at a loss for words, as well. Perhaps there are only three that matter. I love you.”
“Amelia.” Her name was a prayer on his lips. He leaned toward her, and she met him. The kiss seemed to reach her very soul. This was love, shared heartache, shared joy, a commitment to the future. This was the gift of her heavenly Father. He loved her just as she was, and so did John. She had won her campaign for her husband’s heart and given him hers, and she knew her gift would be treasured, always.
*
That Sunday afternoon, there was cause for much rejoicing at the Conclave. The servants gathered around the large oak table gracing the center of the room and lifted their glasses.
“To Lord and Lady Rotherford,” Mrs. Jennings, the Grange cook, declared, her round face beaming. “They are returned from their honeymoon and happy as turtledoves. And I hear that perhaps little Alice will have a brother or sister within the year.”
“To their happiness,” the other servants chorused.
Next a little maid from the duke’s household rose. “My master has returned as well, and with an excellent candidate for bride.”
“Can he keep this one?” someone called out.
She blushed. “I believe he can, sir. For he brought back a suitor for his sister, as well!”
Cheers rang out, and more toasts were called.
Not to be outdone, Peter Quimby, the valet to the Earl of Danning lifted his glass, as well. “And here’s to having my first holiday in fifteen years so the earl and his bride could have some time alone. And not fishing for a change!”
The others laughed at that.
Dorcus Turner stood up, hand on one hip. “I have you all beat!” she declared. “My lord and lady decided to get married, at last!”
More cheers erupted, glasses clinked and congratulations passed all around. For when the good Lord is involved, all it takes is a little help from the master matchmakers to bring about a happily ever after.
*
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE PREACHER’S BRIDE CLAIM by Laurie Kingery.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing The Husband Campaign, the final book in THE MASTER MATCHMAKERS series. As soon as John, Lord Hascot, rode onto the page in The Wife Campaign, I knew he would be the perfect husband for the woman who could capture his heart. I hope you enjoyed seeing how Amelia grew into the woman for him.
Horses were an important part of life in Regency England, for transportation as well as ensuring a livelihood. Hunters like John’s were highly prized by their owners for their ability to leap and run across hill and dale. I like to think they, too, had personalities that endeared them to their riders.
If you have a horse story to tell or would like to contact me, be sure to visit my webpage at www.reginascott.com, comment on my blog at www.nineteenteen.com, or join me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/authorreginascott.
Blessings!
Regina Scott
Questions for Discussion
In the beginning of the book, Amelia isn’t certain of herself and her future. What kind of woman did she become?
Amelia realized that love cannot be earned. How do we try to earn love today?
John felt guilty for his feelings following his brother’s betrayal. When is guilt useful?
John feels as if God had distanced Himself. How can we know God is near even when we can’t always feel His presence?
Amelia and John were both moved by songs throughout the book. How can music affect those around us?
John and Amelia both saw their horses as friends. What kinds of personalities have you seen in animals?
There were several horses in the book. Which was your favorite and why?
Turner was uncommonly outspoken for a maid. When should we speak up to colleagues and employers?
Dr. Fletcher was more soft-spoken. When are gentle words more appropriate?
Amelia’s father was obsessed with prestige and position. What place does ambition have in our lives today?
John thought Amelia’s father and Magnum are jealous of her. Why do we become jealous of people?
Caro used her vivacious personality to manipulate those around her. When is flirting appropriate?
Caro thrived in London society, while Amelia came to prefer the quiet of Dovecote Dale. Where do you prefer to live—a city or town, or the country—and why?
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Love Inspired Historical title.
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Chapter One
April 1, 1889—Boomer Town, Oklahoma Territory
Alice Hawthorne sat down quietly on an empty bench in the back of the tent church. She’d waited until the little congregation was absorbed in singing “Shall We Gather at the River?” so she could steal in unnoticed. There was a family of six on the long bench ahead of her, but none of them paid any attention to her arrival—except for the shortest of the four stair-step boys. He looked over his shoulder at her, his face full of freckles, a cowlick at the back of his shaggy thatch of hair. When he noticed Alice was watching, he gave her a cheerful, gap-toothed grin. Despite the anxiety constricting her heart like a coiled snake, it was such a comical sight that she couldn’t help but smile back.
“You turn around this instant, Otis Beauregard LeMaster,” his mother hissed at him, without looking to see what or who had distracted her youngest. The boy obediently did so, and Alice was once again alone.
That suited Alice just fine. She hoped to continue to be overlooked among the inhabitants of the tent city as much as possible until the day of the Land Rush, after she had claimed her own 160-acre homestead. Her own and her mother’s, she reminded herself.
It was the first of April. Just twenty-one days until the Unassigned Lands—the lands not claimed by one of the many Indian tribes that now called the Oklahoma Territory home—were opened for settlement by the Indian Appropriations Act signed by President Cleveland. His successor, Benjamin Harrison, had designated noon on April 22 as the moment the settlers could rush in, plant their stakes at the claims of their choice and become real homesteaders.
She’d be safe then, wouldn’t she?
He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust… She remembered the verse from childhood, and it comforted her now when she felt like a terrified little bird fleeing from a hunter. Her fear was the reason she had come to the chapel service, to be reminded of God’s love and protection.
As the hymn ended, so did her comfortable solitude. With a rustle of skirts, two women plopped themselves down to her left. Alice kept her gaze aimed at the front and hoped they would leave her alone. She had not been an unsociable person before she’d fled New York, but now, she feared each introduction.
The woman next to her didn’t take the hint. “Hey, you’re new here, ain’t ya?” she asked, smiling in a friendly fashion, which revealed incisors that would have done a jackrabbit proud. “Don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Carrie Ferguson, and this here’s my sister, Cordelia.”
If she hadn’t said they were sisters, Alice would have guessed it, for the two women at her left were so similar-looking with their sun-weathered long faces, noses so sharp they could slice cheese, the same teeth.
“N-nice to meet you,” Alice managed to say. “I’m—” She thought about using an assumed name, but how could she lie—especially in a church, even one of canvas? “I’m Alice Hawthorne.” Hopefully the two women would forget the name—easy to do in a temporary city populated by hundreds of people, with more coming every day.
“Been in Boomer Town long?” Cordelia asked.
If only the service would start, Alice fretted. She didn’t want to answer a bunch of questions. But now that the hymn had concluded, the tall man who may be the preacher was talking to a middle-aged couple up front, and he seemed to be in no hurry.
Alice managed a small smile. “Just since yesterday.”
“Where ya from? We hail from St. Louis.”
“B-back East,” Alice said and prayed they would let it go at that. She wasn’t looking to make friends. Each person she gave her name to was one more person who could help Maxwell Peterson find her. And if he did, it would mean the end of her dreams.
*
“Looks like you’ve tripled attendance in the week you’ve been here, Reverend,” Keith Gilbert, his deacon, exulted as he nodded toward the nearly full benches. “You must be doing something right.”
“It’s the Lord’s doing,” he told Keith. “I have such plans for the church we’ll build in the territory. I hope many of the folks here will be able to settle near us.”
“Well, we’re certainly planning to stake a claim near enough to help you build it, once you decide which way you’ll head,” Keith said, and added, “Lord willing.”
“Glad to hear it, Keith,” Elijah murmured. “I’m counting on your help.”
Only one thing marred Elijah’s joy in the growth of his congregation—his brothers weren’t here. Wanting a fresh start as much as Elijah did, they had come to Oklahoma with him, but they wouldn’t attend his chapel services. His middle-born brother,
Gideon, wanted nothing more to do with God after he’d lost his wife and child in the influenza epidemic of ’87, and since Elijah had also lost his fiancée, Marybelle Atkins, Gideon couldn’t understand why Elijah didn’t feel the same. Clint, the youngest of the brothers and still a bachelor, was at odds with the Lord, too, after so many losses of friends and family.
My brothers should be here, Elijah thought, with that old familiar ache. Lord, please draw them back to You.
“The Lord has blessed our work,” he told the Gilberts. “Or perhaps folks come to the chapel because they need divine reassurance at this time of such big changes in their lives.”
The Gilberts nodded in approving agreement, but Elijah knew Gideon would have said something. Like maybe they think the more they show up here in chapel, the more likely the Lord will grant them the 160-acre claim of their choice. Or they don’t have anything else to do while they wait to claim their land.
Perhaps it was presumptuous to call the big tent that sheltered them from the blistering sun and spring rains a chapel—much less a church—but for now it was all the church they had, and Elijah was grateful for it. Hadn’t the Hebrews worshipped God in the open desert air, all those years they wandered in the wilderness?
He was about to greet the congregation when Mr. Gilbert said, “Did you see the pretty lady sitting in the back? The one in the dark bonnet? She came in during the hymn. Can’t remember seeing her before.”
Elijah followed the direction of Gilbert’s nod. Elijah couldn’t see the woman’s face at the moment, because her head was bowed and the bonnet she wore hid her features, but as if she had felt the scrutiny, she raised her head just then. He saw sky-blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face with a peaches-and-cream quality to it—she must be scrupulous about wearing a hat under the hot western sun. Her hair, what little of it he could see, was auburn. Her petite frame was clothed in serviceable calico.
Her blue eyes looked troubled, and he wondered why. Who is she? He thought he’d met everyone who came to his daily services, if not all the inhabitants of this tent city. But newcomers were arriving daily in anticipation of the Land Rush, so she must be a new arrival. He’d have to make it a point to introduce himself after the service, in case she was in need of assistance, as a woman alone very well might be. As the pastor of the freshly sprung-up encampment, his ministry consisted of helping the would-be homesteaders with their needs as much as it did with preaching. He was merely doing his duty.
