by Regina Scott
Wesworth perched behind the desk, his lips twitching as if he could not decide whether to smile. Or perhaps he was simply unused to the gesture. A spare man with a balding pate, he was so still and pale that he reminded John of grain left too long in the rain.
“I see this contretemps in Derby as an opportunity for the both of us,” he explained.
John cocked his head. “I don’t follow you.”
He rearranged the quills laid out on his desk, from longest to shortest, the sharp ends all pointing inward. “I am speaking of a connection between our houses. You are a man who understands breeding, sir. You know my daughter’s worth.”
Would he compare his daughter to a horse? John must have frowned, for the marquess looked up and elaborated.
“She is beautiful, well trained in the art of managing a household, a talented singer, I’m told. You would be aligning yourself to a powerful family, able to arrange matters in Parliament to your liking.”
John leaned back. “The last time I checked, Parliament had enough on its hands settling the affairs in France to worry about the regulation of the horse trade.”
“Ah,” the marquess said, hands stilling, “but there is more of interest to a horse breeder, say the right to enclose certain property.”
Enclosure gave the landowner the right to keep the local citizens from using property once held in common. Some of his pasture was unenclosed land. His frown grew. “Are you threatening me?”
Still the marquess did not smile. “I should not need to threaten you, Hascot. You wronged my daughter. I merely seek restitution.”
“I wronged no one,” John insisted, pushing himself to his feet. “Good day, my lord.” He turned for the door, but the quiet words stopped him.
“You’d have her shamed, then.”
John looked back at him. He remained calm, as if he had no more than commented on the weather. “She’s your daughter, Wesworth,” John reminded him. “A word from you would likely cure any ill in Society.”
The marquess was watching him. “And what if I should refuse to say a word? Or worse, be sadly forced to agree that you ruined her?”
John felt his hand fisting and forced his fingers to relax. “Why?” he demanded. “What would be gained by such actions? I might lose a few sales to ladies outraged by my supposed lack of morals, but the gentlemen will still come for my hunters. Your daughter stands to lose the most.”
His fingers set to rearranging the quills once more, shortest to longest this time, and now the points were aimed toward John. “My daughter’s situation is immaterial. This is a discussion between gentlemen.” As if assuming John had capitulated, he leaned forward and raised his gaze. “For the privilege of marrying into my family, I expect a colt every other year.”
Anger was overtaking him, and he was thankful it only came out of his mouth. “If you treat your own daughter like cattle, sir, I wouldn’t trust you with one of my horses.”
The marquess recoiled, color flushing up his lean face at last. “How dare you!”
John returned to the desk in two strides, leaned over, braced both hands on the polished surface and met the marquess’s cold gaze straight on. “I will marry your daughter, but you will only receive one of my colts when you can treat it and her with the respect they are due. That is my offer. Take it or leave it.”
“Done,” the fellow said, as if he’d just commissioned a new coat and was haggling over the buttons. “My wife is waiting in the withdrawing room. You may pay your addresses to my daughter.”
John quit the study before he said anything further. If he truly was going to marry into this family, the less time he spent with Amelia’s father, the better.
Standing in the withdrawing room of the Wesworth town house, however, he had to convince himself not to squirm. The spindle-legged, gilded chairs that rested against the papered walls looked as if they, too, feared to sully the cream-patterned carpet. Every picture, every knickknack was placed precisely in the center of whatever space it had been given. Lady Wesworth, seated on a white satin-striped sofa with a square back, did not even look as if she was breathing.
But that might have more to do with her fear that she was about to give her daughter away to a lesser being.
The paneled door opened, and Amelia entered the room. Somehow, life seemed to come with her. Though she wore one of the frilly white muslin gowns that remained the fashion, her color was high. Her smile as she approached him, however, was more strained than welcoming.
“Lord Hascot,” she said, inclining her head so that the light from the window gilded her pale hair. “What a surprise.”
Had her mother and father kept their machinations from her? “You did not know I was coming?” He glanced at her mother, who rose and came forward.
“Lord Wesworth and I find it best to make decisions without concerning Amelia,” she informed John.
Amelia blushed. “How kind, Mother, but some decisions concern me more than you know.”
Her mother frowned as if she could not imagine such a circumstance.
He certainly could. Amelia had a right to decide who to wed, and her choices must be legion. He was mad to even consider proposing. But hearing her father attempt to bargain for her future—never questioning whether John would make a good husband, whether she’d be cared for, appreciated—had touched something inside him. He could not willingly leave her to her fate.
He should assure her he meant the best for her, that he would give her a secure future. Yet the words refused to leave his mouth. It had ever been this way. When he was a child, he’d stammered, and his already shy nature had combined with the trait to keep him largely silent. Even though the stammer had faded with maturity, he still found it remarkably hard to make conversation, particularly when he was the center of attention, as now.
Lady Wesworth was obviously losing patience with him, for as the silence stretched, she moved to assist. “Lord Hascot has something he wishes to say to you, Amelia,” she announced with a pointed look to him.
At this, Amelia straightened, her composed face tightening as if it mirrored her convictions. “Lord Hascot and I have nothing further to say to each other.”
She had little use for him, and he could not blame her for it. “I had a similar reaction when I read your father’s note,” he assured her. “I came to London to make certain you had taken no harm from your short stay at Hollyoak Farm.”
Her color was fading, but she spread her hands, graceful. “As you can see, my lord,” she said, “I am fine. Perhaps if you could explain that to my mother and father, we can put all this behind us. You know I already refused you once.”
And would do so again. She did not have to say it aloud. He could see it in the height of her chin, hear it in the strength of her voice. Just contemplating his next move made him as jittery as a colt taking its first steps.
Her mother moved to her side, the rustle of her skirts loud against the carpet. “Things have changed, Amelia. Lord Hascot has already spoken to your father. He is aware that this is not the match we wanted for you, but we are persuaded that he will make you a good husband.”
Were they? He wished he had that confidence. He was certain he’d make a wretched husband, but after meeting Lady Amelia’s father, he could only pray that life with him would be an improvement for her.
Now, how was he to convince her of that?
* * *
So it was true. Her mother and father had somehow persuaded themselves and Lord Hascot that he should wed her. No doubt the thought of aligning himself with her father had sweetened the pot.
“I hope Father at least laid claim to a Hascot colt for his trouble,” she said.
Oh, but why did those unkind words keep coming from her mouth? Yet even as she regretted them, she saw Lord Hascot’s face reddening, and she knew her accusation was tr
ue. Her father had traded her for a horse! And this man, this lord who clearly preferred horses to people, had agreed to it. Words failed her.
They did not, of course, fail her mother.
“You are, no doubt, overcome by the thought of marrying, Amelia,” she said, jaw tight, “so I will forgive you for that outburst.” She turned to Lord Hascot. “Please know that Amelia is normally obedient in all things, my lord. You need have no concerns that she will make you an excellent wife.”
Of course she’d make an excellent wife. She’d been trained since birth to manage a household, to oversee the education of children, to sing and play and dance, to make her husband happy. She was docile, sweet natured, eager to please.
“Yes, I’m quite the catch,” she said, hysteria forcing out a high, brittle laugh. “I dare say I’m a great deal more biddable than his stock.”
“Excuse us a moment, my lord,” her mother said. She seized Amelia’s elbow and drew her back toward the door.
“What is this?” she hissed, blocking Lord Hascot’s view of Amelia by turning her back. “You run away, spend the night in a stable like a milkmaid and then dare defy your father’s attempt to salvage your reputation? What has happened to you, Amelia?”
What was happening to her? She felt the image she’d held of herself melting like silver purified, and she wasn’t sure yet what shape it might form.
“I don’t wish to marry him, Mother,” she tried. “I don’t love him. Nor does he love me.”
Her mother sighed. “Love, again. I wish you had never met that Hollingsford girl! You must think logically, Amelia. Lord Hascot has five thousand pounds per annum, his horses are widely admired and he was willing to take you. Be happy with that.”
She did not wait for Amelia’s reply but only turned to Lord Hascot once more. “I would prefer Amelia be married here, my lord. A quiet ceremony with a few friends and family, by special license.”
Her mother would even dictate the ceremony. Think! There had to be something she could say, something she could do, to make them all change their minds. Please, Lord, help me!
No inspiration struck. But now that her mother had moved away a little, Amelia could see Lord Hascot standing tall and proud where they had left him.
“Impossible,” he said to her mother’s dictates. “We will be wed in a church, after the banns are read.”
“The banns?” Amelia could hear the confusion in her mother’s voice. Common folk married by banns, their names read out for three Sundays in a row in their home churches. The aristocracy married by license or special license, away from prying eyes, among their own kind.
“The banns,” he insisted. He met Amelia’s gaze. “That way, if anyone chooses to object, he can.”
He was giving her a chance. She didn’t understand why, but she knew it. He would not force himself on her after all. By having the banns read, he gave some other gentleman who cared about her the opportunity to come forward, protest the wedding, state his former claim on Amelia’s affections.
If only she had such a gentleman to defend her!
A quiet voice inside her urged her to defend herself. But how? Her father had made his wishes clear. She could run away, but how would she live? She wouldn’t be old enough to marry without consent for another three months, even if she found a man she could love. No other relation would take her in, knowing she’d defied her father. And with no reference, who would hire her as a governess or teacher? Sadly, she wasn’t trained to be useful in any other legitimate profession, and she refused to think of the illegitimate ones.
In fact, the only person who would support Amelia’s position was away on her honeymoon. Ruby Hollingsford and the Earl of Danning had wed by special license and were off on their wedding trip to Yorkshire, where the fishing was supposed to be excellent.
Still, she thought and prayed as the next three weeks passed, but no solution presented itself. Each Sunday, she sat in church, listened to her name and Lord Hascot’s being read aloud, endured the stares and murmurs that inevitably started anew. She kept her head high, accepted the congratulations offered her, fended off the questions, the conjectures. The ton was agog that the beautiful, talented Lady Amelia, daughter of the powerful Marquess of Wesworth, had settled on a taciturn provincial baron. They expected her to confess an undying devotion, a sudden passion.
She refused to lie. So she said nothing.
But she didn’t stop thinking. She thought while her mother had her measured for a wedding gown of creamy satin. She thought while she embroidered the last pink rose on the lawn nightgown for her trousseau. She thought as she directed the servants in packing her belongings—clothing, books, sheet music, favorite furniture, watercolors she’d painted—for the trip to Hollyoak Farm.
She had two choices she could see—to convince her father that Lord Hascot wasn’t the right son-in-law to bring credit to the Wesworth title or to convince Lord Hascot that marriage to her served no one. She thought she’d have better luck with Lord Hascot, but he had immediately decamped for Derby, intending to return just before the wedding, and it was not a subject to be presented by a letter. That left her father.
She’d never had luck simply wandering into his study for a conversation. For one, he was more often to be found at his club or Parliament. For another, even when he was home, he always had more important matters that required his attention. To Amelia’s mind, nothing should be more important than his daughter’s marriage, so she lay in wait for him in the breakfast room three days running before finally catching him.
“Is there a problem?” he asked as he looked up from that morning’s Times to find her standing by his side.
Every other man of her acquaintance rose in her presence. “Yes, Father,” she said, forcing herself to say the words she had rehearsed. “I am convinced that Lord Hascot will not be an asset to the family. He lacks address, he has no influence on Parliament, as you pointed out, and his title is far inferior to yours. We can do better.”
He took a sip of his tea before answering her, fingers firm on the handle of the gilt-edged cup. “No doubt. But plans are in place, Amelia. Promises have been made. I need this alliance. If he treats you badly, you can always come home.”
He seemed to think that a kindness, and she did not know how to tell him that home had always been where she was treated worst of all.
That night, she threw herself on her knees beside her tester bed, hands clasped and gaze on the gold drape of the half canopy. “Father, help me! I don’t know what else to do, where else to turn. Surely this isn’t Your will.”
Yet what if it was, that voice inside her whispered. God could turn ashes to beauty, make good come from tragedy. Could He make something from this marriage?
The answer came the night before her wedding and from an unexpected source.
Amelia had not seen Lord Hascot since the day he had proposed, but her mother assured her he had returned to London and was staying at the Fenton. How she knew this, Amelia didn’t question. All the servants reported to her mother anything they saw or heard. That was one of the reasons Amelia intended to leave her maid behind if she married Lord Hascot. The outspoken Dorcus Turner would suit the woman Amelia was becoming much better than the cowed creatures her mother seemed to hire. In fact, it was her mother who came to tell Amelia that Lord Hascot wished to speak to her.
“I tried to dissuade him,” her mother complained, pacing in the bedchamber where she’d come to announce their visitor. “You are far too busy with preparations at this time to speak with him.”
All the preparations were made for the wedding at St. George’s Hanover Square at nine o'clock with a breakfast to follow at the house. All Amelia had to do was convince herself to go through with it. What, was her mother worried that she’d take this opportunity to refuse him?
The very thought forced her to her feet, had he
r eagerly following her mother down to the withdrawing room, thanking God for the opportunity and praying for the words to persuade her unwanted betrothed to cry off.
Lord Hascot was waiting, standing by the hearth, though his gaze was on the door. At the sight of her, he stood taller and inclined his head in greeting. Some of his coal-black hair fell across his forehead. He must have been in a hurry, for he hadn’t even given his greatcoat to their servants. She remembered the soft wool that had covered her that night in the abandoned stable.
She hadn’t realized she’d be trading it for a wedding ring.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said, following her mother into the room.
“Yes, good evening,” her mother said, as if remembering her own manners. She hovered around as Amelia seated herself on the sofa, asking about refreshments, his activities in London, the state of his stock. Odd. She had never known her mother to chatter.
When she stopped for a breath, he said, “I’d like to speak to Amelia. Alone.”
Her mother visibly swallowed, skin paling. She was afraid! Her stubborn, demanding mother was afraid to see her plans dashed. Pity stung her, and Amelia put a hand on her arm.
“It’s all right, Mother. I’m sure Lord Hascot simply wishes to speak of things that will follow our wedding.”
Now her mother’s color came flooding back, and she hurriedly excused herself.
“Nicely done,” Lord Hascot said as the door shut behind her.
Amelia managed a smile. “Thank you. But I wasn’t trying to mislead her. Why else would you come but to tell me your expectations?”
He licked his lips. Like the rest of his features, they were firm and sharp, as if chiseled that day from fresh marble. But what surprised her was that she saw a sheen of perspiration under the fall of his black hair.
“Are you certain you want to go through with this?” she marveled.
She wasn’t sure how he would respond. Perhaps some part of her hoped for a declaration of secret devotion. The rest of her could only pray she’d given him license to beg off. Instead, he motioned her to the sofa and came to sit next to her, so gingerly she wondered if he thought he might stain the white upholstery.