by Regina Scott
“Lord Hascot, Lady Hascot, welcome!” the innkeeper warbled on seeing them, his broad smile at odds with his lean frame. “Your rooms are ready, just as you requested, my lord. May I serve dinner in the private parlor in an hour?”
“Make it a half hour,” John told him. “I’m famished. This way, my lady.”
“Rooms?” she whispered as he led her toward the stairs, and something trembled in her voice. “Separate rooms?”
“Of course,” he said.
Then she finally smiled at him, and he nearly missed a step from the blinding brilliance.
She’d thought he’d intended them to sleep together, and she clearly wasn’t thrilled with the idea. He should have expected that. Caro had cooed over him, calling him her brooding darling, but he had never been sure that was a compliment. Certainly he’d never mastered the flowery language that was supposed to set women dreaming of sweet kisses. Perhaps he should have let Amelia bring her poetry in the coach.
Then again, he wasn’t ready to consummate the marriage, either. He would have to be six feet under not to find those platinum tresses, that lithe figure attractive. But people were not as simple as horses, and it took more than attraction to make a good marriage, the kind that nurtured children.
His father might have questioned John’s attachment to his horses, but John thought a proper father would take an interest in his offspring, show them how to get on in the world, introduce them to important things like prayer and riding. Right now he stumbled over the former and would probably be too critical of the latter. And he would certainly never condone raising a hand to his child.
“Never fear, your ladyship,” he said as he left her at her room, the scent of orange blossoms hanging tantalizingly in the air. “I do not intend to claim my matrimonial rights until we are both satisfied it is the best course.”
If he was not the man he was, he might have taken exception with how happy that seemed to make her.
Still, he could not fault her that evening. Now that she was no longer concerned about how they would spend the night, she was pleasing company.
She presided over the meal; he could think of no other word for it. She folded her elegant hands once more and recited the grace with bowed head. As if she was honoring him as a guest in her own house, she served him from the ragout of beef the innkeeper brought, offered him seconds when he gulped it down and made sure he was given the largest piece of the peach tart that accompanied the meal. Through it all, she kept up a steady stream of polite conversation that required no more than a nod from him unless he wished otherwise.
Indeed, the evening and the next day passed in such undemanding comfort that he was surprised to hear the rumble of the wheels as they crossed the River Bell, which marked the edge of his property.
He had purchased Hollyoak Farm on his twenty-fifth birthday with monies left him by his mother and immediately set about improving it. Now solid stable wings stretched parallel to each other out behind the house, pasture and planted grain waving away in all directions. He could see Contessa dashing across the nearest field with the odd gait the old lady had conceived to compensate for her injury. The very air smelled sweeter as he opened the carriage door in the yard behind the house.
Across the back of the building, his staff had lined up to welcome him and his new bride in the glow of a setting sun. John walked beside her, told her names and positions, nodded his appreciation for their gesture. Amelia smiled graciously, greeted each person by name after John had introduced him and made an appropriate remark about their positions.
By the time they reached the end of the line, he couldn’t help noticing that half his men were grinning like idiots and another third were blushing like debutantes at their first ball. A few, however, frowned, clearly skeptical of the success of this newcomer in their ranks.
He was not nearly so skeptical. In fact, he had a feeling that, unless he was very careful, Amelia was going to be entirely too successful—at managing his life.
Chapter Six
So many people, and all here to greet her. It was rather gratifying. Amelia turned her smile on her new husband, who did not look nearly as happy as she felt.
“And may I see the stables?” she asked sweetly.
If anything, his scowl deepened. “Perhaps another time.”
As he took her arm, his men melted into the background, away from his scowl. They knew to be obedient. She was beginning to think obedience to be overrated. It was clear that if she wanted to learn more about her husband’s horses, she would have to insist.
For now, she focused instead on the house. She knew from her previous visit that the corridor from the rear door led straight through to the front. As she entered this time, she smelled garlic as if from a recent meal emanating from the room to the left.
“The kitchen,” John confirmed with a nod in that direction. “And the staff hall. My library is opposite.”
An odd place for a library, but then she supposed it gave him a clear view out to the stables while he worked.
The way along the dark-paneled walls and through an arch under the main stairs was familiar. The man waiting by the front door was not. He was not as tall as John, his arms and legs stuck out as if someone had sewed them on carelessly and his red hair was so curly it looked as if a rouged puff sat on his head. His smile was the widest she’d seen at Hollyoak Farm.
“Lady Hascot,” he said with a bow so deep he nearly lost his spectacles. “Welcome home.”
“This is our resident veterinarian,” John said as he straightened. “Marcus Fletcher.”
“Dr. Fletcher,” Amelia said, offering him her hand, which disappeared inside his long-fingered grip. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Fletcher has his own quarters on the property,” John explained as the man released her hand. “He generally takes his meals with me.”
“If that pleases you, your ladyship,” the veterinarian hurried to add.
She imagined some brides would be highly incensed to find another person sitting daily at the table. All she could think was that at least she and John would not be stuck trying to converse with one another again. “I’m sure that will be delightful, Doctor,” she told him.
He beamed at her. “Excellent! Not tonight, of course. I have a patient I must see to.”
John stiffened beside her. “One of the horses is ill?”
“Firenza,” his veterinarian replied with a grimace. “I think she may have found some water hemlock by the creek. I noticed it last week and had Peters root it up, but she may have stumbled on a stray patch. All the symptoms are there.”
“Is it deadly?” Amelia asked, but John had already stepped away from her to take the doctor’s arm.
“You’ve purged her, of course? Good man. Can she stand? We should walk her about the stables to keep her breathing.”
“She’s still having convulsions.” Dr. Fletcher was moving back the way they had come, John pacing him. “I’ve taken the liberty of clearing out the other horses near her to keep from frightening them.”
Would they simply leave her standing there? “My lord?” Amelia tried.
“Good thought,” John agreed. “I can’t believe she’d eat the hemlock. She turns up her nose at apples! I’ve never seen such a picky eater.”
They were nearly to the arch. Amelia took a step forward and raised her voice. “John!”
He stopped and looked back at her as if surprised to find her in his home. “Yes, your ladyship?”
“I understand this is an emergency,” Amelia said, keeping her voice calm as she always did when her mother made unreasonable demands. “But perhaps you could show me to my room first?”
He waved a hand up the stairs beside her. “Next floor up, first door on the left. That maid should be waiting.” He disappeared under the arch with his vete
rinarian.
Well! Amelia shook her head, gathered her skirts and marched up the stairs to the next floor. Four doors opened off the U-shaped corridor, and she easily found the room he’d indicated. His staff must have been apprised of the arrangements, for the trunk and bandboxes she’d been able to bring with her were waiting at the foot of the bed.
So was Turner. The maid also gave Amelia a big smile before spreading her gray skirts in a curtsy. “Welcome home, your ladyship. I’m honored to be serving you again.”
She seemed so glad to see Amelia that the room felt warmer. “Thank you, Turner,” Amelia replied. “I shall have to write to your mistress to thank her as well for allowing me to make use of your skills.”
Turner’s smile faded. “My mistress was moved to London, your ladyship. And the new mistress of Rotherford Grange chose another girl for her maid.”
Amelia didn’t know the situation, but she couldn’t help thinking the mistress of Rotherford Grange had made a mistake. The maid clearly knew her job. She proved it by setting to work unpacking Amelia’s things.
As Amelia helped, she studied her new bedchamber. Like much of the rest of the house she’d seen so far, the paneling on the walls was so dark it was nearly black. The hangings on the walnut bed were navy chintz, the carpet forest-green. She felt as if she had wandered into the woods on a moonless night. It was not a promising beginning.
So she set to work to improve things. She lit all the lamps, brightening the space, and unpacked her toiletries and arranged them on the highboy dresser along one wall. The gleaming glass of the perfume bottles reflected in the polished wood.
The dark covering on the bed would have to stay until the rest of her things arrived in a few days, but she envisioned it with the white lace edging her mother had had made. Even better was the pocket door Turner discovered on the other side of the bed, leading to a decent-size dressing room with space for all Amelia’s gowns.
Having a few of her things around her made the room feel even more welcoming. Turner helped her change from her travel attire into a day dress and brushed and repinned her hair, which made her feel better, too. She could do this. She was born to do this. Mistress of Hollyoak Farm had a fine ring to it.
A protest from her stomach reminded Amelia that she hadn’t had dinner. She checked the black-lacquered ormolu clock on the serpentine marble fireplace and frowned. What sort of hours did they keep here? She’d always heard people complain of the early bedtimes in the country, but surely the members of Hollyoak Farm ate before retiring.
Knowing Turner was as new to the farm as she was, Amelia rang for the footman, who arrived at the door a short time later.
“When will dinner be served?” Amelia asked.
He shifted on the carpet. None of the men she’d met wore any standard attire. His coat was brown, his breeches gray, and his shoes had not been shined in some time. “His lordship never asked for dinner tonight, your ladyship,” he offered. “He and Dr. Fletcher will likely be too busy to eat.”
This was ridiculous! She might have been ignored at home, but she’d never gone hungry. “Very well. Tell the cook I’ll take a tray in my room.”
He scratched his head. “Mr. Shanter has already gone to bed, ma’am.”
Once she would not even have slumped in disappointment. A lady did not raise her voice after all. She was calm, composed, in any situation. That was how one could tell the aristocracy from the lesser orders.
But even the aristocracy required food. And she knew what good service should look like.
Amelia raised her head and affixed the footman with her most determined look. “Then Mr. Shanter has a choice. He can either get up and fix me dinner or expect me to invade his kitchen and do so myself. Which do you think he would prefer?”
The cook at home would have danced on a pin before he allowed someone else to touch his kitchen. Of course, he would never have refused a request for food, either.
The footman shrugged, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “Mr. Shanter likes his sleep. Best not to wake him.”
“Your ladyship?”
Bewildered by such an attitude, Amelia turned at the maid’s voice. Turner’s face was a fiery red, but her tone to Amelia was polite. “If you’d allow me?”
Bemused, Amelia nodded.
Turner stepped forward and shook her finger at the footman. “Now, you listen to me. This lady is your new mistress. She has the run of this household. You go find this cook of yours, and you drag him out of bed to fetch my lady some dinner. And it had better be a good dinner, too, or the two of you will be whistling for your own supper on the road tomorrow.” She poked him in the chest. “Understand?”
The footman visibly gulped as he backed up. “Yes, Miss Turner, your ladyship. Coming right up.” He ran from the room.
Amelia couldn’t help her smile. “Rather forceful for someone new to the household.”
Turner grinned. “I won’t be staying long, only until you pick a new maid, I understand, so it makes no never mind what they think of me.” She cocked her head. “But you can’t allow such behavior in your household, your ladyship. Mrs. Dunworthy, my former mistress, she was too harsh in her ways, and everyone hated her for it. But this? This is too gentle. You deserve their respect.”
An interesting thought. She’d always been treated well by the servants in her parents’ home, but it hadn’t been her doing. She doubted anyone would dare misbehave knowing how her mother and father would react.
She’d agreed to marry John because he’d promised to treat her with respect. She hadn’t expected to have to deal with a lack of respect from his servants. Just how hard would she have to work to earn the title of mistress of Hollyoak Farm?
* * *
Dawn was a thin line of gold over the hills when John returned from the stables. Firenza, a fiery-coated mare, was at least stable, though Fletcher felt she wasn’t out of danger yet. John had agreed to catch a few hours of sleep so he could spell the veterinarian later in the day.
He climbed the stairs, intending only to make it to his room and collapse. With any luck, the footman would just be getting up and could help John with his boots. At the first-floor landing, however, he couldn’t help noticing that the door to the room he’d given Amelia was ajar.
Guilt poked at him. He’d dragged her from London at a frantic pace, then abandoned her in the entry hall to find her own way. Surely a husband owed his wife more than that.
His mother had died when he and his twin brother were twelve, his father when they were twenty-two. But he remembered his parents together. They’d had a way of exchanging glances that spoke more than words possibly could. He’d always thought when he fell in love, it would be like that.
But when he’d courted Caro, more often than not he’d found himself staring at her in awe. How could one of the most popular, vivacious women of the ton be interested in him? And as for conversation, he’d been content merely to listen.
Amelia would likely require more than merely listening. For one thing, she spoke as little as he did! And he truly should explain how things worked at Hollyoak Farm.
He glanced into her room. A candle was sputtering in its holder next to the bed. Amelia, wrapped in a satin dressing gown of a blue that likely matched her eyes, was slumped against the headboard as if she’d fallen asleep sitting up.
Waiting for him.
It had been a long time since someone had cared about his comings and goings. Oh, his staff was competent, and Fletcher was a good if single-minded friend, focused on his duties to the horses, which was just as it should be. With John and his brother being twins, there had never been a point in his life when anyone had focused on his needs alone. He was a little surprised about how pleasant it felt.
Perhaps he should return the favor. He’d already put her to bed once after all, when she’d slumped on the
box in the stable. He’d carried her to the straw, trying not to notice how good she felt in his arms. Now he slipped into the room and moved to her side to settle the pillow under her head. Her hair, freed from the bun she normally wore, spilled like moonlight across the linens.
His wife.
What had he promised at the wedding ceremony? To protect and cherish her all the days of his life. He hadn’t made a very auspicious beginning. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure he had it in him to do better.
Her eyes opened, met his gaze and widened in surprise. Though he had every right to be there and had only been trying to help, John stiffened.
“My lord,” she said, pushing herself upright. “Is everything all right?”
John nodded, backing away from her. “Fine. Firenza is settled. I was just on my way to bed.”
She glanced at the clock on the mantel, then back at him. “To bed? But it’s morning.”
John spread his hands. “Such is life at Hollyoak Farm.”
Her lovely lips thinned. “So I am beginning to understand. I take it horses do not appreciate a particular routine.”
John couldn’t help a smile. “Horses are creatures of habit. We generally start at dawn each morning, watering them, then letting them out to pasture or taking them for exercise. We have to clean the stables, check the pastures for nuisance plants like the one that nearly felled Firenza, confirm the fences are in good repair. Each horse must have horseshoes and harness and saddle. Then there’s the training to be the best on the hunting field, with obstacles to jump and learning to get along with hounds, not to mention the planting of hay for the winter.”
She frowned. “And you are involved with all of this?”
Very likely her exalted father had never dirtied his hands. Most of the men with whom John had been raised found his need to be involved perplexing. A gentleman accepted the rents from his properties; he did not actually do anything on those properties.
“Yes,” he said, head high. “These are my horses. I take personal responsibility for them. Would you turn the care of your children completely over to others, madam?”