The Husband Campaign

by Regina Scott

  That delicate pink was rising in her cheeks again, as bright as the petals on the wildflowers that grew in his pastures. She dropped her gaze, fingers toying with the coverlet on the bed. “No, indeed, my lord. I consider children a blessing from God, a gift to be cherished.”

  A gift he was denying her. John backed away another step. “Then perhaps you will understand why I take such care of my horses. I’m going to sleep for a time, but if you need me, have the footman wake me.”

  “Wait.” She sat up taller, her satiny hair falling about her. “You told me that the inside of this house was mine to order. Did you mean that?”

  John nodded. “Of course. I never say anything I don’t mean.”

  A smile teased her lips. “Very commendable, sir. Then I take it you won’t mind if I put the household on as reliable a schedule as your horses.”

  John felt his frown forming again. “What sort of schedule?”

  Those blue eyes held no secrets. “When meals are served, when certain tasks are performed.”

  Suddenly he knew how Contessa felt. The proud mare disliked any fence and had found ways over and around them, even with her game leg. John felt as if someone was enclosing his pasture before his very eyes.

  “Tasks?” he asked. “I wasn’t aware a household required laborious tasking.”

  “Perhaps not as laborious as training a horse,” she agreed. “But silver must be polished, linens washed, flues emptied. That sort of thing.”

  All indoor things, far away from him. That was what he’d asked her to do after all. Changing should not be so very difficult. And yet it was.

  “Very well,” John made himself say, but he couldn’t leave it at that. She had to know that the horses must come first, always.

  “As for the timing of the meals,” he continued, finding himself pacing before her, hands behind his back like an Eton don, “we generally have all the animals back in the stables by six, so if dinner were served a half hour later, all the staff should be ready. Barring unforeseen circumstances, such as illness or injury to one of the horses, of course.”

  “Of course.” How could anyone argue with that pleasant smile? “And breakfast, I take it, should be early.”

  “Very early,” John insisted.

  Her smile grew. “Then I think tea midday would also be advisable. Very good, my lord. I will see to it immediately. You need have no concerns.”

  Though something told him the response sounded more like a servant than a wife, he nodded. “I will wish you good morning, then, madam.”

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said brightly. “Sleep well.”

  He nodded again and turned, but he had a funny feeling that sleep would be eluding him that morning. And perhaps for a number of days to come.

  Chapter Seven

  Amelia knew the duties of a wife. Her governess had explained them in great detail; her mother had embodied them each day. A wife ordered the running of the household—from setting the times and menus of meals to inventorying the linens. A wife determined the decoration of each room, planned all events. A wife was a credit to her husband, in demeanor, in dress and in her good works. And above all else, a wife bore her husband an heir. Anything less was failure.

  She knew how failure presented itself. She’d seen her mother’s misery, her father’s cool disdain when Amelia had been their only issue. She had no wish to live that way. But she had a great many things to do before this household was ready for a family.

  She started that very morning.

  “Inform the butler I’d like to discuss staffing,” she told Turner as Amelia ate breakfast on a tray in bed.

  “Yes, your ladyship,” the maid said, picking up the gown Amelia had ordered for the day. Her fingers stroked the soft muslin, brushed out the fine lace at the hem, smile wistful.

  “And tell Mr. Shanter, the cook, that I will expect him in the withdrawing room at ten to discuss menus.”

  Turner laid the gown reverently on the covers, then straightened with a snort. “He’s still abed. He left out apples and cold popovers for breakfast. I made your tea and toast myself over the fire in the servant’s hall.”

  Amelia narrowed her eyes. “In that case, tell him I expect to see him at nine.”

  Turner smiled in obvious satisfaction.

  That left Amelia an hour after dressing to take a tour of the house herself. She had already determined there to be four bedchambers on this story, each, it appeared, with its own dressing room. She hadn’t looked in John’s room. Doing so somehow seemed impertinent.

  The floor above held another bedchamber and a suite that included a schoolroom, nursery and quarters for the staff. Downstairs, she found a dining room opposite the withdrawing room, just as John’s library sat opposite the kitchen. Every room had a least one wall of the black paneling, and most were covered with it. That would be the first thing she dealt with—if she could not have it removed, she’d mask it with lighter paintings or wall hangings.

  But though she felt compelled to open the drapes and let in the light in each of the rooms, she could see that the house had potential. She could find fault with the lack of formal function rooms like a ballroom, but it did not appear she would ever need to host a ball here.

  Which was a very good thing, as it became clearer every moment that she hadn’t the staff to maintain the house, much less entertain.

  The butler met her as planned in the withdrawing room. She’d located a secretary in the corner, lowered the desk and set up paper, blotter, quill and ink, prepared to note anything of use in her plans for the house. But when she asked him about the inventory of linen and silver, he grimaced.

  “There’s little enough of either,” he complained. “Lord Hascot rarely entertains indoors, and he has been reticent to make any changes that affect the household budget. I advise you not to alter the current state of affairs.”

  She’d noticed that John had stiffened when she’d begun making suggestions about the running of the household. She’d thought he was simply unaccustomed to change. Now she could only wonder whether there was some other reason her ideas concerned him.

  The cook had further complaints. Mr. Shanter was a small man with a thin mustache that drooped on either side of his pinched mouth. She could only hope his cooking was more generous than his looks.

  “Madam can have no understanding of the responsibility of cooking for so many,” he whined, hands waving as if he was swatting flies. “Grooms, stable boys, the indoor staff. And Dr. Fletcher eats enough for two! I do the best I can with limited funds, but only God can work miracles!”

  She couldn’t understand it. Her mother had said John was well-off, even without the sale of his horses. Why was the household so short of funds?

  Despite their protests, she managed to learn enough from the cook and butler to determine her most urgent problem. Besides the lack of a lady’s maid, which assuredly they would not have needed before now, the house had only one footman who also served as John’s valet. He apparently had the cleaning of the house and was perpetually behind from the amount of dust she’d seen. She wasn’t entirely sure what the butler did, with only two other servants indoors. From the number of grooms she’d met last night, John certainly didn’t run his stables in so Spartan a manner!

  She didn’t have a chance to ask him about the matter until dinner. She had had a stern conversation with Mr. Shanter about her expectations on the timing and composition of meals. The cook must have taken it to heart, because dinner was ready precisely at half-past six in the dining room.

  At least the space was more inviting than other parts of the house. The dark paneling reached only to the middle of the walls, and the upper section was painted in squares of a soft jade. A painting of a horse’s head was framed in the center of each panel. The table was long and polished as brightly as the si
lver that lay at the place settings. Amelia nodded with satisfaction as she waited.

  But neither her husband nor his veterinarian joined her at the table. When Mr. Shanter peered in through the connecting door to the kitchen for the second time to see when the rest of the food should be served, Amelia threw down her napkin and rose.

  “I’ll be right back,” she informed the footman, who was watching her warily as if expecting her to start throwing the potatoes that waited in their jackets, as well. “Keep everything warm.”

  She sailed out the back door of the house and drew to a stop in the center courtyard. The stables on either side seemed to stretch for miles. Where might she find her husband?

  She ventured to the block on the left and peered inside. She had visited Hollyoak Farm with Lord Danning and his guests, so she wasn’t surprised by the stone columns that marked the ends of each stall, the white walls that separated them, the troughs of sparkling clean water and baskets of fresh hay. She hadn’t actually been inside this particular block before, and now she saw it also held John’s carriage and farm implements. This must be where he housed his driving horses and work horses as well, though all appeared to be out at the moment.

  The other block was nearly as empty, though she spotted Magnum just down the way. As if he knew she was watching him, he tossed his head, and she heard the ring of a hoof against the cobbles.

  “Amelia.” John came out of a stall farther down and strode toward her. His coat was rumpled, his hair disheveled even more than usual. “I just checked my watch. I expect I’ll need reminding about your new schedule.”

  Part of her wanted to upbraid him for his rude behavior. A gentleman did not leave a lady to dine alone, yet he had served her that way not once but twice! However, the look on his face stayed her words. His eyes were hollow, his face whiter than the linens.

  “Is something wrong, my lord?” she asked.

  He managed a tight smile. “A sick horse is always cause for concern. We can’t be sure it was the plant. If it’s contagious, we could lose all of them.”

  She glanced around again. So many horses, each one finer than the last. She knew how she’d feel if something should happen to her Belle. How awful to lose all!

  “Forgive me, my lord,” she said. “You have more important matters to attend to than to cater to my whims. Do what you must. Don’t be concerned about me.”

  He nodded and turned back for the stall.

  Other gentlemen would have protested their devotion, promised to remain at her side forever. He had never misled her as to where his attentions lay. Amelia returned to the house.

  The evening dragged. She had the footman move a few paintings from one room to another, but the fellow looked as if he was about to fall off his feet, so she sent him to bed. Likely he had to rise even earlier than John to have everything ready for his master.

  She stood in the middle of the withdrawing room and felt impotent. She couldn’t manage his house; he wouldn’t allow her to help with the horses. She had friends who complained their only duty was to look pretty for their husbands. Her husband wasn’t around enough to notice!

  “Begging your pardon, your ladyship,” Turner said, waiting in the doorway. “I wasn’t sure your plans for the evening.”

  “It appears I have none,” Amelia replied, and she led the maid upstairs for bed.

  She had never been good at schooling her face to hide her feelings, so she wasn’t surprised Turner noticed her frustration. And as she was beginning to know the maid’s bold attitude, Amelia also wasn’t surprised when Turner spoke up.

  “If you ask me,” she said as she helped Amelia into her nightgown, “a gentleman shouldn’t spend two nights in a stable, especially after being wed less than a fortnight.”

  “Lord Hascot has a sick horse,” Amelia explained.

  “He has a sick wife, too,” Turner replied. “Sick of being alone, I warrant.”

  “That will do, Turner,” Amelia said.

  The maid’s lips compressed. She said nothing more until she had Amelia settled in bed. Then she stepped back.

  “You ought to show him what’s what, your ladyship,” she insisted. “Just like you did with the butler and cook today.”

  “Turner,” Amelia warned.

  The maid drew herself up. “I warned you I can’t hold my tongue, your ladyship. Not when I see something amiss, and there’s plenty amiss with this house. You can send me back to the Grange tomorrow for saying so, but that man needs you. Everyone in the dale knows he’s lonely.”

  Amelia frowned as she leaned back against the pillow. “Lonely?”

  Turner took a step closer. “Yes, ma’am. How couldn’t he be, no one but horses and horse-mad folk to talk to?”

  She made it sound as if John’s servants and buyers were somehow crazy. Or he was. “He seems content to me. I think he simply doesn’t like change.”

  “He’s stuck in his ways, you mean.” Turner snapped a nod of agreement. “You could help him, your ladyship. Draw him out, make him smile.” She grinned. “I warrant he could be a handsome fellow if he smiled.”

  Amelia had thought the same thing when she’d seen one of his rare smiles. “Thank you for your advice, Turner,” she said, unable to still a grin of her own. “That will be all this evening.”

  With a curtsy, the maid left her.

  But Turner’s words lingered. Was John as lonely as Amelia? Would he accept her companionship? Or would he even care? How was she to make a marriage when the other half of that marriage had no time or interest?

  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

  As soon as the verse echoed in her mind, she knew what she must do. She and Mr. Shanter had come to an understanding. She was certain he would help her. She put her blue twill pelisse on over her dressing gown and headed downstairs.

  * * *

  In the stables, Fletcher yawned for the third time in as many minutes.

  “Go to bed,” John told the veterinarian, who was seated across from him in the same stall as Firenza. “I’ll stay with her until dawn. Come back for me then.”

  “By your leave, you should be the one to retire,” Fletcher protested, straightening against the white wall of the stall. “You have other matters that require your attention.”

  John shrugged. “If you mean Lady Amelia, she’ll be fine. Society women rarely dote on their husbands in any regard.”

  Fletcher stretched his long legs across the straw, careful not to brush against the panting mare. “That may be, but I would expect any lady to wish her husband’s company on her honeymoon.”

  John snorted, and Firenza lifted her head to eye him. “Some honeymoon—a night in a wayside inn.”

  “Precisely my point!” Fletcher shook his head so that his spectacles bounced on his long nose. “You owe your wife your devotion.”

  John eyed him. “I owe her the courtesy due a wife, nothing more.”

  Fletcher inclined his head. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score. We simply disagree on which courtesies a man owes his wife.” He gathered his legs under him and stood with a groan. “But if you are determined to stay, I’ll take you up on that offer. Send someone for me if anything changes.”

  John nodded, and the sound of his friend’s footsteps faded on the cobbles.

  What did a man owe his wife? Food and shelter, obviously. Respect, certainly. He had never truly considered the matter before now. When he’d courted Caro, he’d thought of nothing but when he might see her again. Even at the time he’d commissioned the betrothal ring, he’d fretted over what he would say to make her agree to be his bride. Their future at Hollyoak Farm had been a misty thing, hardly more than a dream.

  Then Caro and his brother had betrayed him, and he’d found it hard to think of a future at all.

  He st
ill remembered the announcement. He’d been spending the Season in London, as usual. His brother had insisted upon it.

  “You must do the pretty once in a while,” James had teased. “The Hascot name should stand for more than horses.”

  John had returned to their London town house fresh from confirming that the jeweler would have the betrothal ring ready by Friday, when he’d planned to propose. He’d already imagined the scene a dozen different ways, and each one had ended with Caro in his arms. But he hadn’t even touched his foot to the stairs when his brother had called him into the withdrawing room.

  James was his twin, older only by a few minutes, and he’d always joked that those minutes meant all the world of difference. James was broader, more powerfully built. His hair was thicker and curlier. At times, John felt like his shadow. That day, he’d stopped just inside the doorway of the ornately decorated room, staring at his brother, who’d stood by the black marble fireplace with one arm about the waist of the woman John loved.

  “Wish me happy, John,” his brother had said with a triumphant grin. “Lady Caroline has agreed to be my bride.”

  He couldn’t believe it. He’d stood there, frozen. “Is this a joke?”

  Caro had turned her gaze, the one he was so used to seeing directed at him, on his brother. “No, indeed, Lord John. Lord Hascot has done me a great honor. I couldn’t be happier.”

  He’d felt as if the world had shifted off its axis and forgotten to take him with it. “But I thought you favored my suit.”

  She’d blushed as she’d met his gaze, her own filled now with pity. “Of course I admire you as a sister should a brother. But my heart has always been Hascot’s.”

  “Can’t expect a woman like Caro to hang after a second son,” his brother had said with a laugh. He’d released her to move to John’s side, clapping him on the shoulder. Then he’d leaned closer. “Those few minutes make all the difference.”

  At that moment, he’d hated his brother, hated that Caro would choose position over love. He’d yanked his shoulder away, stormed out of the room. In a brass stand by the door had stood the crop his brother had used on his horse. John had grabbed it, feeling the sturdy leather under his fingers, knowing how surely a strongly wielded crop could damage flesh, bruise bone. Didn’t his brother deserve such treatment for what he’d done?