The Husband Campaign

by Regina Scott

  Caro glanced up at him. “I know you respect your horses, John, more than the people around you. Perhaps you should ask yourself why your favorite horse likes me and not another lady of your acquaintance.”

  Before he could do more than stare at her, she sashayed past him for the house.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Peace, blessed peace. Amelia let out a sigh as she climbed the stairs. No one to impress, no one to find fault. A few precious moments all to herself.

  Thank You, Lord, for Your kindness, and John’s.

  She didn’t like the idea that she was leaving her husband to Caro’s questionable graces, but she was beginning to believe that John was proof against the woman’s machinations. And with Major Kensington out of the house, Amelia had no one to whom she was beholden, for the next hour, at least.

  She nearly entered the room at the top of the stairs, then remembered it was no longer hers. She should continue on to the next story, where her new bedchamber was tucked away near the schoolroom.

  But as she made the turn on the landing, another door presented itself, the door to John’s room. Though she knew he was in the stables, she felt as if his presence seeped through the paneled wall of the corridor, calling to her. She still hadn’t attempted to redecorate the room. She hadn’t felt she had the right.

  Was it a spacious room? Welcoming? A retreat from the busyness of life? Or, like her room when she’d first arrived, was it a dark, solemn place more fitted to despair than delight?

  Perhaps she should look.

  She glanced down the stairs and around the landing, but saw no one in evidence. Still, guilt tugged at her. Recognizing it, she shook her head. What was she doing, sneaking about like a thief? She was the mistress of this house. It was her responsibility to make sure her husband was well cared for, that his room was airy and pleasant. She swept up to the door, put her hand on the latch and swung the portal wide.

  Like the other rooms, this one was paneled in long strips of dark wood. The only painting brightening the space was along the wall at her left, two boys standing beside their mother. Wandering closer, she saw that the boys were very alike, dark hair, dark eyes, that hawklike nose made softer by youth.

  But one was decidedly heavier. He stood beside his honey-haired mother, who was seated on a gilded chair, a set of creamy matched pearls at her throat. Though the signet ring on the boy’s pudgy finger proclaimed him the heir, his possessive gaze going out into the room left no doubt that he felt himself the owner of all he surveyed.

  The other boy’s eyes were trained on his mother, and his smile spoke of his love and devotion. So did the hand that rested on hers. It promised care throughout life and into the life beyond. Tears welled up in Amelia’s eyes, and she put a hand out to touch the little fingers.

  She had no doubt she was looking at John and his brother, and even less doubt which child was which. Was the woman plaguing her now at least partly responsible for the transformation from a sensitive boy to a withdrawn man?

  Anger shot through her, and she yanked back her hand and turned from the painting. Shame on Caro for being so inconstant! Shame for building up hopes only to dash them! Amelia had met other women on the ton who delighted in winning hearts, only to turn aside this fellow as too unworthy, lacking fortune or face. Such games demeaned them all and left devastation behind.

  Wiping away her tears, she approached the box bed. Made from black walnut carved with fanciful shapes and draped with emerald hangings, it dominated the room from where it squatted along the opposite wall. But Amelia was more interested in what lay beside it.

  Bracing the bed were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, obviously of a newer date by the lighter wood and plainer construction. She sighted familiar authors and ones she herself loved: Shakespeare, Milton and Everard. The spines were cracked from well use; the books laying on the table beside the bed were dog-eared. The leather cover of one was so well-worn she could no longer make out title or author.

  She picked it up and opened to where a black satin ribbon marked a place.

  “Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, until seven times: but until seventy times seven.”

  Amelia closed the Bible and rested her hand on the leather. It seemed she was not the only one having trouble forgetting the past. When was the last time she’d turned to the Bible for comfort?

  Forgive me, Lord. Show me how I can reach John. How can I prove that I will never be like Caro? That his love is something I value?

  All at once the room felt too close, too familiar. She set down the Bible, turned and left.

  She wanted nothing more than a few moments to herself, time to think, time to pray. But upstairs, she found Turner trying to cram one more gown in the walnut wardrobe that took up a corner of the little room.

  “Sorry, your ladyship,” she said. “They just won’t fit. I put some of the heavier gowns in boxes under the bed.”

  “A good choice,” Amelia told her. “And don’t be concerned. I don’t expect to stay in this room long.”

  “Less time than the other Lady Hascot is staying, I warrant,” the maid muttered.

  Though she feared the same, Amelia tried for a smile. “I thought you found Lady Hascot rather dashing.”

  Turner sniffed. “That was before she started making eyes at the master.” She blushed furiously and bobbed a curtsy. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship. It’s none of my affair, even if the whole servants’ hall is abuzz with it.”

  So now they all found Amelia an object of pity. “What passes between a husband and wife is no one’s affair but theirs and God’s,” Amelia said, her voice coming out entirely too sharp.

  “Yes, ma’am. Just as you say.” Turner closed the wardrobe with considerable force, then turned to Amelia, head cocked. “I could help you, though. Fix your hair just right, find the perfect gown.”

  “I’ve had my hair fixed just right since I was six,” Amelia told her. “It hasn’t made anyone love me.”

  Turner’s face pinched, and Amelia turned away.

  “Forgive me, Turner. I seem to be in a maudlin mood this afternoon. That will be all for now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said. Her hand was on the knob when she spun to face Amelia. “But I will just say that if someone like you can’t win a fellow’s love, there’s simply no justice on this earth!” Obviously aware she had overstepped her bounds, she wrenched open the door and fled.

  No justice on the earth. That might explain some of the things that had happened to her and John, but Amelia couldn’t blame God. Though bad things might happen, she believed fervently that good would triumph in the end. The ebb and tide of human affairs were guided by a powerful hand, and God would set things right. But there were moments when she wished He would move just a little faster.

  With a squeak of protest, the wardrobe popped open. Amelia went to shove the dresses a little deeper.

  Forgive me, Father, for my impatience. I just want my life different now. I want my father to treat me with respect, John to look at me with love. I want a child to love and teach and watch grow the way John watches his foals. If You are the God of love, why is it so rare?

  Her own father came immediately to mind. Love did not appear to be part of his life. He seemed incapable of lavishing his attention on anyone or anything beyond his own ambitions. If he loved, it was only the power of his position. And her mother was equally possessive, if only to defend herself.

  But John. Oh, John had a heart. She saw it when he chose to curry a foal himself. She heard it when he spoke about his past. Sometimes she thought she glimpsed it when he looked at her. Why couldn’t she reach him?

  She managed to squeeze the wardrobe shut once more, then moved to the window, gazing out onto t
he green pastures, the wall of Calder Edge running along the rim of her world. But if she looked closely, she could also make out her reflection in the glass.

  Her hair was like creamy satin, her eyes bluer than the summer skies. She’d had poetry written about both, recited by fervent young men on bended knee, no less. She smoothed her gown over her hips, turned this way and that. Her figure was still accounted quite good. In short, she had lost none of the beauty for which London had once sung her praises.

  If she altered her hair, dressed differently, as Turner suggested, would she be manipulating him? Would such changes truly make any difference in how John saw her?

  What did she have to lose?

  She hurried to the highboy along the opposite wall. She’d dress for dinner tonight, her best gown, her finest jewels. She’d show John she was Caro’s equal.

  No, her superior.

  She’d flirt and laugh and flutter her lashes. She’d be the woman no man could take his eyes from. She’d prove her right to stand by his side.

  And when the others had retired for the evening, she would speak to him alone, tell him how she felt, her hopes, her dreams. It would be the boldest thing she’d ever done, and the riskiest. For if he didn’t have the heart to accept her, she knew her own heart would break.

  * * *

  John rode Magnum across the pasture, Amelia’s father at his side on Providence. The way Lord Wesworth had eyed the colts in the stable, John was sure he was sizing up which one he’d demand next summer. But John had other matters on his mind.

  “You had a man watch the farm,” he said. “Why?”

  The marquess guided the mare around one of the obstacles, a shallow pond that reflected the blue of the sky. “I find it wise to ensure that my agreements bear fruit.”

  “What did you think?” John challenged. “That I’d mistreat Amelia or fail to supply that colt?”

  Lord Wesworth spared him a withering glance. “Strong words, my lord. If you are unable to control your emotions, you cannot blame me for doubting your intentions.”

  John refused to let him see that he had scored. If the man truly had been trying to ensure Amelia’s safety, he understood the necessity even if he did not appreciate the methods.

  “I have every intention of honoring our bargain,” John said. “It is your intentions that I question.”

  Lord Wesworth rode along as if his conscience did not trouble him. “I have ever been clear on my intentions.” He nodded toward where the last of the horses were being led to the stables. “I see you have several from previous years yet to sell.”

  The way he stated the matter implied deficiency, either in the horses or in John’s ability to attract buyers.

  “The right master has yet to approach me,” John replied.

  “I know a few with sufficient funds to afford one of your mounts,” Amelia’s father said.

  John turned Magnum toward the nearest obstacle, a stone wall. “Sufficient funding is only one of my criteria.”

  Turning his horse as well, Lord Wesworth glanced at John, pale blue eyes as shallow and cold as the ice John’s men chipped from the outdoor water troughs in winter. “If you hope to support my daughter, funding is the only criteria that matters. The Hascot barony is rather land poor, if I recall. And you cannot rely on investment with the war over.”

  He should have considered whether John was well-off before selling his daughter. “You need have no concerns for Amelia,” John told him. “I can provide for her.”

  “And what of her family?” Wesworth urged Providence to keep pace with Magnum. “It would be good to know that I can count on you if needs require.”

  Now John eyed him. “Is there a problem, my lord?”

  “Not at the moment,” he acknowledged, gaze going out toward the hills. “Not financially. But I am concerned about Amelia’s social standing. She must have gowns, jewels, the appropriate accoutrements that females require for a good showing on the ton. Even if you have the funds to cover all that, you will not do her credit if you refuse men of consequence.”

  John had made a few enemies by refusing to sell to men with low reputations, but he found it difficult to believe the ton would turn on Amelia for such behavior.

  “Amelia assures me that my unending ability to be churlish is no reflection on her,” he told her father. “Her friends will stand by her.”

  “Amelia has no friends,” he replied. “She was wise enough to keep her distance from sycophants and enviers.”

  Was that all the man considered other people to be? Surely a woman as sweet as Amelia had managed to garner close friends, true friends, in her time in Society. He thought back to the women who had attended the wedding. Though many had smiled and offered congratulations, only Lord Danning’s new wife had begged a private word with Amelia. He’d assumed she’d be surrounded by friends. Was she so very alone?

  “I can help you,” Lord Wesworth said as if he’d guessed the directions of John’s thoughts. “I have any number of acquaintances, men of standing on the ton, whose wives can assure Amelia the place she deserves in Society.”

  They were nearly at the wall. John gave Magnum his head, and the black picked up speed. Hooves churning the sod, the stallion gathered his haunches and launched himself over the stone barrier. For one brief, glorious moment, John was flying.

  Amelia’s father did not take the jump. Instead, he rode Providence around the wall and met John and Magnum on the other side. Yet there was something in his gaze that suggested he wished it otherwise.

  “She will bear you over,” John advised.

  Lord Wesworth patted Providence on the neck. “Of that I have no doubt. But I stopped leaping obstacles some time ago. My interests lie elsewhere now.” He dropped his hand. “I think you should consider my suggestion.”

  “I have,” John replied. “But somehow I can’t believe it free of stipulations. What is my part in all this?”

  A smile tugged at the marquess’s thin lips. “The Duke of York has three officers who covet a Hascot horse. Simply oblige them.”

  “Officers.” The word sounded too much like a curse. “Active campaigners?”

  “Oh, the war has ended,” Amelia’s father insisted. “Your horses will likely do no more than ride in a victory parade or two.”

  He wished he could believe that. “So you ask me to compromise my principles for my wife’s happiness.”

  “Marriage is compromise, sir,” he returned. “Believe no one who says otherwise.”

  He wanted to argue, to stand his ground. But he could not deny that Amelia seemed lonely. Would having more friends help? If his horses were truly safe, why shouldn’t he sell to a military man, especially if it brought her comfort?

  “I will take your advice under consideration,” he promised Amelia’s father, who graciously inclined his head as if knowing he’d won.

  Yet how seriously should he take the fellow? John couldn’t help thinking about the matter as they rode back to the stables. From what he’d seen of Lord and Lady Wesworth, their marriage was not a happy one, so taking their advice on how to improve his seemed rather foolhardy.

  On the other hand, Lord Wesworth counseled compromise, and John could not deny that compromise was inherent in any human endeavor. If he wished for more hay than his fields would produce, he must come to an agreement with another farm in the dale willing to sell its surplus. The greater the need, the more he might be willing to pay.

  What was he willing to do to secure Amelia’s happiness?

  Reams, who now served as valet, was waiting to help him with his boots.

  “My black coat tonight,” John told him. “And a fancier waistcoat.”

  “My lord?” Reams ogled him as if John had asked to wear Magnum’s bridle down to dinner.

  “I own suitable evening clothes, d
o I not?” John demanded.

  “Yes, my lord,” Reams assured him. “I’m sure I can find something appropriate. Just give me a moment.” He almost ran for the dressing room.

  When John went down to dinner a short time later, he fancied he would do credit to his wife. His uncooperative hair was pomaded in place. His black evening coat and trousers were set off by the emerald-striped satin waistcoat Reams had found in his closet. At least he hoped the fellow hadn’t borrowed it from the major’s trunk. His footman had even tied John’s cravat in some fanciful formation dubbed the Trone d’Amour, and John found it more than a little difficult to turn his head.

  Compromise, indeed.

  He heard his guests before he reached the withdrawing room. Someone was laughing, a joyous sound that leaped about the air like one of his foals at play. He didn’t think it was Caro. Did they have another guest?

  He paused in the doorway, none too sure he wanted to find out. He spotted Caro right away, hanging on the major’s arm as if he was everything to her. Yet the look on her face when she gazed up at the officer was nothing short of dismay.

  John could see why. The major was entirely absorbed with the woman standing by the hearth. Platinum hair swung in curls beside her face; sapphires glittered in the lace-edged neck of the satin gown, which matched the color of her eyes. He’d always known Amelia was a beauty. Tonight, she outshone the stars.

  “Ah, there you are, my lord,” she called out. She held out her gloved hand, graceful, polished. “Do lead me in to dinner. I’m positively famished.”

  Bemused, John came to do as he was bid.

  It was like dining with a fountain. Amelia was all movement and joy, sharing stories, encouraging conversation. He couldn’t remember taking a bite of the first course before the second was brought in. Major Kensington was clearly enthralled, and even her own father was watching her with that twitch of his lips that suggested approval. John didn’t remember Caro’s presence until she spoke up as they all walked to the withdrawing room after the meal.

  “Allow me to offer some entertainment this evening,” she said, moving to the front of the room. “After all, we wouldn’t want poor Amelia to have to resort to whist again.”