The Husband Campaign. Regina Scott
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to merely talk about his horses instead of attempting to manage them, he could oblige. It was the one topic of conversation where he actually felt confident. “We did. She crossed the bridge and wandered toward town. A farmer alerted us, and we brought her home.”
“Do they wander a great deal?” she asked, surprise in her voice.
“Not at all. Horses are herd animals. They feel safer together. But Contessa is another matter.”
“Contessa.” She smiled as if the name pleased her. “Quite a lady, I take it.”
“Our queen. She leads the herd. Contessa is a direct-line descendent of the Byerley Turk and one of the finest animals you’ll find in England.”
“I’ve heard of the Turk,” she said, eyes wide as if the relationship impressed her. “Father has several descendants. They are all exceptionally fine animals. Did Contessa race?”
“No,” John said, and even now the memory hurt. “She was the first horse I bought myself when I was still at university. My father thought I was becoming too attached. Maudlin sentimentality, he called it. He sold her to a colonel who took her to the Peninsula.”
Her hand pressed against her pretty pink lips a moment. “Oh, no! Did she see action, then?”
“A great deal. She was finally pulled down on the Spanish frontier. The colonel thought enough of her to send her home to recuperate, but it was clear she’d never support a cavalry run again. And I was able then to buy her back. She was the first horse I brought to Hollyoak.”
Could she hear the pride in his words? Did she appreciate its source? He’d never met anyone who could understand his devotion to his horses. He knew most men saw them as nothing more than transportation, perhaps an acknowledgment of their prestige. They were far more to him. No horse had ever spurned his friendship, lied to his face or stabbed him in the back.
“Small wonder you went looking for her in a thunderstorm.” She smiled at him, and even though he’d felt justified in his efforts for the mare, his work suddenly felt noble. It was as if Amelia approved of him.
Dangerous stuff that, his emotions turning on her smile. He refused to be so easily led again.
“You needn’t be concerned I’ll set you a similar task,” he assured her. “You’ll have enough to keep you busy without dealing with the horses. Buyers appear frequently, often without warning. As I said, I expect you to deal with those who come merely to look. That includes keeping the wives and daughters occupied.”
“And safely away from the horses,” she said.
It was in him to agree, but something in the way she said it told him agreement wasn’t wise.
“I’m more than happy to show a lady my stock,” he said instead. “But I’ve found most have little interest.”
“Perhaps if you asked,” she replied, gaze dropping at last, “you might find them quite interested indeed.”
Was she talking about his buyers or herself? She certainly seemed interested in the conversation. She had looked out for Belle as best she could that night in the stable, and she had risen to Contessa’s defense when she’d initially heard the mare was missing. Still, he could not believe his horses would ever be as important to her as they were to him.
She seemed to think the conversation finished, for she lapsed into silence. Her gaze went to the window as if hoping to see their destination in the distance. He knew they had far to go yet. Gazing backward from where he sat on the rear-facing bench, he could see that the stone buildings of London were disappearing to be replaced by golden fields of grain and neat hedgerows. As they took a bend in the road, he spotted another fellow following them. John frowned.
“Something wrong, my lord?” Amelia asked.
Had she been watching him? John shook his head, as much at his vanity as to answer her question. “There’s someone behind us,” he said. “Cob of a horse, swaybacked, hollow sides, which generally means poor pasture or not enough grain. And he pulls too hard on the bit.”
Amelia turned to eye the road back. “You can tell all that at a glance?”
John shrugged. “You can tell a lot about a horse and his rider if you know where to look. This fellow isn’t comfortable riding. He’s holding the reins too far out from his body and using his heels over much.”
“I see what you mean.” She turned to eye John now. “Is he following us?”
Was that worry he heard in her voice?
“Anyone can use the king’s highway,” he replied. “But there have been no reports of highwaymen along this route. I wouldn’t be concerned.”
She nodded, but he wasn’t sure she believed him.
The afternoon stretched. John busied himself planning an extension to the main stable block, but when the coach finally pulled into the yard of the Fox and Hound Inn that evening, Amelia still sat primly across the coach, hands folded in her lap. He offered her a smile as the carriage stopped. The smile she returned was small and tight.
What had he done to offend her? Had she expected scintillating conversation after their other encounters? Or was she a woman who held a grudge for every little slight? He didn’t like thinking about his future in that case. The good Lord knew there were all too many ways John had found to offend people, even without trying!
“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