The Husband Campaign. Regina Scott

to parade herself, gowned in her best, hair just so, smiling, always smiling. Sometimes she felt as if she was one of the horses at Tattersalls, the famed horse auctioneers in London. She would not have been surprised if one of the gentlemen asked to examine her teeth!

      “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, my lord,” she told Lord Hascot. She bent, retrieved his greatcoat and held it out to him. “And thank the Lord the storm has ended.”

      He came forward and accepted the coat as solemnly as if it were a royal robe. “You’ll want to be on your way, I suspect.”

      “Yes, thank you.” She slipped into the box next to hers and reached for Belle’s headstall, which was hanging from a hook at the end of the box. “My mother will be worried.”

      “I sent word to Fern Lodge this morning,” he said.

      Her fingers froze. Indeed, she was surprised she could even blink. “This morning?”

      “It is past dawn,” he said. “One of my grooms just came in search of me. You slept through the night.”

      She clutched the leather of the reins and managed to turn and look at his scowling face. “And where did you sleep?”

      “I didn’t. I was over there.” He lifted his chin toward the far wall. “You were not disturbed.”

      She nodded. She had to nod, for every part of her was shaking. She’d spent the night alone with a gentleman. It didn’t matter that nothing untoward had happened. It didn’t matter that he had merely kept watch over her from the opposite side of the stable.

      She was ruined.

      Ruined.

      No one of consequence would offer for her now. All her father’s expectations, all her mother’s hopes for an alliance with a highborn family were utterly, irrevocably dashed.

      She was free!

      Thank You, Lord!

      Her joy was singing so loudly she almost missed hearing Lord Hascot say, “I will, of course, do the expected and offer for your hand.”

      Chapter Two

      What could possibly have forced those words from his mouth? John had known he was taking a chance by staying with her. He’d expected one of his staff to come looking for him long before dawn. But his men had all assumed he was out searching as they were for Contessa amidst the pouring rain. John had already sent the groom back to the house with Magnum and instructions to contact Fern Lodge, for very likely the Earl of Danning was equally concerned for his lost guest, and her mother must be frantic.

      Lady Amelia looked nearly as frantic, standing before him, gaze flickering about the old stable as if she hoped to spy a stray chaperone perched in the corner. She knew the penalty for spending the night with him, even on the opposite side of the stable. Yet he had no interest in bringing a near stranger to Hollyoak as his wife. He’d worked hard to make this farm the best in England. A Hascot colt was widely recognized as the mark of a prosperous man. Having a wife would be little asset there.

      As for preserving the line, at times he was certain the idea was inadvisable. He knew weak stock when he saw it. Perhaps a long-lost cousin of stronger stuff could be found to take over the barony when John died without issue.

      So why had he just made the ultimate sacrifice and offered this woman a place at his side?

      “How very kind of you, Lord Hascot,” she said, interrupting his thoughts and pausing to bite her petal-pink lip a moment as if choosing her words with care. “But there’s really no need. You were merely being a gentleman to watch over me during the storm.”

      Relief at his narrow escape from parson’s mousetrap was not as strong as it should have been. He told himself to be glad she was so practical, so quick to spot the truth. He hadn’t the time, patience or inclination to make a decent husband. His feelings ran too deep; he never expressed them well.

      “As you wish, Lady Amelia,” he said with a nod. “I offer you the hospitality of my home, such as it is, before you return to Fern Lodge.”

      Her hand touched her hair above her ear, where the strands had come loose from her pins. A piece of straw stuck out like the ostrich plumes she must wear to her balls in London. Straw speckled her riding habit as well, clinging to the fabric as the wool outlined every curve of her slender form. John forced his gaze to her face, which was growing decidedly pinker, as if she’d noticed his scrutiny.

      “Thank you, my lord,” she replied with obvious relief. She turned to Belle, then paused as if wondering how to put the saddle back into place.

      “Allow me,” John said.

      She stepped aside with another smile.

      But in this he wasn’t being chivalrous. She’d done well to remove the tack the previous night, but in his experience, few women knew how to take care of their own horses. They’d never had to learn. Grooms attended them, beaux helped them in and out of sidesaddles. He personally thought sidesaddles ridiculous contraptions that hampered a woman’s ability to control her animal, but he doubted any word from him would make the fashionable change their minds.

      So he laid the saddle on the mare’s back and cinched it up from long experience. He slipped on the headstall, checked that the brass was properly buckled. All the while the mare stool docile, placid. For all her good lines, he sensed very little fire in her.

      He’d always thought the horse reflected its rider. Lady Amelia had called herself timid in passing. Was her polite demeanor truly a sign of a timid heart?

      For she stood waiting as well, a pleasant smile on her face as if she was quite used to gentlemen serving her. He bent and cupped his hands, and she put her foot in his grip. It was long and shapely, even in her riding boot, and she lifted herself easily into the saddle, where she draped her skirts about her. With a cluck, she urged Belle into a walk out of the stall.

      And John walked beside her, feeling a bit like a stable lad attending the queen.

      “What a lovely day,” she said as they exited the building.

      In truth, it was a fine day. The storm had carried off the last cloud, and the field sparkled with the remaining raindrops. Dovecote Dale stretched in either direction, following the chatter of the River Bell, the fields lush and alive. He always felt as if he could breathe easier here.

      But not with the woman beside him. She was trying to initiate conversation, just as she had last night. He remembered the London routine: mention the weather, ask after a gentleman’s horses, talk about family or mutual friends. Had she no more purposeful topics?

      When he did no more than nod in reply, she tried again, gesturing to where several of his animals were out in the pasture. “Your horses look fit.”

      John nearly choked. “Fit, madam? Yes, I warrant they could make it across the field without collapsing, particularly in such excellent weather.”

      Her cheeks were darkening again, the color as pink as her lips. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to give false praise.”

      “No,” John said, forcing his gaze away from her once more. “Forgive me. I haven’t mixed in Society for a while. I find the forms stifling.”

      “I quite understand.”

      The certainty of the statement said she found them equally so, but he suspected she was more in agreement with the assessment of his social skills.

      “Is there something you’d prefer to discuss?” she asked politely.

      None of the banal topics London appeared to thrive on. In fact, he had only one question plaguing him. “Why exactly were you out in the storm yesterday?”

      She was silent a moment, her gaze on the house, which could now be seen in the distance. Her head was so high the straw in her hair stood at attention. Finally she said, “I had a disagreement with my mother. Riding away seemed the wisest course.”