The Husband Campaign. Regina Scott

gentlemen of the ton.

      But even as he was tempted to dismiss the letter, he couldn’t help wondering about the consequences to Lady Amelia. Surely Society wouldn’t shun her for sleeping in his stable one night. And marrying her would hardly improve her standing with the ton. He wasn’t known for his cutting wit or dashing style.

      Still, Fletcher’s prediction that she would pay for her lapse refused to leave John, so he rode to London with the idea of assuring Lady Amelia’s father that the marquess need not concern himself for her reputation.

      But the meeting with Lord Wesworth did not go as he had expected.

      “We are practical gentlemen,” Lady Amelia’s father said when he received John in his study. “This emotional business associated with marriage does not become us.”

      John could not argue with that. He’d grown emotional about marriage once. He still bore the scars. He took the seat his lordship indicated before the desk. “Then you had another reason for writing to me.”

      Wesworth perched behind the desk, his lips twitching as if he could not decide whether to smile. Or perhaps he was simply unused to the gesture. A spare man with a balding pate, he was so still and pale that he reminded John of grain left too long in the rain.

      “I see this contretemps in Derby as an opportunity for the both of us,” he explained.

      John cocked his head. “I don’t follow you.”

      He rearranged the quills laid out on his desk, from longest to shortest, the sharp ends all pointing inward. “I am speaking of a connection between our houses. You are a man who understands breeding, sir. You know my daughter’s worth.”

      Would he compare his daughter to a horse? John must have frowned, for the marquess looked up and elaborated.

      “She is beautiful, well trained in the art of managing a household, a talented singer, I’m told. You would be aligning yourself to a powerful family, able to arrange matters in Parliament to your liking.”

      John leaned back. “The last time I checked, Parliament had enough on its hands settling the affairs in France to worry about the regulation of the horse trade.”

      “Ah,” the marquess said, hands stilling, “but there is more of interest to a horse breeder, say the right to enclose certain property.”

      Enclosure gave the landowner the right to keep the local citizens from using property once held in common. Some of his pasture was unenclosed land. His frown grew. “Are you threatening me?”

      Still the marquess did not smile. “I should not need to threaten you, Hascot. You wronged my daughter. I merely seek restitution.”

      “I wronged no one,” John insisted, pushing himself to his feet. “Good day, my lord.” He turned for the door, but the quiet words stopped him.

      “You’d have her shamed, then.”

      John looked back at him. He remained calm, as if he had no more than commented on the weather. “She’s your daughter, Wesworth,” John reminded him. “A word from you would likely cure any ill in Society.”

      The marquess was watching him. “And what if I should refuse to say a word? Or worse, be sadly forced to agree that you ruined her?”

      John felt his hand fisting and forced his fingers to relax. “Why?” he demanded. “What would be gained by such actions? I might lose a few sales to ladies outraged by my supposed lack of morals, but the gentlemen will still come for my hunters. Your daughter stands to lose the most.”

      His fingers set to rearranging the quills once more, shortest to longest this time, and now the points were aimed toward John. “My daughter’s situation is immaterial. This is a discussion between gentlemen.” As if assuming John had capitulated, he leaned forward and raised his gaze. “For the privilege of marrying into my family, I expect a colt every other year.”

      Anger was overtaking him, and he was thankful it only came out of his mouth. “If you treat your own daughter like cattle, sir, I wouldn’t trust you with one of my horses.”

      The marquess recoiled, color flushing up his lean face at last. “How dare you!”

      John returned to the desk in two strides, leaned over, braced both hands on the polished surface and met the marquess’s cold gaze straight on. “I will marry your daughter, but you will only receive one of my colts when you can treat it and her with the respect they are due. That is my offer. Take it or leave it.”

      “Done,” the fellow said, as if he’d just commissioned a new coat and was haggling over the buttons. “My wife is waiting in the withdrawing room. You may pay your addresses to my daughter.”

      John quit the study before he said anything further. If he truly was going to marry into this family, the less time he spent with Amelia’s father, the better.

      Standing in the withdrawing room of the Wesworth town house, however, he had to convince himself not to squirm. The spindle-legged, gilded chairs that rested against the papered walls looked as if they, too, feared to sully the cream-patterned carpet. Every picture, every knickknack was placed precisely in the center of whatever space it had been given. Lady Wesworth, seated on a white satin-striped sofa with a square back, did not even look as if she was breathing.

      But that might have more to do with her fear that she was about to give her daughter away to a lesser being.

      The paneled door opened, and Amelia entered the room. Somehow, life seemed to come with her. Though she wore one of the frilly white muslin gowns that remained the fashion, her color was high. Her smile as she approached him, however, was more strained than welcoming.

      “Lord Hascot,” she said, inclining her head so that the light from the window gilded her pale hair. “What a surprise.”

      Had her mother and father kept their machinations from her? “You did not know I was coming?” He glanced at her mother, who rose and came forward.

      “Lord Wesworth and I find it best to make decisions without concerning Amelia,” she informed John.

      Amelia blushed. “How kind, Mother, but some decisions concern me more than you know.”

      Her mother frowned as if she could not imagine such a circumstance.

      He certainly could. Amelia had a right to decide who to wed, and her choices must be legion. He was mad to even consider proposing. But hearing her father attempt to bargain for her future—never questioning whether John would make a good husband, whether she’d be cared for, appreciated—had touched something inside him. He could not willingly leave her to her fate.

      He should assure her he meant the best for her, that he would give her a secure future. Yet the words refused to leave his mouth. It had ever been this way. When he was a child, he’d stammered, and his already shy nature had combined with the trait to keep him largely silent. Even though the stammer had faded with maturity, he still found it remarkably hard to make conversation, particularly when he was the center of attention, as now.

      Lady Wesworth was obviously losing patience with him, for as the silence stretched, she moved to assist. “Lord Hascot has something he wishes to say to you, Amelia,” she announced with a pointed look to him.

      At this, Amelia straightened, her composed face tightening as if it mirrored her convictions. “Lord Hascot and I have nothing further to say to each other.”

      She had little use for him, and he could not blame her for it. “I had a similar reaction when I read your father’s note,” he assured her. “I came to London to make certain you had taken no harm from your short stay at Hollyoak Farm.”

      Her color was fading, but she spread her hands, graceful. “As you can see, my lord,” she said, “I am fine. Perhaps if you could explain that to my mother and father, we can put all this behind us. You know I already refused you once.”

      And would do so again. She did not have to say it