Love Inspired Historical April 2014 Bundle: The Husband Campaign\The Preacher's Bride Claim\The Soldier's Secrets\Wyoming Promises (11 page)

Amelia raised her head. “You forgot one mark of character some gentlemen prize over all others—loyalty.”

Lady Prudence beamed as if she thought herself capable of that, at least.

Her mother, however, frowned. “You had better pray he values loyalty, my dear, for Lady Hascot is a widow. I had heard it said she regretted her marriage and wished she'd made another choice. There is nothing to stop her from staking her claim once more.”

Nothing but a band of gold. John had always struck her as an honorable man. Yet how could he be true to his vows when he loved elsewhere?

* * *

John heard about Amelia's summons the moment he came in from the fields. Something must be wrong that she wished
his
company to entertain visitors. He left Magnum with a groom and started for the door of the stable only to find Marcus Fletcher blocking his way.

“By your leave,” the veterinarian said, laying a hand against John's navy coat, “you may want to reconsider. Her ladyship has visitors from Bellweather Hall.”

“The Terrors,” one of the grooms murmured with a shudder as he passed.

John had heard the unkind name the locals had given the Duchess of Bellington and her daughter. It was all too easy to understand the reason. The mother collected every bit of gossip like a dragon hoarding treasure, and the daughter had never found an illness she couldn't like. At times he pitied the duke.

“I can't leave Amelia to them,” he told Fletcher.

His friend shook his curly head. “She's likely to fare better than either of us,” he insisted. “You may not have noticed, but your wife is quite clever.”

She was more clever than he had a right to expect. “I don't doubt her intelligence,” he said. “I merely dislike seeing her put upon. Excuse me.”

He knew he had to go carefully as he drew up to the rear door. He'd given Amelia charge of the house after all. But she had felt comfortable joining him in his domain, and with her help, he thought he might be able to stand on his own in hers. And surely if he could find a way to converse with the Terrors, he could converse with anyone.

Unfortunately, he reached the front of the house in time to see her Grace and Lady Prudence being draped with their wraps by the door. Lady Prudence, in fact, was frowning at the footman.

“He looks a great deal like a fellow who works for us,” John heard her tell Amelia as John approached from the back of the house. “Is he a twin?”

Her mother peered closer. “He doesn't look familiar to me. I wouldn't have such a common fellow on staff.”

“What a blessing each house has its own character,” Amelia said as the red-faced footman backed away respectfully.

“And what a blessing a wife is to this house,” John said, seizing the opening. He came up beside Amelia and nodded. “Forgive me for not joining you sooner, my dear. I didn't realize we had company.”

And not too welcome company by the pallor of Amelia's face. “Her Grace and Lady Prudence were just leaving.” She stepped forward as if to usher them out the door herself.

“You have a lovely wife, my lord,” the duchess pronounced. “Tell me, do you intend to keep her with you out here in the wilderness?”

Amelia stiffened. So much for polite conversation. John could think of only one way to answer the woman.

He leaned forward and met the duchess's bright gaze. “Until my dying day, madam.”

She sagged as if he'd destroyed a dream, then jerked upright again. “And how close is that? Your brother passed away only last year. How are you feeling?”

“Never better.” He strode to the door and held it open himself. “Do not allow me to detain you. I'm sure you have others to regale with what you've learned here.”

She scowled at him. “I haven't learned anything of merit. Your wife, my lord, is remarkably closemouthed.”

And thank You, Lord, for that!

Amelia lowered her gaze, but Lady Prudence ambled toward the door. “Come along, Mother,” she said. “Lord and Lady Hascot are on their honeymoon, if you recall. We may well impose.”

The duchess pounced on the idea. “Oh, the honeymoon. Of course! Wait until I tell Bell. If Hascot can set up a nursery, he certainly should be able to, as well.” She turned to Amelia and shook her gloved finger. “I expect to be the first to hear when you are increasing.”

John waited for the pink to spring into Amelia's cheeks, but if anything, she turned even paler as the ladies exited the house.

“We should see them to the carriage,” Amelia murmured.

“We should not,” John replied, and he shut the door on them.

He thought Amelia might argue, but she stood hunched over, as if she was in pain. The way she kept blinking made him wonder if she were fighting tears.

Why was she treated so shabbily? Couldn't they see her character, her kindness? He could.

John strode to her side, touched her chin and raised her gaze to his. The hurt behind those blue eyes stabbed at him.

“She's an old harridan, Amelia,” he told her. “You cannot allow her thoughtless words to hurt you.”

“They were rather thought-provoking words, actually,” she replied. She pulled away from his touch, drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “She informed me of something I wish I'd known sooner.”

Had she been a horse, he would have thought her spooked, ready to leap away and fly from the thing that distressed her. But even as he was coming to know her as well as one of his horses, he could not imagine what sort of gossip the old woman had dragged out that could have brought about such a reaction. He'd never done anything the least scandalous.

“Oh?” John prompted, watching her.

She gazed up at him, and sorrow was etched on every feature. “You were not free to marry me, John. You're in love with another woman.”

Chapter Eleven

A
melia wanted John to deny that he loved another. Oh, how she wanted him to deny it! For if he had truly placed his heart in someone else's keeping, she did not like her chances of retrieving it.

“If you are referring to my brother's wife,” he said, face so still it might have been carved from marble, “it would be inappropriate to feel more than familial affection.”

Inappropriate, perhaps, but not impossible, especially given the circumstances Lady Bellington had related. Amelia was coming to know her husband—he was nothing if not committed. Look at his dedication to his horses. His love, once lit, would not easily be snuffed out.

Perhaps that was why she craved it.

And she did crave it, she realized with a pang. She wanted more than his admiration and respect; she wanted him to love her. When he was troubled, she wanted to be the first one he turned to for counsel and comfort. When he laughed, she wanted to share the joy. That was what a true marriage meant.

She had started her campaign from Turner's suggestion. She had had a setback, a terrible setback. But surely retreating was not the answer.

Mindful of the footman hovering beside her, she stepped closer to John. “Might we discuss the matter, just the two of us?”

He glanced at the footman as well, then offered her his arm. “Come to the library with me.”

The library was one of the two rooms she hadn't redecorated. For one, the massive floor-to-ceiling dark walnut bookcases were firmly anchored to the walls. For another, it seemed to be John's favorite room, and changing anything felt like a sacrilege. Now the solemn colors and the dark wood furnishings seemed to crowd against her, press the very air from her lungs. She broke from him to go open the drapes and let in the light.

Turning, she saw that John was standing by a set of black leather-upholstered chairs near the fire, hair once more fallen onto his brow. One of these days she was going to put it back herself, if only to feel the warmth of those dark tresses. Had the Dowager Lady Hascot touched him so?

He waited for her to take a seat before sitting opposite her. “What would you have of me?” he asked.

Everything. How he felt about the other Lady Hascot, how he felt about her. Yet did she really want to hear him say aloud how little affection he bore her?

“Lady Bellington claimed you were in love with your brother's wife before they wed,” she said. “Is that true?”

He leaned back from her. “I thought myself in love, yes. She chose my brother instead.”

How calmly he stated the matter, as if Lady Caroline had merely decided upon a different dress that morning. “Were you not hurt by her defection?”

Now his gaze avoided hers, as well. “She was wise to choose the security of the title. Isn't that what all young ladies are taught?”

Certainly her mother and governess had drummed it into her. “I suppose so,” Amelia allowed. “At the very least, we are schooled to try for the best marriage possible. Still, she is free now. Why did you marry me?”

As if he, too, sought more air, he rose and went to the window. The light etched the planes of his face in sharp relief. “The church frowns upon a marriage between a man and his brother's wife. I am to look on Lady Hascot as a sister.”

His tone remained dispassionate, removed. It was as if the other Lady Hascot was nothing to him. Why didn't that give Amelia comfort?

“I'd forgotten that,” she admitted. “So of course you could not marry.” She licked her lips, steeling herself to address the next issue. “That doesn't mean you didn't wish it otherwise.”

His answer came immediately. “My wishes are immaterial.” He turned to look at Amelia, and now the light behind him caused his face to disappear in shadow. “I married you, Amelia. I will honor our vows.”

How could she help him understand? Amelia stood and approached him. “And if you cannot? ‘Forsaking all others' the rector said. Your wife is to have all your love and devotion.”

“And a husband should have all his wife's,” he replied. “Do you tell me you've held nothing back?”

She stiffened. “No, nothing! I've never loved another.”

“And do you claim to love me?”

Amelia swallowed, gaze falling to the black-and-green carpet even as she halted a few feet from him. “Perhaps not yet.” Her voice sounded so small. “But I'm trying.”

He moved to close the distance between them and touched her cheek, drawing her attention back to his face. Standing so close, she could see that gold flecks danced in the dark eyes, as if some part of him still clung to light, to hope.

“I know you are trying, Amelia,” he murmured. “You've turned this mausoleum into a home. You may well have saved Firenza's life. I admire your efforts.”

A tear slid down her cheek. “Admiration is not love.”

“No,” he agreed, wiping the tear away with the pad of his thumb. “But it can serve as a foundation.”

His touch made her tremble. “So I have heard,” she murmured. “Yet love is not always the result. How can you know what the future holds?”

He released her. “No one knows the future, Amelia. I can only tell you this—I feel more strongly for you than I ever thought possible. Those feelings can only grow.”

She wanted to believe that, yet her parents had known her all her life, had been given every opportunity to love, and hadn't managed it. And she'd always feared that the fault must lie with her. If she could not earn the love of her parents, a love most would say was her due, how was she to earn his?

“I pray you are right,” she murmured, dropping her gaze once more.

His fingers moved to her chin, lifted her countenance to his once more. His look was fierce.

“Any man who cannot love you,” he said, “is the most flint-hearted person on earth.”

As if to prove it, he lowered his head and kissed her.

She'd never been kissed on the lips before. No fellow would have dared risk her father's wrath. The sweet pressure, the rising emotion, made her weak at the knees. John's arms stole around her, fitted her against him. It was as if they were becoming one heart, one spirit. No more loneliness, no more loss. She wanted to stay like this, protected, cherished, forever.

Slowly, he raised his head, and she gazed up at him. His dark brows were down, his eyes narrowed, as if he had found something quite unexpected in his arms. Was he as shaken by the kiss as she was?

“If you doubt me after that, madam,” he said, voice gruffer than usual, “I have nothing more to say.”

“You were quite persuasive, my lord,” Amelia answered. “Let us see how we might make more of this marriage.”

* * *

John stared down at the woman in his arms, his wife. He'd been gazing upon her for a week now, at the breakfast table, across the stable. Always he'd thought her beautiful, but as she met his gaze, pink lips parted and warm from his kiss, skin radiant, she nearly took his breath away.

The kiss had done more than that. He felt as if he'd opened some part of himself, a part no one had ever touched. That part whispered more was waiting, if he dared open himself just a little further.

But he knew exactly what could happen when he allowed anyone too close—betrayal and pain. Amelia seemed to be different—he was surprised how much he wanted her to be different, but only time would tell if his fledgling feelings were justified.

He released her from his embrace, and the room felt somehow colder as she stepped back.

“We'll take our own time,” he promised her. “Very likely we'll be fine so long as we ignore the well-meaning advice of our friends and neighbors. This matter is between the two of us. We must be the ones to determine the outcome.”

She curtsied. “Yes, my lord.”

He hated when she was subservient. He always felt as if he'd kicked a puppy. “I like you better when you fight me.”

Her head came up, brow furrowed. “You want me to be unpleasant?”

“I don't think you know how,” John replied. “You are always kind, always considerate. But if you have an opinion on a matter, madam, state it. I may be the king of my castle, but I am not a despot.”

She nodded. “Very well.” She put her hands on her hips and raised her head. He was in for it now. He waited for her to demand another increase in the household allowance, to order him to let her ride Magnum.

“This is the ugliest room in the house,” she said. “And I wish you'd give me leave to redecorate.”

John blinked, then glanced around. He hadn't really looked at his library for a long time. He used the room to update his breeding book, to draft correspondence, to review matters with Fletcher or another member of his staff. The space was a bit on the dark side, and he'd never been particularly fond of those leather armchairs by the fire. No matter how many times he had sat in them, they had never conformed to his shape.

Returning his gaze to hers, he spread his hands. “There is nothing sacred here. Do what you wish with it.”

By the light in her eyes, he knew she would. He managed to make his escape to the stables before she suggested other things that needed to be altered in his life.

“Why do women always want to change a fellow?” he complained to Fletcher later that day as they examined a mare that had come up lame.

“My mother had a theory,” Fletcher said, running his large hands up the injured leg, checking for lumps or bruises. “She said Adam was imperfect. That's why God made Eve.”

John grimaced. “To remind him of his shortcomings.”

“I believe it was actually to help him,” Fletcher said with a smile, light flashing in his spectacles. “Ah, there's the culprit—damaged tendon, not too bad right now, but we want to nip it in the bud. Hand me the liniment, if you will.”

John reached into the carpet bag the veterinarian had brought with him to the stables and pulled out the jar of cream. Opening it, he wrinkled his nose. “Rue?” he asked as he handed the jar to his friend.

“To reduce swelling,” Fletcher said. “There's also arnica for pain and other ingredients, too. My father swore by it.”

His father, John knew, had raised sturdy highland ponies, the type that worked for their supper. “And what did he advise in matters of the heart?”

Fletcher grinned. “That a gentleman should merely nod and say yes.”

John chuckled. “I wish it was that easy.”

“Why do you make it difficult?” Fletcher asked, rubbing the cream into the mare's fetlock. “I cannot imagine our sweet Lady Hascot is so demanding.”

“She wants to redecorate the library,” John said.

Fletcher's hand stilled. “The library? Oh, that is cutting close to the bone.” He glanced at John. “What did you say?”

“I nodded and said yes.”

Fletcher shook his head as he returned to his work, red curls brushing the mare's belly. “See? You're doing splendidly.” He leaned back, wiped his hands on a rag and patted the mare. “And so is this little lady.”

John reached into the bag and pulled out the roll of bandages. “You'll want these next.”

Fletcher accepted the cloth with a nod of thanks. “I'd say,” he ventured as he unwound a length, “that you are remarkably fortunate in your choice of brides. Your lady doesn't pick at a fellow, as I've seen some do, questioning his choices.”

“Lady Caroline did that,” John remembered. “Subtly, mind you. She had a way of looking at my cravat or boots that told me they weren't up to snuff.”

“Thank the Lord your wife is not so inclined.” He busied himself wrapping the mare's leg. “And if she has a larger complaint, it's likely justified.”

“Whose side are you on?” John demanded.

“Yours,” Fletcher assured him. He tore off the end of the bandage and tied it in place. “But I'd be no kind of friend if I didn't want the best for you, and it seems to me your wife feels the same way.”

Did she? John thought about it more that day and the next morning as the footman helped him dress for Sunday services. He had told Amelia to state her opinions, her needs, and she was beginning to take his advice. Why, then, couldn't he bring himself to give his heart? She'd improved the house, in looks and operation, just as he'd hoped. She was good with the horses, with the possible exception of Magnum. She was relentlessly kind. Surely he could trust her.

Together, could they make a family?

The matter was so much on his mind that he found himself unable to attend to the readings as he sat beside Amelia in the Hascot pew that day at St. Andrew's in the village of Dovecote. He had always liked the church. Though it was merely a country chapel, all the landowners in the area had donated to make it the finest, from the new pipe organ to the stained glass windows beaming down on the congregation. And it was an orderly church, with the tombstones in the churchyard sitting as straight as the boxed pews. The Reverend Mr. Battersea would have had it no other way.

Usually John searched the words in the reading and the rector's lecture, looking for something from the Lord. Ever since his brother and Caro had betrayed him he'd felt as if God had distanced himself, as well. Certainly John's prayers never seemed to go higher than the vaulted ceiling.

Did You put Amelia in my life for a reason, Lord? Am I to learn something from all this?

“And thus,” the rector concluded, peering at his alert congregation through his silver-rimmed spectacles, “we are reminded that all things work to the good for those who love the Lord and are called according to His purposes. Join me in singing.”

John rose with Amelia, and she held the songbook so he could see the words. But he didn't need it. Her perfect voice was written on his heart.

“Gracious Spirit! Love divine!

Let Thy light within me shine;

All my guilty fears remove;

Fill me with Thy heavenly love.”