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.”
He’d met her mother when Danning’s guests had come to tour the farm. A tall woman like her daughter, with a sturdier frame and ample figure, she had a way of making her presence felt. And it didn’t help that she had a voice as sharp as a cavalry sword. Riding away probably had been the best choice.
“You never answered my question last night, either,” she reminded him. “What brought you out in the storm?”
“One of my horses is unaccounted for,” he said. “I thought perhaps she’d made for the river.”
She reined in, pulling him up short. “Oh, Lord Hascot, if she is missing you must find her!”
Her eyes, bluer than the sky, were wide in alarm, her cheeks pale. John raised his brows. “I have grooms out even now. I’ve no doubt they’ll bring her in.”
“Are you certain?” she begged, glancing around as if she might spy Contessa trailing them. “This place is so wild.”
If she thought his tended fields wild he did not want to know what she’d make of the grasses of Calder Edge, the grit stone cliff above his property.
“Hollyoak Farm is bounded by the river to the south,” he explained, pointing out the features as he talked, “and Calder Edge to the north. If Contessa goes east, she’ll run into the Rotherford mine, and they know where to return her. West, and she’ll eventually hit Bellweather Hall. The duke’s staff will send for me. Either way, I’ll fetch her home.”
She seemed to sag in the saddle. “Oh, I’m so glad.”
“Why do you care?” John asked, catching the reins before she could start forward again. “Most people treat a horse as nothing but a possession.”
Her pretty mouth thinned. “For shame, sir.” Her hand stroked her horse’s crest as lovingly as the head of a child. “Belle is no possession. I’m honored to call her my friend. I assumed you felt the same way about your horses, even that black brute I heard you call Magnum.”
John’s face was heating, and he released the reins as he looked away. “You would not be wrong. Sometimes I’m certain I spend more time in conversation with him than anyone else. Perhaps that’s why I’m so bad at conversing with a lady.”
“I’m not much of a conversationalist myself,” she admitted, urging Belle forward once more. Her look down to John was kind. “I always seem to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Please forgive me.”
Either she was too used to taking the blame for the failings of others or she was trying to impress him with her condescension. Still, John found it all too easy to forgive her. For one thing, he had the same affliction when it came to conversation. He found his horses easier to converse with than people. And for another, there was something utterly guileless about Lady Amelia.
Part of him protested. He’d been down this road before and been left standing alone at the end. It was probably best to walk the other way this time.
* * *
Amelia had always prided herself on her congenial demeanor, honed by years of criticism from her parents and her governess. But Lord Hascot challenged even her abilities. He reminded her of a cat that had been petted the wrong way—fur up and claws extended.
Hollyoak Farm was nearly as unwelcoming. When she’d visited with Lord Danning a few days ago, she’d thought the red stone house a boxy affair, as angular as its owner. Even the bow window of the withdrawing room sat out squarely as if giving no quarter. Now all the drapes were drawn and the doors shut. Lord Hascot led her to the stable yard, a gravel expanse between the two flanking stable wings, where he helped her alight on a mounting block. Taking Belle’s reins himself, he nodded toward the house.
“You’ll find a maid waiting to attend you,” he said. “If I do not see you again before Lord Danning comes to collect you, know that I am your devoted servant.”
Though his voice was gruff and his statement an expected one, something simmered under the words, the echo of concern. Amelia smiled at him.
“Thank you, Lord Hascot,” she said, trying for a similar sincerity in the oft-used phrase. “I appreciate everything you did for me and Belle.”
One of his hands strayed to Belle’s nose, the touch soft, and those stern lips lifted in a smile. Why, he could be quite handsome when he smiled, his dark locks falling across his forehead and the sunlight brightening his brown eyes to gold. Before she could say anything more, he turned away, and she fancied she felt the chill of winter in the summer air.
Such an odd man. Amelia shook her head as she made for the house. He acted as if he was much better off without people around. Still, he had been kind to stay with her and offer for her when needed. Now she had to prepare herself to face the true consequences of the night’s events: her mother’s disapproval. Help me, Lord!
She was thankful to see the young woman waiting for her in the corridor, just as Lord Hascot had predicted. The maid had light brown hair peeking out of her white lace-edge cap, a round face and a firm figure swathed in a gray dress and white apron. On seeing Amelia, she immediately bobbed a curtsy.
“Dorcus Turner of Rotherford Grange, your ladyship,” she announced. “His lordship sent for help, seeing as how he has no lady on staff. How might I be of assistance?”
Another
