of a female?
“Thank you for coming all this way, Turner,” Amelia answered. “Is there somewhere I might tidy up?”
Turner wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t been told, but I imagine there must be some spare room in this dismal pile.” Amelia’s surprise at her outspoken manner must have been evident, for the maid dipped another curtsy. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship. This way.”
She led Amelia down the dim corridor paneled in squares of dark wood, and Amelia soon agreed with the maid’s assessment of the house. Though it was now midmorning, every velvet drape remained closed, every candle unlit, making the place a house of shadow. Combined with the dark paneling that covered at least half of every room she glanced into as they passed, she could easily imagine the mistress of the house curling away in a corner to cry. Small wonder Lord Hascot rarely smiled!
She followed Turner up a set of stairs with a brass-topped banister to a room on the chamber story, where the maid set about taking down Amelia’s hair.
“I warrant you’re the first lady to set foot in this house for a long while,” she said as she worked. “I hear tell Lord Hascot never lets his visitors closer than the stables.”
Perhaps because he knew the house to be so uninviting. “I imagine most of his visitors come to see the horses, in any event,” Amelia replied. Certainly that was why Lord Danning had brought his guests to Hollyoak Farm.
“Oh, aye,” Turner agreed, pulling a silver-backed brush from the pocket of her apron and proceeding to run it over Amelia’s long, curly hair. “Everyone around here knows he’s a great one for the horses, but not with the ladies. It won’t take much for you to turn him up sweet, your ladyship.”
Amelia stiffened. “That will do, Turner. I have no interest in being courted by Lord Hascot.”
She had never spoken so sternly to a servant. She’d never had to. The staff at home was too afraid of her father and mother to ever speak out of turn. Turner, however, merely grimaced before setting about repinning Amelia’s hair.
“Sorry, your ladyship,” she said. “You might as well know that I tend to speak my mind. This could be a fine house, and I warrant his lordship could be a fine husband, for a lady with a bit of grit and a lot of determination.”
Grit and determination. She’d never considered herself particularly gifted in either. And after spending a little time in the gentleman’s company, she could only wish his future bride luck, for it would take quite a campaign to turn Lord Hascot into the proper husband.
Chapter Three
John was certain he’d seen the last of Lady Amelia. Her family had no reason to interact with his. He’d already refused her father’s attempt to purchase a horse, twice. Something about the Marquess of Wesworth struck him as cold, calculating. Any kindness in the man had obviously been passed to his daughter.
Yet as John checked with his head groom and learned that Contessa was still missing, he could not seem to forget the woman he’d found sleeping in the straw. Perhaps that was why he hurried out of the stables at the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel.
A lavish landau sat on the yard, brass appointments gleaming in the morning light. The four matched grays pulling it had the sleek, well-kept look of carriage horses. He would not have allowed one in his stable, and he was none too sure the same might not be said of the lady perched on the leather-upholstered seats of the open carriage. Lady Wesworth’s back was ramrod straight in her serpentine pelisse, the peacock feather in her bonnet waving in the breeze.
Most of his grooms were still out searching for Contessa, but his veterinarian, Marcus Fletcher, must have heard the carriage as well, for he came out of the opposite stable block. A tall, gangly fellow with a riot of curly red hair and gold-rimmed spectacles, he was generally good with people for all he’d chosen to be a horse doctor instead of a physician. By the imperious frown on Lady Wesworth’s face, however, John thought even Fletcher’s good nature might not be sufficient.
“Lord Hascot,” she said as John approached, Fletcher falling into step beside him. “What have you done with my daughter?”
She made it sound as if John had stolen Amelia from her home. Luckily, he was spared an answer by the opening of the rear door of the house and the entrance of the lady herself, followed by the maid John had requested from Rotherford Grange.
“Amelia!” Lady Wesworth cried as her daughter drew closer. “Are you hurt?”
A reasonable question, but it was said with a note of accusation, as if only injury would allow her mother to condone her actions.
“Good morning, Mother,” Lady Amelia answered pleasantly, as if she usually started the day in a strange house. “I’m very sorry if I concerned you. I’m fine.”
Indeed, she looked quite fine. The maid had done an excellent job of smoothing her platinum hair, brushing out the plum habit. Her blue eyes sparkling, Lady Amelia was nothing short of perfection.
Unfortunately, her mother did not appear to agree. Her chilly gaze swept over her daughter, as if seeking any fault.
“Of course you concerned me,” she all but scolded. “You are my daughter, our only child.” She affixed her gaze on John and held out her hand in a clear order to help her from the carriage.
He ignored her and turned to Lady Amelia. He had done his duty and delivered her safely back to her family. Surely that would silence the nagging voice in his head that he should do more.
“I trust the rest of your visit to Dovecote Dale will be unmarred by further unpleasantries, your ladyship,” he said with a bow. “Safe travels.”
Was it his imagination, or did her smile warm at his gesture? “Thank you, Lord Hascot. I hope you find your missing horse.”
Despite everything that had happened, she remembered Contessa. That alone made her remarkable in John’s eyes. As his head groom brought out a brushed and watered Belle, her smile only grew.
So did her mother’s frown. Indeed, she had turned an unbecoming shade of red.
“Lord Hascot,” she said, eyes narrowed, “my husband will expect you in London within the week. Come along, Amelia.”
Lady Wesworth obviously expected not only instant obedience but humble gratitude for being given the benefit of her exalted command. John knew a sprightly mare generally resulted in a sprightly colt, but he found it difficult to believe Lady Amelia shared much in common with her mother.
And he no longer danced to anyone’s tune.
He bowed to Lady Amelia, then turned his back on her mother and strode to the stables. The Jacoby women no doubt had a social calendar filled with appointments, and he had work to do. But he had only reached the door of the main stables before Fletcher caught up to him.
“She’ll have to pay for this, I fear,” he said.
John eyed his veterinarian. Marcus Fletcher had been in his employ since John had first bought Hollyoak Farm and started raising horses. He very nearly hadn’t hired the fellow, for Fletcher did not exude confidence. His hands, however, were large and capable, his smile generous and his good nature without limit. Now, by the way he kept glancing back toward the house,
