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 aloud. He could see it in the height of her chin, hear it in the strength of her voice. Just contemplating his next move made him as jittery as a colt taking its first steps.
Her mother moved to her side, the rustle of her skirts loud against the carpet. “Things have changed, Amelia. Lord Hascot has already spoken to your father. He is aware that this is not the match we wanted for you, but we are persuaded that he will make you a good husband.”
Were they? He wished he had that confidence. He was certain he’d make a wretched husband, but after meeting Lady Amelia’s father, he could only pray that life with him would be an improvement for her.
Now, how was he to convince her of that?
* * *
So it was true. Her mother and father had somehow persuaded themselves and Lord Hascot that he should wed her. No doubt the thought of aligning himself with her father had sweetened the pot.
“I hope Father at least laid claim to a Hascot colt for his trouble,” she said.
Oh, but why did those unkind words keep coming from her mouth? Yet even as she regretted them, she saw Lord Hascot’s face reddening, and she knew her accusation was true. Her father had traded her for a horse! And this man, this lord who clearly preferred horses to people, had agreed to it. Words failed her.
They did not, of course, fail her mother.
“You are, no doubt, overcome by the thought of marrying, Amelia,” she said, jaw tight, “so I will forgive you for that outburst.” She turned to Lord Hascot. “Please know that Amelia is normally obedient in all things, my lord. You need have no concerns that she will make you an excellent wife.”
Of course she’d make an excellent wife. She’d been trained since birth to manage a household, to oversee the education of children, to sing and play and dance, to make her husband happy. She was docile, sweet natured, eager to please.
“Yes, I’m quite the catch,” she said, hysteria forcing out a high, brittle laugh. “I dare say I’m a great deal more biddable than his stock.”
“Excuse us a moment, my lord,” her mother said. She seized Amelia’s elbow and drew her back toward the door.
“What is this?” she hissed, blocking Lord Hascot’s view of Amelia by turning her back. “You run away, spend the night in a stable like a milkmaid and then dare defy your father’s attempt to salvage your reputation? What has happened to you, Amelia?”
