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 oddity. Surely a house this size required several maids to keep it clean. Or did Lord Hascot disdain even the services 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