The Husband Campaign. Regina Scott

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      “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?”

      What was happening to her? She felt the image she’d held of herself melting like silver purified, and she wasn’t sure yet what shape it might form.

      “I don’t wish to marry him, Mother,” she tried. “I don’t love him. Nor does he love me.”

      Her mother sighed. “Love, again. I wish you had never met that Hollingsford girl! You must think logically, Amelia. Lord Hascot has five thousand pounds per annum, his horses are widely admired and he was willing to take you. Be happy with that.”

      She did not wait for Amelia’s reply but only turned to Lord Hascot once more. “I would prefer Amelia be married here, my lord. A quiet ceremony with a few friends and family, by special license.”

      Her mother would even dictate the ceremony. Think! There had to be something she could say, something she could do, to make them all change their minds. Please, Lord, help me!

      No inspiration struck. But now that her mother had moved away a little, Amelia could see Lord Hascot standing tall and proud where they had left him.

      “Impossible,” he said to her mother’s dictates. “We will be wed in a church, after the banns are read.”

      “The banns?” Amelia could hear the confusion in her mother’s voice. Common folk married by banns, their names read out for three Sundays in a row in their home churches. The aristocracy married by license or special license, away from prying eyes, among their own kind.

      “The banns,” he insisted. He met Amelia’s gaze. “That way, if anyone chooses to object, he can.”

      He was giving her a chance. She didn’t understand why, but she knew it. He would not force himself on her after all. By having the banns read, he gave some other gentleman who cared about her the opportunity to come forward, protest the wedding, state his former claim on Amelia’s affections.

      If only she had such a gentleman to defend her!

      A quiet voice inside her urged her to defend herself. But how? Her father had made his wishes clear. She could run away, but how would she live? She wouldn’t be old enough to marry without consent for another three months, even if she found a man she could love. No other relation would take her in, knowing she’d defied her father. And with no reference, who would hire her as a governess or teacher? Sadly, she wasn’t trained to be useful in any other legitimate profession, and she refused to think of the illegitimate ones.

      In fact, the only person who would support Amelia’s position was away on her honeymoon. Ruby Hollingsford and the Earl of Danning had wed by special license and were off on their wedding trip to Yorkshire, where the fishing was supposed to be excellent.

      Still, she thought and prayed as the next three weeks passed, but no solution presented itself. Each Sunday, she sat in church, listened to her name and Lord Hascot’s being read aloud, endured the stares and murmurs that inevitably started anew. She kept her head high, accepted the congratulations offered her, fended off the questions, the conjectures. The ton was agog that the beautiful, talented Lady Amelia, daughter of the powerful Marquess of Wesworth, had settled on a taciturn provincial baron. They expected her to confess an undying devotion, a sudden passion.

      She refused to lie. So she said nothing.

      But she didn’t stop thinking. She thought while her mother had her measured for a wedding gown of creamy satin. She thought while she embroidered the last pink rose on the lawn nightgown for her trousseau. She thought as she directed the servants in packing her belongings—clothing, books, sheet music, favorite furniture, watercolors she’d painted—for the trip to Hollyoak Farm.

      She had two choices she could see—to convince her father that Lord Hascot wasn’t the right son-in-law to bring credit to the Wesworth title or to convince Lord Hascot that marriage to her served no one. She thought she’d have better luck with Lord Hascot, but he had immediately decamped for Derby, intending to return just before the wedding, and it was not a subject to be presented by a letter. That left her father.

      She’d never had luck simply wandering into his study for a conversation. For one, he was more often to be found at his club or Parliament. For another, even when he was home, he always had more important matters that required his attention. To Amelia’s mind, nothing should be more important than his daughter’s marriage, so she lay in wait for him in the breakfast room three days running before finally catching him.

      “Is there a problem?” he asked as he looked up from that morning’s Times to find her standing by his side.

      Every other man of her acquaintance rose in her presence. “Yes, Father,” she said, forcing herself to say the words she had rehearsed. “I am convinced that Lord Hascot will not be an asset to the family. He lacks address, he has no influence on Parliament, as you pointed out, and his title is far inferior to yours. We can do better.”

      He took a sip of his tea before answering her, fingers firm on the handle of the gilt-edged cup. “No doubt. But plans are in place, Amelia. Promises have been made. I need this alliance. If he treats you badly, you can always come home.”

      He seemed to think that a kindness, and she did not know how to tell him that home had always been where she was treated worst of all.

      That night, she threw herself on her knees beside her tester bed, hands clasped and gaze on the gold drape of the half canopy. “Father, help me! I don’t know what else to do, where else to turn. Surely this isn’t Your will.”

      Yet what if it was, that voice inside her whispered. God could turn ashes to beauty, make good come from tragedy. Could He make something from this marriage?

      The answer came the night before her wedding and from an unexpected source.

      Amelia had not seen Lord Hascot since the day he had proposed, but her mother assured her he had returned to London and was staying at the Fenton. How she knew this, Amelia didn’t question. All the servants reported to her mother anything they saw or heard. That was one of the reasons Amelia intended to leave her maid behind if she married Lord Hascot. The outspoken Dorcus Turner would suit the woman Amelia was becoming much better than the cowed creatures her mother seemed to hire. In fact, it was her mother who came to tell Amelia that Lord Hascot wished to speak to her.

      “I tried to dissuade him,” her mother complained, pacing in the bedchamber where she’d СКАЧАТЬ