The Husband Campaign. Regina Scott

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      So she set to work to improve things. She lit all the lamps, brightening the space, and unpacked her toiletries and arranged them on the highboy dresser along one wall. The gleaming glass of the perfume bottles reflected in the polished wood.

      The dark covering on the bed would have to stay until the rest of her things arrived in a few days, but she envisioned it with the white lace edging her mother had had made. Even better was the pocket door Turner discovered on the other side of the bed, leading to a decent-size dressing room with space for all Amelia’s gowns.

      Having a few of her things around her made the room feel even more welcoming. Turner helped her change from her travel attire into a day dress and brushed and repinned her hair, which made her feel better, too. She could do this. She was born to do this. Mistress of Hollyoak Farm had a fine ring to it.

      A protest from her stomach reminded Amelia that she hadn’t had dinner. She checked the black-lacquered ormolu clock on the serpentine marble fireplace and frowned. What sort of hours did they keep here? She’d always heard people complain of the early bedtimes in the country, but surely the members of Hollyoak Farm ate before retiring.

      Knowing Turner was as new to the farm as she was, Amelia rang for the footman, who arrived at the door a short time later.

      “When will dinner be served?” Amelia asked.

      He shifted on the carpet. None of the men she’d met wore any standard attire. His coat was brown, his breeches gray, and his shoes had not been shined in some time. “His lordship never asked for dinner tonight, your ladyship,” he offered. “He and Dr. Fletcher will likely be too busy to eat.”