To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) (2 page)

Sarah laid her hand on Albina’s arm. “I want you to be happy above all else. But you must take into consideration past events. He…he offered for our sister.”

“Several months ago,” Albina countered, her voice rising ever so slightly. “His heart has undoubtedly healed and his mind cleared of any notions he may have harbored. If any doubts remain, why, one could argue it is at our family’s hand that his misery was borrowed, what with Henrietta’s rejection and the pain she inflicted upon him. It is therefore our duty, nay,
my
duty, to restore him to his prior happiness. A task I shall endeavor to carry through to its completion.”

Taking a step closer, Sarah lowered her voice. “Were I to agree to assist you in your quest to gain the marquess’s attention—”

“I knew you would see reason.”

“I see nothing other than an overly eager and presumptuous sister. I have not yet agreed to your scheming.”

“Scheming?”

Both sisters snapped their heads to the side. Henrietta, her dark brows lifted, peered at them.

Albina was the first to break the silence, the dry crumbs on her tongue disappearing with a quick swallow. “Sarah and I were just—”

“Scheming, were I to guess. The two of you together are capable of no less. That, and Sarah admitted as much.” Henrietta stepped forward to brush a trail of crumbs off the front of Albina’s dress.

“Albina wishes to marry,” Sarah replied.

“A worthy aspiration.”

“The Marquess of Satterfield.”

Henrietta’s hand paused in midair. “Still? Oh, dear. I had rather thought you had given up the idea.”

“I have not, nor shall I ever. I will not be swayed, Henrietta. I have made my decision.” And she had. No one would convince her otherwise.

A look passed between her sisters, the two of them sighing as they returned their gazes to her.

“And how do you propose to gain the attention of a man who has, on more than one occasion, ignored persons of the female persuasion?” Henrietta asked.

Albina clasped her hands together, her eyes straying once more to where the marquess stood, deep in conversation with Lord Dalton. His very presence sent her heart racing. He possessed the soul destined to be forever bound to hers. She was certain of it.

Which was why she took a deep breath and said, “By racing. In the Emberton Derby.”

Sarah’s eyes bulged. “
You
wish to race?”

“You heard the marquess. It is the beast
and
the rider who will earn his admiration.”

Sarah snatched Albina’s elbow and led her away from the men, toward a darkened and empty corner of the room, Henrietta trailing close behind. “And what happens when you pass the finish line and seek to claim your prize? You are an unwed daughter of an earl—a
lady
.”

Albina pulled away from Sarah’s silk-covered hand. “It is not a lady the marquess wants.”

“No, I daresay he does not. But as you are unlikely to sprout a tail, a mane, and an extra set of legs—”

“Don’t be absurd.” Lifting the fan dangling from her wrist, Albina splayed open its painted blades.

Sarah tapped Albina’s wrist with her own fan, her face the very opposite of the humor the absurdity of her words implied. “The marquess may not wish to marry a lady, but make no mistake—a lady is who he will take for a wife. Not a woman flouting convention, sitting astride the back of a horse, her legs encased in buckskin.”

“I have the bloodlines required to secure the role of a marquess.”

“You also have certain expectations and standards to uphold,” Henrietta said with a frown. “And jaunting about the countryside—”

“Will earn his favor. His admiration will be bestowed on the champion of the races, and the champion I shall be.” Albina snapped the blades of her fan shut.

Sarah shook her head, the curls their maid had deliberately placed against her neck swaying with the motion. “Given the minimal possibility the marquess overlooks your indiscretion, there is still the matter of the race itself. You have not ridden astride in months, Albina. The likelihood of your winning, should you somehow convince the stable hand to allow you within ten feet of any one of the earl’s horses, are odds not even the most experienced of gamblers would wager.”

“Your confidence in my talents is staggering, Sarah.”

“And well-founded,” her sister said flatly.

“Regardless, I simply need a bit of practice. And it just so happens I have six weeks to ready before the start of the race.”

“Six weeks?” Sarah harrumphed. “You need more than practice. You need a miracle.”

“Which is why I need both of you to assist me.” Albina took Henrietta’s gloved hands in her own. “I need you to speak with your husband. Persuade him to see—”

“Your lunacy?” Henrietta asked.

Sarah sniffed. “Committing an immoral act of seduction will get you a husband as well, but no one is recommending you take on that endeavor.”

Henrietta shot Sarah a quelling look. “Nor will they. Such an idea is best ignored.” She turned to Albina. “Much like you racing.”

Albina opened her mouth, but Henrietta continued. “However, I know you are not easily swayed, no matter how much sense is in the contradiction of your scheme. I can’t promise acquiescence, Albina, but”—she paused, her hands falling from Albina’s grasp—“I will…I will do my best to present your request to the earl.”

Albina’s heart raced. Her idea would be heard. Voiced. Even considered by the Earl of Amhurst.

Her dreams were on the precipice of reality.

“Henrietta,” Sarah gasped. “You cannot be serious.”

“You know as well as I Albina will continue to press this matter with or without our acceptance. It does little harm to present the idea to the earl. Should he refuse her request—”

“He won’t,” Albina asserted. Surely he would see her side of things, would understand her frustrations with the marquess’s continual indifference toward her person. As well as her intense desire to be wed to a respected and titled peer. She was a daughter of Amhurst, after all.

“Be that as it may,” Henrietta continued, “I strongly advise you to prepare yourself to receive news you may not wish to hear.”

Albina gripped her twin’s arm and pulled her close. “Which is precisely where Sarah comes into play. As a secondary option.”

Sarah’s dark brows lifted. “A secondary option?”

“Yes, should the first and preferable one fail.”

Sarah pulled her arm from Albina’s hands. “And how precisely would you have me assist you? I do not have any earls to persuade.”

“No, but you have skills in the finer arts of tea making.” Indeed, the last time Sarah had blended an herbal tea, Albina had been ill for two weeks, which would allow her enough time to assert herself as the new jockey for the house of Amhurst before the horses were set to race in the Emberton Derby.

Both Sarah and Henrietta stared at her, aghast.

“I cannot race if the jockey remains. His absence is required.”

“Absolutely not.” Sarah crossed her arms. “My days of blending teas are over.”

“But the jockey,” Albina persisted. “I cannot present myself as a replacement and race with him in good health.”

Sarah’s nose flared. “You cannot race if the earl forbids it, either.”

“I have to agree with Sarah, dear,” Henrietta whispered. “You know well the repercussions we all faced when she last dabbled in such things. Mama was beside herself with embarrassment at her actions, and the earl was almost lost to me.”

“But he is yours now,” Albina persisted. “You are happy, Henrietta. I am not. But I have an opportunity to become so, if allowed to race at Emberton.”

Sarah’s shoulder’s slumped, her stony expression shifting into one of sadness and concern. “Happiness will not be found in the arms of the marquess, Albina. Not if you first do not—”

“Eliminate the jockey and practice my riding. You are absolutely right. I have six weeks to prepare before Emberton, and I do not intend to waste another minute. With the administration of your tea in the morning, I shall begin my training. And when the earl gives his consent, I shall have made the most of my time.” Albina flicked her wrist, the blades of her fan splaying open. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a race to win. And a marquess to ensnare. He is no doubt missing my presence.”

If he had even noticed her departure.

She thrust her shoulders back. Of course he had noticed—she had been with Henrietta.

Albina passed a footman and snatched the fullest glass of ratafia off his tray. And drank it in one swallow.

…

Edmund’s heart raced, the same way it always did when a thousand pounds of barely restrained power thrummed beneath his fingers and the firm bristles of his brush.

At sixteen hands high, the inky black Thoroughbred stallion was a masterpiece, the result of meticulously selected champions and pure, traceable bloodlines. He was a creation to be revered. Appreciated. And raced at dangerous speeds.

The horse was the direct opposite of the dull, docile, and painstakingly slow sheep Edmund’s great-uncle seemed determined to press upon him. Yet, were his elderly relation to be believed, sheep were financial stability. A solid future. And what Edmund should assume responsibility of and inherit.

On the condition that he gave up what was, according to the old man, the ridiculous, frivolous, and irresponsible notion of horse racing and all that it entailed. He was to hereby detach himself from the very thing he loved to assume the title his great-uncle was so graciously bestowing upon him.

Unfortunately for his great-uncle, Edmund did not want a title. Or the responsibilities it entailed. Including the bloody sheep.

Not when he already had his heart’s desire. Or at least as close to it as he could ever claim. Sheep may be financial security, but horses—horses required more than stability. They required a fortune. And the modest-sized herd of sheep his great-uncle had amassed was not enough to race one steed, let alone the several the Earl of Amhurst had purchased.

As head groom to the earl, Edmund had the select privilege of caring for the highly coveted horses. Which was why he had ignored his mother’s pleading and his great-uncle’s demands and had accepted the position as soon as it was offered. The stables were where he belonged, where the smell of horse and hay blended with the whinnies of powerful beasts—and the soft footfalls heard on the other side of the stall.

Edmund set down his brush and frowned. Mr. Abbot, the earl’s jockey, was known for early rides through Plumburn’s extensive pastures, but the sun had barely risen, the first pink beams of dawn only now breaking through the stables’ high-set windows.

“Mr. Abbot?” he asked, taking care to keep his voice low so as not to startle the horses. He stepped outside of the stall, glancing up and down the wide aisle running down the center of the barn. Only the occasional stomps and tail swishes of well-groomed horses met his ears—and a soft suppressed sneeze.

Damn.
If his great-uncle had sent someone to sabotage Edmund’s position and force his acceptance of the old goat’s ultimatum…

He made his way toward the sound, which came from the area housing the bay mare the earl intended to enter into the rapidly approaching Emberton Derby. Peering into the darkened stall, he squinted, the dim light, along with the hindquarters of the spirited mare, making it near impossible to see into the far corners.

He slipped alongside the steed, rubbing his fingers against the short, reddish-brown hairs of the beast’s coat. Another rustle, and he shot his hand into the shadowy corner, his fingers curling over coarse wool.

He tightened his hold, his hand locking around the fabric, as whatever he had grasped attempted to jerk free. His heart pounded as he wrestled his assailant, thrusting their slender arm behind their back and against his chest.

“On whose orders did you come?” he ground out through clenched teeth.

“My own. Now release me, before I report you to your superiors.”

The words themselves carried little weight. He had been given full authority from the earl to do whatever necessary to protect the Thoroughbreds from any potential threats. What slackened his grip and had him momentarily losing focus was the unmistakable feminine voice with which the words were spoken.

She wrested her arm from his grasp and spun toward him. Enough light was afforded to make out a pair of flashing green-brown eyes staring up at him from under the narrow brim of a gentleman’s riding hat.

Good God.

A woman stood in his barn. In men’s clothing a size too small, were he to judge from the way the worn and thin fabric molded over her soft curves and voluptuous figure.

Jesus.

“State your business.” His voice was low and even, despite the rapid beating of his heart.

“I am not required to speak to a stable boy.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a stable boy.”

His blood continued to race, and for once, he was thankful for the dim shadows of the barn and the veil of protection they afforded. Were the sun higher, the hour later, and her assessing gaze lower, he’d have a damned hard time explaining away his very physical reaction to her nearness.

But he was no longer a youth with uncontrollable urges. And she was not a maid, if the dialect and formality of her speech were to be believed. So who, then, was she? And what the hell was she doing in his barn?

“I do not have to explain myself to a groom, whatever his rank.”

“That is where you are wrong.” Edmund leaned toward her, catching a whiff of rose and bergamot intertwined with the sweet smell of hay and freshly washed horse. “I have the authority to not only question anyone within an arm’s length of this animal, but also to deal with them in whatever manner I deem appropriate and fitting.”