To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) (6 page)

Daphne’s face fell. “That was, of course, if my husband matched my enthusiasm for the plan. Which, I’m afraid, he does not.”

Albina’s chest constricted. “He…he does not believe I should race at Emberton?”

A pale ringlet dragging across her neck, Daphne gave a slow shake of her head. “He does not.”

Albina’s heart shot to the very depths of her stomach, like an apple long past harvest, rotten and full of worms, falling to the ground with a solid
clunk
. The earl and duke did not approve. All, however, was not lost. She still had the groom. And his willingness to train her for the races. Hope could still be found in her diligence.

“Do not despair,” Henrietta said. She rushed to Albina’s side. “You may not need to race at all to garner the attention of the marquess.”

Lifting her gaze to stare into her sister’s dark eyes, Albina asked, “What do you mean?”

“The marquess wishes to view the earl’s stables. This very afternoon. He will be taking lunch with the earl and the duke. If we were to take some air around the same time—”

“We could engage in conversation,” Albina said with a laugh. “Henrietta, you are a genius.” She threw her arms around her sister.

A conversation. With the marquess.
Her
marquess. In which she would convince him that she was the perfect candidate for the role of his marchioness. The race may not be needed after all. Which meant the groom and his haunting kisses could be forgotten.

Albina spread her lips into a smile, which helped to distract from the sudden and sharp pang of disappointment in her chest.

…

Hard leather soles padded over familiar worn stones, the sharp tap of Albina’s boots barely audible over the rapid beating of her heart. Not even her relations’ murmured words of encouragement or the afternoon trills of birdsong were enough to drown out the loud thrum of her pulse in her ears. In less than five minutes, she would be within a foot of the Marquess of Satterfield.

She would speak to him. And he to her. The topic of the conversation mattered little. The person with whom she was exchanging words was where her excitement and apprehension lay.

While the epitome of a gentleman, the marquess did not, as her sisters were so diligent to remind her, appear to enjoy conversation. At least not with the fairer sex. The man was simply anxious. He no doubt had little idea of what to say and did not wish to harm her delicate sensibilities or fracture some rule of etiquette. If she could put him at ease, could reassure him that the subject of his words mattered not, so long as they were exchanged with each other, then perhaps they might actually engage in conversation.

Horses
. She would talk about horses, his favorite pastime and apparent obsession.

Albina stilled, her heart near stopping altogether. The marquess stood less than twenty paces away, his dark hat glinting in the afternoon sun, his wide chin and angular jaw creating a perfect silhouette against the pale starkness of the expanse of clear sky behind him.

He was, in a word, spellbinding. Or rather, he had been at the ball. And, on every other occasion prior to this moment. Now, well, something about him was different, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. His countenance appeared the same, but his lips were not quite as full, and his gaze did not fuel the spark she had always felt at his presence.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Of course, she might have overestimated just how far he had recovered from her sister’s refusal. A deep misery, it seemed, was still his companion, which only fortified the fact that she was needed to pull him out of his despair. Their shared interest in everything equine would be a certain boon to his mood. He simply needed conversation. In particular, hers.

“What is it, dear?” Henrietta asked.

Albina forced her gaze to her sister in time to see Sarah roll her eyes and give an explanation. “The Marquess of Satterfield stands less than a few feet away, Henrietta. I should think the reason for Albina’s sudden paralysis obvious.”

Flashing her sister a glare, she left her relations to step toward the gathering of men in front of her. The marquess, along with her brother-in-law, the earl, and her cousin’s husband, the Duke of Waverly, were huddled together, their deep voices engaged in conversation.

“Gentlemen.” She spoke the words clearly. Animatedly. And loud enough for the trio to hear.

Yet no one ceased their discussion.

Albina tapped a toe.
Honestly
. The marquess required her attentions. Clearing her throat, she put a tad more force behind the word. “Gentlemen.”

All three stopped and turned toward her. “Ah, Lady Albina,” the earl exclaimed.

“My lord.” She lowered into a curtsy deserving of his title.

“Ladies.” The three men lifted off their hats and nodded, including the marquess. Only…his eyes were nowhere focused on Albina, but fifty degrees to her left, where her elder sister, Henrietta, stood, her gaze lifted to her husband’s scarred face.

Albina let out a little breath and adjusted her position—with a discreet sidestep to the left. He was suffering. Delusional. His pain clouding his sight. Surely she was now in the marquess’s line of vision…

Until he swiveled left and focused his attention on the duke. “I say, Waverly, you have some serious competition from Amhurst’s bay mare.”

The duke chuckled. “No more than you, Satterfield.”

Horses. They were talking about horses and excluding her. With her wearing a painstakingly chosen floral-stamped muslin specifically selected for its flattering lines and its complementary coloring. Perhaps if stamps of horses replaced the delicate floral design, she would have garnered more than a polite nod and hat tip. The marquess did enjoy his horseflesh.

“Amhurst’s jockey has yet to be replaced.” The marquess’s lips spread wide with a smile rife with smugness. “There are but six weeks before the start of the race.”

“You doubt the competency of my stables?” the earl asked, his gaze no longer on Henrietta, but on the marquess.

“I am certain you will find a suitable replacement, good man.”

The earl’s lips thinned, his eyes narrowing. “Yes. I am certain I shall.”

“Only if you look south. I’ve heard the good jockeys are in Brighton,” the marquess said with a laugh.

Perhaps she would start with a more mundane topic. “The weather,” Albina quipped. “It is lovely, is it not?” She fluttered her lashes and pressed a gloved hand to her chest, inhaling the fresh spring air.

“One need not look to Brighton to find a jockey,” the earl ground out. “The most talented can be found right here. Within the county lines. My horses will finish before yours, Satterfield.”

“Do you care to set a wager, Amhurst? Of your mare against my stallion?” asked the marquess. A dark brow lifted on his broad forehead.

“Name your terms,” said the earl, gently jostling Henrietta behind his towering form. Albina peered at her sister’s furrowed features. A wager won against the marquess was precisely what had given the earl access to Henrietta in the first place.

Henrietta cleared her throat. “Perhaps this discussion is best continued after we return to the house.” She peered up at her husband and smiled.

A smile that was not lost on the marquess, as his gaze was once again on Albina’s sister and not on her. Perhaps the marquess had an aversion to green muslins. Or floral-printed ones. It was possible she had offended his vision by wearing something he found appalling, but her bonnet was of the latest fashion, her ribbons tied to perfection. Even her shawl was new, the delicate silk fringes not yet frayed or tangled.

Her gown. And the color. They must be the culprits of his disinterest. She would only wear yellow from now on, for the soft, buttery shade Henrietta wore seemed to have the man bewitched, his sorrows forgotten.

And the earl appeared aware of the fact.

His nostrils flared, his chest lifted and thrust forward as he eyed the marquess with thinly veiled hostility. Returning his attention to Henrietta, he said, “Yes, of course, my dear. Please excuse us. Ladies, enjoy your afternoon.” He lifted his hat again, dipping his head in departure. The other two men followed in kind, the duke giving the duchess a lingering grin.

The marquess, however, did not offer Albina a grin, let alone a lingering one. Spinning on his heel, he walked past her, following the earl and duke up the path she had walked down only minutes before.

Sarah placed a hand on Albina’s arm. “I don’t suppose you would reconsider your decision,” she whispered.

Albina stared first at her sister’s hand then into her light-brown eyes. “You heard the earl, Sarah. He is need of a jockey.”

“Yes, but, the marquess—”

“Has his sights set on the races, which is precisely where I shall be, helping him out of his grief. Should he only open his eyes, I have no doubt he will see my steadfast devotion.”

Sarah gave a placating smile. “Yes. Of course.”

Chapter Five

Edmund had often been called a fool. His preference of horses to sheep had first earned him the moniker, and his continual refusal of his great-uncle’s generous offer had ensured he’d never lost the title.

Sitting in the Earl of Amhurst’s elaborate study, with its carved plaster ceiling and dark, damask-covered walls, awaiting the man’s presence, Edmund had never felt he’d earned the insult more.

He’d kissed the earl’s sister-in-law.

And what’s more, liked it. A lot.

Christ
. He’d stepped over the bounds, had even demanded more of the damnable kisses as payment for his services—and was going to pay for his boldness by answering to her protector. His employer, the man who had allowed him the greatest privilege, had saved him from a life of certain boredom by paying him to do what Edmund would have done for free.

He’d been rash, had allowed his base urges to take over by ignoring the small voice of reason whispering words of caution in his addled mind. He could not, however, ignore the surge of desire that had swept over him as he had pressed his lips against hers. A torrent of heated longing had licked at his insides, fueling him to deepen the kiss, to plunder her full, pink pout, tasting that which he, as the earl’s trusted groom, had no right to claim or sample. But that he wanted all the same.

The door to his right opened, the earl, his notorious eye patch absent, strode into the room, followed closely by a tall, light-haired man with an impeccably tied cravat.

“Mr. White,” the earl said, his voice thin, “may I present the Duke of Waverly.”

His blood racing, Edmund pushed off the chair to stand. “Your Grace.”

Dear Jesus
. The earl had brought in the Duke of Waverly, the bloody damn Duke of Waverly, the host of the upcoming Emberton Derby, to tell him off, likely to strip him of all connections to the racing world. Edmund would be lucky to ever touch a horse again, all because he let his cock rule his better judgment. Sweat trickled down his brow as his hands clenched.

The duke dipped his head in recognition and stood beside the earl, who leaned against the front of a polished mahogany desk, its surface cluttered with uneven stacks of papers, and said, “It has come to my attention that my wife’s sister visited the stables this morning in an attempt to ride one of my recently acquired horses.”

His career was over. Ended before it had truly begun. Unclenching his clammy fists, Edmund nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Can she ride?” asked the duke.

Edmund blinked. He’d expected a tongue-lashing, a reprimand, a dismissal—not an inquiry on the girl’s competency on a horse, especially from the duke.

Licking his lips, Edmund nodded. “She can, Your Grace.”

“Well enough to win the derby?”

Edmund’s gaze darted between the two men who continued to assess him. “No.”

The earl crossed his arms in front of his chest while the duke continued to peer at Edmund.

“Though,” Edmund added, “with training, the possibility could become a reality.”

The earl’s lips twitched. “She shows potential, then.” His words were without hesitation or question. They stated fact.

A fact Edmund believed could be a truth—with adequate instruction. “Yes, my lord.”

Exchanging a knowing look between them, the duke and the earl returned their gazes to him. His heart sped, his skin warming. He should’ve reported her presence to the earl as soon as she had left the stables, should’ve owned to his mistake, his impropriety—

“I want you to train her.”

Edmund cleared his throat, his fist going to his chest. “I beg your pardon, Lord Amhurst? I’m afraid I didn’t—”

“My wife’s sister is as all the women in her family are: headstrong and exceptionally defiant. While I’ve pressed the countess to dissuade Lady Albina from her impetuousness, I know the daughters of Amhurst will not stop in their pursuits simply because someone advises them against it. Should Lady Albina be persistent in her wish to race at Emberton, I want you to train her, Mr. White. I want her to race in the Emberton Derby on whichever horse suits her best—preferably the bay mare from Lord Stanley’s line, if possible. I trust you alone with both my kin and my horses. Both of which I am more than curious to see cross over the finish line. Preferably first.”

“The finish line first,” Edmund repeated slowly, his brain unable to comprehend what had just been asked.

“Yes,” said the earl simply. “I want you to do whatever necessary to ensure she has the skills required to race in an honest and safe fashion—should she press her direction.”

“But…but she is a woman, my lord. Who has taken to wearing men’s clothing.” The words tumbled from his mouth, stating a fact seemingly overlooked in their absurd conversation.

As much potential as Lady Albina exhibited, she was still a woman, and one who wished to ride astride in a race won by men.

“She can’t very well ride in a ball gown, now can she?” the earl asked.

Edmund’s mouth gaped, his jaw unhinging from his skull. He stared at his employer, not knowing if he was serious in his speculations or playing him the fool.

“All of my jockeys ride in a coat and breeches,” the duke affirmed.

“As do mine,” said the earl.

Edmund shook his head, forcing himself to adjust to the insanity of his apparent reality. “Of that, I have no doubt, my lord. But as you know, a jockey rides astride, with his legs spread across the back of the—”

“I am fully aware of the jockey’s position on a horse, as I am certain you are competent in instructing in posture and form, Mr. White. I would not ask you to train my kin if it were not otherwise true.”

Still unable to fully grasp the absurdity of the conversation, Edmund gave a slow nod. The earl appeared to be aware of both Lady Albina’s improper attire and posture, and yet…he had brushed off the irregularity as though it were a piece of lint on his sleeve. As though he not only accepted her impropriety, but approved of it as well.

Hell had frozen over. The apocalypse was upon them. Any minute a horde of locusts would descend, or a plague of boils erupt from their skin…

The duke and the earl continued to level their stares in his bewildered direction.

Which meant he was to proceed in his current insanity and accept the notion that the earl and duke planned to seriously consider the entry of Lady Albina into the Emberton Derby.

Ever so slightly, Edmund tipped his head. “Then you must know, my lord, were I to train your kin, she would be required to spend a fair number of hours dressed as a man. Unchaperoned. With a groom.”

The earl’s dark brow lifted. He peered at Edmund with a heavy gaze. “Yes, Mr. White. I do know. And I trust a respect for professionalism will be maintained.” He may have spoken his words with a casual air, but there was no mistaking the undertone of steel cutting through them.

Edmund swallowed. “Horse racing is a dangerous sport. The potential for injury is—”

“High, yes,” the earl said, his voice firm. “Which is why someone with your experience and expertise is necessary to guide her. Lady Albina has a, shall we say, independent spirit, with an equally strong determination. As I said before, it is futile to dissuade her, and should opportunities present themselves, she will take them. If she wishes to ride, Mr. White, I would have her do so with competent assistance.”

Uncertain if he should agree with the earl or argue against him, Edmund gulped again. The earl acknowledged his expertise, which meant he valued his opinion, at least where it concerned his horses and the races they entered.

Even with the earl’s consent, there were certain rules and restrictions that were to be followed. One being that, while not outright stated, the Emberton Derby was open to men only.

And with her curvaceous figure, Lady Albina was anything but a man.

“Given my knowledge in this area, my lord, I am concerned with the particulars of the”—Edmund paused and glanced at the duke—“rules governing the—”

“Lady Albina has my permission to ride in the derby I own and sponsor,” said the duke. “Not that she will know such information. The earl and I wish to keep our acceptance, indeed, our involvement, a secret. In particular from her.”

“To what end?” he asked, unable to hold back his curiosity. What reasons would a duke have for allowing a woman to participate in his derby?

“Do you think her determination not commendable, Mr. White?”

“I do.” He simply was not used to fortitude equating acceptance, especially in a sport that excluded the fairer sex.

“Excellent.” The duke’s mouth lifted into a smile.

“The duke believes her to have an indomitable spirit. He also possesses a desire to please the duchess.” The earl flashed the duke a grin.

“
My
wife’s interest played no more a role than
your
wife’s persistence.”

“True enough,” said the earl on a laugh. “Though I believe it is my wish to defeat Lord Satterfield’s extraordinary stallion that tipped the scales in her favor.”

“The Marquess of Satterfield?” Edmund inquired. The only man whose interest in racing rivaled that of Edmund’s, the Marquess of Satterfield was a respected peer, a titled aristocrat who, unlike Edmund, had the means capable of supporting his hobby.

“The very marquess,” the earl said. Rubbing his chin, he gave Edmund a scrutinizing glance. “He is not to know of Lady Albina’s place in the derby. I want all aspects of her participation kept quiet—that is, if she presses her pursuit.”

If training the earl’s kin would elevate Edmund to a level on par with the marquess, indeed, above the pertinent peer, he was willing to accept the challenge. He may not have the fortune, but he had the access to horses better than those stabled by the marquess. He was certain of it.

“Of course.”

“Should the daughter of Amhurst succeed in her endeavors,” the earl continued, “she will be commended…and you will be rewarded for your efforts. Handsomely.”

Edmund’s pulse raced in his ear. Rewarded more than he already was by charging the earl’s relation kisses for his efforts?

“With a racing horse of your own, Mr. White,” added the duke. “Should you display the competence required to train up a headstrong daughter of Amhurst, I have full faith in your abilities to train a racing horse—and his jockey.”

Good God
. A bloody damn racehorse. Of his very own. His heart near stopped. He’d be a fool not to accept their offer, a fool who still had the ability to charge his new apprentice for his services. With the very kisses he wanted to continue to claim.

Surely there had to be a catch. The situation, the circumstances, the prize—it was all too good to be true.

“What of Mr. Abbot?” Not once had the jockey’s employment been mentioned. If Lady Albina were to be believed, the man was ill but certainly able to recover before the derby.

“Mr. Abbot is visiting family in Brighton.”

Edmund frowned. “He is not ill?”

The earl pushed off from the desk. “No.”

“Lady Albina believes otherwise.”

“Because I wish her to.” The earl tugged on his cuffs, adjusting the white linen. “As head of the Amhurst name, it is my duty to protect those within my care…even if that requires occasionally protecting them from themselves.”

Edmund nodded. It seemed the appropriate action, though he had absolutely no idea to what the earl was referring.

Both gentlemen eyed him with speculative expressions. Resisting the urge to fidget, Edmund remained still, his hands at his sides, until the silence stretched so thin he could no longer hold his tongue and he asked, “And if Lady Albina does not win the derby?”

The earl gave a tight-lipped smile. “I replace my jockey…and her trainer.”

Edmund cleared his throat. Hard.

“My advice to you is simple,” the earl continued. “If Lady Albina wishes to ride—make certain she has the skills required to win the race.”

The duke shot Edmund an encouraging smile. “Amhurst’s stables are filled with the fastest horses money can buy.”

The man spoke absolute truth. But it wasn’t the horses that set Edmund’s nerves on edge or made him question his abilities or chances for winning—it was the daughter of Amhurst riding on top of the beasts.

Should she return to his stables, he had less than six weeks to train a first-place finisher. And six weeks had never looked shorter.

…

Edmund paced the length of the bay mare, his agitation seemingly transferred to the horse as her hooves pounded impatiently on the sodden earth. Early-summer dew glistened on clumps of grass alongside the beast. Vapors of predawn mist rose to cling to the fog that enshrouded the stable.

The hour was early. The earl’s unruly relation was not.

Seconds ticked into minutes. Minutes into a quarter hour. He had work to do, dammit. The horses demanded his care, and he looked forward to the peace and comfort found in treating them—he didn’t have time to wait around for a spoiled lady who, for one reason or another, had taken it upon herself to assume the role of a jockey. All while pretending to be a man.

He shoved a hand through his hair.

A woman jockey. And he was forced to train her—should she enter his barn and demand his expertise, of course. He had no alternative but to educate her, not unless he wished to incur the disfavor of both an earl and a bloody duke. Well, he may not have any choice in whether or not he trained the girl, but he did have a say in the methods he used. The enforcement of arrival times was one of them. If she couldn’t get her arse out of bed to make time for a race she wanted to win—that she
needed
to win to save his own backside—he would go and wake her himself.