To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Frances Fowlkes

  Albina’s skin heated. “I have connections.”

  “And I have two legs. But they are useless without my head and my instruction.”

  “Be that as it may, your attempts to dissuade me from riding are in vain, Mr. White. I am quite determined to race in the derby regardless of my sex or the inherent odds against me.” She batted away a blade of grass tickling her inner knee through the sparse fibers of her stockings.

  His lips thinned. “Of that, I have no doubt. Which is why I am offering my services.”

  Albina frowned. What use did she have for a groom’s service? “As generous as your offer stands, I am not in need of a groom so much as I require a riding instructor.”

  “Precisely. Which is why you need not look further.”

  “Do you mean to suggest that you wish to train me?” she asked, dismayed.

  “I do.”

  “But you are a groom.”

  “I am also the man who won our race despite your advanced start.”

  “Of a second, maybe two. That hardly denotes your competence as a rider.”

  “No?” A ginger eyebrow lifted. “Is that not what you had hoped to convey to me? Your competency? A live demonstration of your riding skill and proficiency with a cross saddle by racing to the top of this bluff and claiming a hopeful victory?”

  She clasped her hands. “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Well, then, I believe I am not only more than competent to serve as your instructor, I am owed a prize as a recompense for winning. I recall a kiss was the settled upon payment, yes?”

  Her breath caught as the butterflies in her stomach once again took flight. “Yes, but the deal was made in haste.” With full intentions of her winning.

  “And with your blessing. You did allow me to select the nature of the prize and then agreed to it.”

  Albeit she had, but again, on the pretense of her winning the race. She never would have agreed to the intimacy had she believed she would lose. He was not a gentleman. But he was a man, and one with piercing blue eyes who seemed determined to press his suit and claim what was, to her utter disdain, his due reward. She turned her head, peering toward the house, and cleared her throat. “I may recall agreeing to a kiss.”

  “From your lips to mine.”

  Her gaze darting to his, she shook her head. Never would she have agreed to initiate the intimacy. She did not know how to kiss, let alone how to begin the act. She had witnessed the actual exchange only once, and quite accidentally, when she had come upon the earl and her sister giggling in an alcove off the main corridor.

  Hands had been moving, and heavens—she didn’t even know where to place them or whether she should close her eyes or keep them open. And while the pressing of one’s lips against another’s seemed simple enough in and of itself, she still wished to maintain her pride. He was a stable hand, after all. If he wished to be kissed by her, he had to…to…press his lips against hers and not the other way around.

  “I am not the one claiming the prize, Mr. White. Should you wish to…kiss me, you must…press your lips against mine.” Good heavens, she’d never been so mortified. All this talk about kissing took the very romance out of the notion. But then, this kiss was not a romantic intimacy. It was a business transaction. A payment for her incompetency.

  “Your lips. On mine. That was the agreed-upon arrangement.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and lifted his chin.

  “I do not see how it makes any difference,” she said with a huff. “A kiss is a kiss. It does not matter who initiates the act so long as it is given.”

  “I am afraid I must disagree. Whoever initiates the act sets the tone for the event, thereby altering the effects.”

  Albina rolled her eyes. “It is but a pressing of one’s lips to another’s. And that, only for a moment. I sincerely doubt one person’s initiation of the event is different from anyone else’s.”

  “Would you care to test your theory?”

  She leveled a glare in his direction. “How so?”

  “You kiss me,” he said, his voice low. “And we assess the results. Then I kiss you and we compare the experience.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You wish to kiss me twice?”

  “No, I wish to kiss you once, for I claim ownership of the kiss when I initiate the act. Likewise, you would kiss me once when you settle your accounts and do as you have already agreed by settling your lips against mine. I should think it a small price to pay for the sake of an argument, really. And, as you said, it is but a pressing of one’s lips to another. For but a moment.”

  Albina rolled her lips inward and took a deep breath. One kiss had slipped into two. And under the guise of settling an argument she had unknowingly started. But a kiss was no more than what she claimed. A simple act. Nothing more than a settling of accounts.

  She let out the breath she had been holding and nodded. “If my compliance allows for my continual access and use of the earl’s Thoroughbreds, I agree.”

  His gaze captured hers. Never had a man’s eyes peered at her with such intensity. The marquess had certainly never done so. When he deigned to look in her direction, his gaze did not linger, but rather drifted over her in search of another—presumably her sister, Henrietta.

  But Mr. White’s gaze remained fixed solely on her. Specifically her lips. Her heart raced, though whether from fear, anxiety, or the sheer titillating excitement of being the sole recipient of a man’s attention, she did not know.

  “Agreed. But only with the condition you train under my instruction.”

  Albina scrunched her nose. “Will not training me get in the way of your other duties?”

  “Undoubtedly, which is why I will be recompensed. With a kiss. After every lesson.”

  “But you have not yet kissed me, Mr. White,” she said, with a sigh of exasperation. “You may not enjoy the experience.”

  “You shall kiss me, Lady Albina. And I would not trouble yourself with my enjoyment, but focus instead on yours.”

  As if she could find enjoyment in his outrageous arrangement. A kiss as payment. From her lips to his. She glared up at his face and scoffed at his expression of innocence. He was the farthest thing from innocent, of that she was certain.

  But however outrageous his proposal, the kiss was a small payment for access to the earl’s horses…even if it came with the condition that she must train under Mr. White.

  As much as she wished to deny his experience with horses, she could not ignore the physical proof of his competence or his knowledge of racing. He had won. And no matter how much she wanted to attribute the win to luck, his arguments for her loss were valid. She was inexperienced riding astride. She wanted to win Emberton by crossing the finish line first. Not last. Goodness, she wanted to catch the marquess’s attention, but in a good light. Not a poor one.

  “All right. I agree to your terms and conditions.”

  His lips lifted into a slow, sensual grin. “Excellent. Let us seal the deal with the testing of your theory.”

  She huffed and nodded. The hour was drawing late, and her mother would be waking soon. If she saw Albina in anything other than a dress, all hopes of racing would be terminated, and this deal would end before it had even begun.

  “Yes, fine. So long as it is done quickly. I must return to Plumburn posthaste.”

  “Of course. Though I must reiterate that the length of our delay is determined by your—”

  “Acquiescence, yes, I know.” She strode up to his towering form and lifted her face. His expression had not changed, the devilish smile still curling his lips—at least five inches above hers. “I cannot reach your mouth, Mr. White. You must lower your head.”

  “Like this?” he asked. He slouched ever so slightly, laughter shining bright in his eyes.

  “Lower,” she ground out. Her hands bunched into fists.

  “What if you were to stand on your toes?”

  Albina huffed and stood on her toes. The man was intolerable. He was the one who wan
ted the blasted kiss. She had a horse to return, a dress to don, and a mother to deceive. She didn’t have time for his teasing. Her fingers wrapped around his arms for a measure of stability and, steadying herself, she pressed her mouth against his.

  A bolt of static surged through her, elevating her heart rate and expanding her lungs. With a gasp, she pulled away, her lips burning from where they had connected with his. Releasing his arms, she lowered herself onto her heels and blinked.

  “Not a bad first attempt, but there is definite room for improvement.”

  “I b-b-beg your pardon?” she asked, sputtering.

  “This is the part where we assess, my lady. As per our agreement.” Laughter filled his voice.

  Dear God. He was mocking her. A wall of fire crept up her neck and settled into her face. Assessment, her foot. “Mr. White, I have no wish to be the object of your—”

  “Right. My turn then?”

  Before she had a chance to recover from his humiliating critique, he brushed his fingers along her jaw and tilted her head upward, lowering his lips to hers. He moved his mouth over hers, gently at first, then increasing in both pressure and intensity. Her pulse quickened, and all rational thought fled, her focus centered solely on his anise and fennel-flavored mouth. Spicy and sweet, his breath mingled with hers, his tongue gently darting between her lips and rendering an unconscious moan from her throat.

  He pulled away, quickly, and far too soon, a startled expression gracing his rugged features. Running a hand over his ginger-colored hair, he shook his head. “It’s late.” His voice was rough and gravelly, void of its earlier amusement.

  Lord, had she done something wrong? Had his theory been disproved and the second kiss proven equal to the first? Because she’d been wrong. The initiator did matter.

  Not wanting him to see the rush of heat creeping up her neck, she turned toward her horse. She placed one foot into the stirrup but stilled at the sound of his voice.

  “Take mine, my lady. Your mare has not recovered and is not fit to ride. She will have to be walked back to the stable.”

  Taking a deep, steadying breath, she grounded herself and turned. “But your mare is one of the Thoroughbreds recently acquired from Lord Stanley.” The same ones he had forbade her from touching earlier that morning.

  “So she is. Which is why you will treat her with the utmost care and return her directly at a slow and steady gait, unless you wish to explain your attire to the other grooms.”

  “Of course.” She strode to the side of the beast. Pushing off the ground, she hoisted herself onto the broad back of the mare. “Our lesson, Mr. White?”

  “Tomorrow, at the same time you sought out the mare this morning. I’ll have her ready to ride outside the west end of the stable. Do not be late.”

  …

  Edmund walked alongside the horse Lady Albina had driven too hard, too fast, and rubbed a rough palm over his face.

  Sentimentalism. Curiosity. Lust.

  They were the only logical reasons he could offer for his brash, impetuous, and foolhardy offer.

  To train a woman. As a jockey.

  Worse yet, he hadn’t offered to any woman, but a lady. Specifically a lady of his employer, who, should he discover Edmund’s scheme, could not only remove him from a position granting him full access to England’s best horses, but prevent him from ever stepping foot in another stable. The stables were where his blood surged to life. Where his beloved horses rested and where his purpose was made clear. He was a damn fine trainer, of that he was certain. But training Amhurst’s kin?

  What the hell had he been thinking?

  Edmund let out a groan and lifted his gaze heavenward as he slowly guided the weary mare back to the barn.

  He knew very well what he’d been thinking when he had opened his mouth to suggest the impossible. And it had nothing to do with the protection of the horses, polite courtesy, or an opportunity to impart his skills to another.

  Oh, no, his offer had been born of lust. A sheer, unadulterated yearning for Lady Albina Beauchamp’s voluptuous silhouette. His blood quickened at the mere memory of her pillow-soft lips melding against his, of her buckskin breeches stretched taut over the curve of her thighs.

  His gaze lowered to the retreating form of the earl’s prize Thoroughbred with the desirable lady bouncing on top of the horse’s back. He clenched his jaw, his lower half stiffer and more rigid than the ground beneath him.

  If lust had given birth to his lunacy and his ridiculous offer, curiosity and sentimentality had fueled it. He gripped the leather ribbons tighter, willing himself to think not of the curvaceous maiden sprinting off toward the stables, but the weakness that had driven him to torture himself with the continued vision of her bouncing bottom by offering not one training session, but a multitude of them—at least, that was, if her display of inexperience was any indication.

  She had a semblance of skill, of that he was certain. Had she not, she would have been tossed off the back of the mare long before reaching the summit. She did not, however, possess any concept of form or racing posture.

  Much like another female he knew well.

  Lydia. Yes, this was all her fault. His younger sister’s ginger-colored hair and blue eyes, a shade lighter than his own, had flashed in his memory and had incited his rashness.

  He sobered, as he always did when his thoughts strayed to his lost sibling. Lady Albina Beauchamp may not share any physical features with his dainty elfin sister, but their personality was one and the same. Bold. Brash. And insistent upon riding a horse astride.

  Lydia, however, had always managed to do so in a dress. A brown muslin that had bunched about her knees. The same gown she had worn when she had gotten ill from a fever, never to recover.

  Edmund ran a hand over the mare’s coarse mane, more for his comfort than the horse’s. Lydia, her spirit, her interest in horses, and her similar disregard for the rules had, more than lust, compelled Edmund to disregard the responsibilities of his position and risk his very livelihood to offer Lady Albina an opportunity to show him her potential.

  She had, after all, sought a groom’s approval. A head groom, but a groom. Not a gentleman. Or a peer. All while under the veil of secrecy.

  Which meant she was desperate. But desperate for what? And why?

  Edmund shook his head. Was it possible Lady Albina possessed the same interest in horses as Lydia? Did she seek the same passion, the same excitement found on a horse, racing at breakneck speeds?

  Such interests were commonplace enough amongst men. But with the fairer sex, his sister alone had shared Edmund’s obsession with the racing world, with the beauty and appreciation of the very horses he raced. The idea that another woman might be inclined toward such diversions was…well, intriguing.

  And lascivious as hell.

  He urged the horse toward the stables. He had less than four and twenty hours before he was to instruct Lady Albina…and be recompensed for his instruction.

  He did not intend on acting the greenhorn again. He would ready himself for tomorrow’s kiss—and the previous unforeseen intensity behind it.

  Her pliable lips had nearly undone him, the low moan escaping her throat inciting his pulse to race faster than he had run the damn horse to the summit to claim his prize. The experience of kissing a woman was always an enjoyable one. He had not, however, bargained for the heat that had sparked at this one’s touch or the swift rise of desire she wrought with her sigh of contentment.

  Edmund snorted. He had to get ahold of himself. And the sooner the better. He had duties to attend and no time for diversions. Even of the pleasurable sort.

  Although he may risk his position by offering his expertise, he would not shirk his responsibilities. Horses needed to be run, groomed, and tended. Stable hands corralled and directed. And his lower half relieved.

  Chapter Four

  Soft yellow beams of late-morning sunlight pooled over Albina’s floral muslin, the dainty roses printed on the fabric far m
ore innocent in their appearance than the direction of her thoughts.

  She had kissed a man. And what’s worse, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Her mind should have been focused on the ride home, on her form and technique, on the mare’s nuances and quirks.

  But she could hardly remember the return or her safe, unseen arrival into her chambers. She had only a vague recollection of slipping out of her riding clothes and hiding under her covers before the maid knocked on the door to “wake” her for the day.

  The groom’s lips had consumed her every thought. Clouded her brain. For even as she sat readying for the day, her gaze flicking between the inanimate roses on her dress, to her reflection in the vanity looking glass, she was unable to concentrate on anything but the two kisses she had shared with Mr. White.

  Albina stared into the silvered glass as her curls were being pinned. She willed her gaze to the dark strands, to her maid’s deft fingers as they plaited and secured, but it continued to dip. Straight to Albina’s lips.

  They didn’t appear any different. They maintained their regular shape and color and were certainly nothing like the full pair that had pressed against her mouth, eliciting a rush of excitement that had made her heart race.

  And continue to race. Her hand rested against her chest, the rhythm of the organ strong and fast beneath her fingers.

  Goodness. She had kissed a man, nothing more. She had also ridden a horse astride. The flagrant disregard for propriety always made her pulse jump, though not quite as much as it had whilst in Mr. White’s arms.

  No. She had to stop her wayward thoughts. Had to regain control of her mind and set about getting through the day’s mundane tasks until tomorrow morning, when she could ride yet again. She had a race to win.

  More importantly, she had a marquess to impress. His attentions were the prize, his heart and hand in marriage her sole purpose for this scheme. Heavens. She had momentarily lost sight of what was truly important.

  She ought to be ashamed of herself. No doubt the marquess, with his full, enticing lips, would elicit the same all-consuming rush of bliss when he eventually sought her out. There was no reason to dwell on Mr. White. Or his kisses.