To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Frances Fowlkes

  The race. Her performance. And the marquess. She had to focus…

  Having fixed the last curl in place, her maid gave a small curtsy. Albina dismissed the girl as her sister, Sarah, entered the small antechamber connecting their rooms.

  “Albina.” The single word was filled with curiosity, but Albina waited until the metallic click of the door’s latch sounded, signaling the maid’s departure, to turn and meet Sarah’s eager gaze.

  “Sarah.”

  Her sister glanced toward the door where the maid had exited then rushed to the plush settee next to the vanity and lowered herself onto the pillows.

  “Were you able to ride this morning?” she asked.

  Albina nodded, unable to suppress the excitement coursing through her at the memory. “I not only rode, I raced. Whatever concoction you mixed together for Mr. Abbot worked. He did not arrive at half-past six, as we were informed he would, and I was able to slip into the stables unnoticed.”

  “Yes, well, that is the concern,” Sarah said, hesitantly. She lifted an overstuffed circular pillow and frowned.

  “I don’t understand. Everything went as expected.” Everything but the arrangement with the groom, wherein she kissed the man as payment for her lessons. She tried, however, to look on the brighter side of things—Mr. Abbot had not arrived at the stables, Sarah’s tea had worked. Therefore, all was right on that score.

  Sarah lifted a finger to her mouth and nibbled on a nail. A familiar action—and one Albina knew meant something was not as it should be. “I never administered the tea.”

  Pulling her shoulders back, Albina sat upright. “How is that possible? Mr. Abbot was not at the stables this morning. I assumed—”

  “He was ill? As did I. But when I inquired after his whereabouts, I was told he had departed to Brighton. To visit his ailing mother.”

  Albina let out a breath of air. “Then all is well. Save for his mother, of course, but the timing of her unfortunate circumstance could not have been—”

  “More perfect, yes,” Sarah agreed. “Hence my concern. The timing is too perfect.” Sarah rolled her bottom lip between her teeth and sighed. “The Emberton Derby is but six weeks away.”

  Albina let out a laugh. “The man’s mother ails, Sarah. It is good fortune for us, nothing more. Let us make the most of it.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I may be reading too much into the situation.” Sarah gave her a smile. “So then, how was your ride this morning?”

  “Exhilarating. And…most revealing.” With a laugh, Albina pushed away from her vanity and stood, lifting her arms into the air and stretching her limbs. “I require some instruction before the derby.”

  “As is to be expected. You have never raced before. And your racing technique is therefore nonexistent. I did warn of this—”

  “I have an instructor.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “An instructor? To assist you in riding?”

  “Yes, of course.” Sarah needn’t know his instruction also encompassed other areas…such as kissing. Albina’s face warmed.

  Sarah shot her an assessing glare. “And who would assist you? I’ll confess, I didn’t expect you would make it to the horses. They are rumored to be guarded, protected by—”

  “A groom,” Albina said. She resisted the eye roll her sister’s lack of support warranted.

  “A groom. Yes.” Sarah tilted her head.

  Albina strolled to the window and peered through the glass to the picturesque view of the gardens and the stables beyond them. “The head groom has offered to give me instruction.”

  A rustle of muslin, accompanied by the soft thud of two small feet on the carpet, sounded behind her. “Has he? At what price?” Sarah asked.

  Her twin was far too perceptive. Albina turned to see her sister standing, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed. “I may have agreed to…”

  “To what, Albina?” Sarah tapped her foot on the wool fibers of the carpet. “He is a servant, you a lady, and one who is already breaching the lines of decorum by wearing heaven only knows what whilst in his presence.”

  “I am fully aware of my social standing as well as his. He is a groom. Nothing more.”

  “And one, should the heightened color of your skin be taken into account, you’ve agreed to allow certain liberties.”

  “A kiss,” Albina said on a giggle. “He demands a kiss. After each ride. As payment for his instruction.” Her palms dampened.

  Sarah’s eyes bulged as her arms dropped to her sides. “You cannot be serious.”

  “It is nothing but a business transaction between two people in accordance with the terms set forth in our…arrangement. I had little choice but to accept should I wish to be allowed access to the Thoroughbreds.”

  “You always have a choice,” Sarah said, her voice piqued. “I should have known this ruse would not be as simple as you first painted. Schemes and ruses force people to act out of character, and they become irrational.”

  “I am not being irrational. If anything, I am quite the opposite.”

  Sarah placed a hand on her hip. “Kissing a groom in exchange for riding lessons is not rational. And neither is riding a horse astride. In a derby, no less.”

  “Mr. White is a skilled rider.” And kisser. Her pulse jumped at the memory of his sweet breath warm on her lips.

  “He is also a groom, Albina. And one who is taking advantage of your desire to race by filling his own agenda to kiss a gentlewoman. He is overstepping the lines of propriety—”

  “As am I.” Albina stalked over to her desk to retrieve the sketchbook and charcoal she kept close on hand for whenever the urge to draw consumed her. She needed a release this morning, a change of topic, a new direction for her thoughts, anything to force her mind off the ginger-haired groom and onto the marquess. The recollection of the marquess’s dark hair and hard, angular jaw always made her smile, as it did now. She simply needed to focus.

  “You cannot continue.”

  Albina glanced up at her sister’s face. “I cannot continue to sketch?”

  “No, continue to meet with the groom,” Sarah said with a sigh of exasperation. “The lessons. Mr. Abbot’s illness. The racing. Well, I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it. I did not ask for your acquiescence.”

  “No, only my help. Which I refuse to give, should you continue to participate in this madness.”

  Albina’s shoulders lifted with a shrug. “I no longer need your help. I only require the assistance of the groom.”

  “Then I shall report the groom to the earl.”

  Her stick of charcoal snapped as she pressed it against the sketchbook. “You wouldn’t,” Albina hissed. “You would destroy my chances with the marquess.”

  “Chances that are hindered by you kissing another man,” Sarah exclaimed. “Did you not stop to think what would happen should the marquess discover your training methods or how you pay for them? It is indecent. Far more than any ill-conceived tea I may contrive. Should you think our reputation stained now, it will sink farther still if knowledge of your exchanges is made known. I cannot in good conscience allow you to meet with the groom.”

  “Then put it out of your conscience entirely. I have no intention of letting this opportunity slip past me. My future with the marquess is at stake. My very happiness, Sarah. I need to race.”

  Sarah grunted and clenched her fists. “What of the groom? How do you know he will not take further advantage of you? Request more than a kiss? He is not a gentleman.”

  Her sister had a valid point. Albina knew nothing of Mr. White beyond his riding and kissing abilities. While he appeared kind and respectful with the horses, he could be a veritable rake with women. A leech. A man who may, in a few days, desire more than a kiss…

  Her face warmed. Surely he would behave himself.

  Unless… Albina’s heart raced. Unless she wanted him to do more. She rolled her lip between her teeth. He had been less than impressed with her
first kiss, of her lips against his. It only made sense, then, that he should instruct her in both riding and kissing. His tutelage was required to make certain she did not disappoint the marquess. Sheer mortification would not begin to describe what she would experience should the marquess find their first kiss less than impressive.

  Which meant she may need practice and instruction in other areas as well. What those areas were, superficially, she did not know. Something told her the groom would know—and would be more than willing to show her.

  Albina flicked her charcoal across the paper, ignoring the way her heart fluttered at the idea of additional instruction with Mr. White. “He is not a gentleman. He is a servant. And one who is under the earl’s employ. Should he act out of bounds, or request anything I do not wish to give, I will report him to his superior.”

  “It is not how little you have to pay, but how much you are willing to give to capture the marquess’s attentions that concerns me. And there is still the matter of Mr. Abbot’s replacement.”

  “I serve as the replacement.”

  “The earl is not a simpleton. Do you honestly believe he will accept you, dressed as some unknown identity, a suitable replacement for his precious Thoroughbreds?”

  “He will if the groom recommends me. Which he will.” Albina spoke with conviction, though she was not fully certain of the groom’s loyalty. What if he did not feel her up to the task? What if tomorrow morning, when she arrived for her next lesson, he had a second candidate training alongside her? Waiting on the side, should she show the slightest sign of incompetence?

  Thoughts of her incompetence were brushed aside with the opening of the antechamber door. Her lips set in a grim line, Henrietta strode into the room, their American-born cousin, the Duchess of Waverly, behind her.

  A weight dropped on Albina’s chest.

  She adored the duchess. She adored her sister. But neither looked as though they had pleasant news to share.

  “Your Grace.” Sarah stood and curtsied.

  “Honestly, Sarah, if I have to ask you to call me Daphne once more, I shall burst from frustration.”

  “I fear I am a slave to routine, my dear. I have had my governess’s words drilled into my brain and cannot undo years of etiquette, even if I have your permission to do otherwise. But enough of decorum, what has you in our chambers before breakfast?”

  “Henrietta. Or rather, Albina.”

  Albina’s relations turned their heads in her direction. She set her drawing effects to the side and said to Daphne, “I presume you have been speaking with Henrietta, then?”

  “I have.” Her fair-haired cousin nodded. “And I find your idea to be—”

  “Unorthodox? Unbecoming of my station?”

  “Fascinating. And one that ought to be applauded for your determination.”

  Albina blinked. “My determination.” It sounded as though her cousin agreed with her plan. Indeed, even supported the idea.

  “Yes. Which is why when Henrietta informed me of the earl’s refusal—”

  “I did try, Albina”—Henrietta shot her a pleading look—“I did my best to convince him, to relay your concerns, but he absolutely refused. And the reason I thought to enlist the duchess’s, or rather Daphne’s, aid. As the race is sponsored by the duke, I—”

  “Of course,” Albina exclaimed. “If the earl refuses to listen to his wife, then perhaps the duke can persuade him otherwise.”

  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 tu
rned 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.”