To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Frances Fowlkes

  “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.”

&n
bsp; 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 hi
s own backside—he would go and wake her himself.

  Blood warming, his pulse increased at the idea of entering her chambers unbidden. Of viewing her in nothing more than a nightshift, her dark curls brushing over a half-bare shoulder…

  “Mr. White.”

  The personification of his fantasy appeared through the fog as though she had stepped straight from a dream. Gone was the nightshift, replaced with the thin, worn garments from the day before, including the same pair of breeches that showcased the slight flare of her hips and the perfect, rounded curve of her bottom. His cock hardened.

  He needed a distraction.

  “You’re late.”

  Lady Albina thrust her hip to the side, a hand resting against the seductive swell. “As you did not give a specific time to arrive, I do not claim responsibility for your accusation.”

  “If you want to win, you will be here before the sun rises. Not as it breaks.”

  “I should think it difficult to ride in the dark.”

  “Not if you ride with me.” He thrust the ribbons toward her, the horse whinnying in protest at his less-than-gentle handling. “I do not have time to argue with you, my lady. Unless you have changed your mind about racing?” Perhaps she was not as interested as the earl suspected.

  “No.” She snatched the proffered ribbons and stalked to the horse. Her stance softened, her entire body easing as she ran a hand along the mare’s neck. The beast snorted its pleasure.

  Good. He needed the mare and the lady to have a connection. He also needed them to cross a finish line in a highly competitive race, but for a beginning lesson, he could have had worse—the horse could have not favored her handling.

  And he could have encouraged hers. He could have given in to the lust coursing through him and taken her on the grass, dew and dirt be damned, encouraging her to handle areas of his very stimulated body.

  “You need a new set of clothing,” he said roughly.

  She glanced down at her shoddy attire. “Does this not suffice?”

  “Not if I am to recommend you as Mr. Abbot’s replacement. You are to represent the Earl of Amhurst. You must dress accordingly.”