To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Frances Fowlkes

  “And at the derby, I shall. But for morning practices, when you alone are viewing my person, I should think my attire more than adequate.”

  Adequate for arousing him to painful proportions, and little else. “My stable hands wear better fitted clothing.”

  She slipped her foot into the stirrup. “Careful, Mr. White. One might presume you are taking on airs.”

  “Not airs, but concerns.”

  “Concerns?” She hoisted herself up and over the horse, her voluptuous bottom adjusting on the saddle.

  “Your attire is unsuitable for riding. One can immediately determine your sex through those rags.”

  She glanced down at her threadbare shirt, at the waistcoat pulled taut at the buttonholes, where the fullness of her breasts strained against the puckered fabric. Her cheeks flushed, but her hands remained wrapped in the ribbons.

  He had to get a handle on his thoughts—he had a race to win, not some bed sport to claim. She was an earl’s daughter and the current earl’s sister-in-law. It would behoove him to remember his place, even if he could not stop watching the seductive sway of her plaited hair.

  “Are you not to ride as well, Mr. White?”

  Edmund blinked. Rubbing a hand over his jaw, he shook his head. “No. Today I observe. I need to see how well the two of you work together.”

  Lady Albina nodded. “Fair enough. Shall I run her, then?”

  “In the west field at full gallop. I’ll be counting how long it takes you to get her to speed.”

  She let out a breath. “And what of her name? The mare. What shall I call her if I wish her to go faster?”

  Edmund shrugged. “It hardly matters, as it is not her name that will urge her faster, but your handling and guidance. Two things that are worth far more of my time than your concern over her name. Now go. Prove to me you wish to win the derby.”

  Lady Albina’s nostrils flared. “There is no need to be short with me, Mr. White.”

  “There is if I wish you to win.”

  “It is my name on the line should I fail. I am the one who seeks to lose everything.”

  Edmund let out a coarse chuckle. “You think it is you who will stand embarrassed and humiliated should you not claim victory at the derby, Lady Albina?” He stalked toward her and grabbed her ankle, forcing her to peer down at him. “You are here based on my recommendation. On my promise to the earl that I have sought out a jockey who I believe has excellent competence in their craft. My word, Lady Albina, is on the line, and so too, my position with the earl. Should you not place effort into your instruction, I shall lose my recommendation from the earl and, therefore, my ability to secure another employer.”

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  “Yes. Now. Prove to me I have not made a mistake. That you have the set of skills required to win Emberton.”

  “Yes. Of course.” A pink tongue darted between her lips, momentarily distracting him from the quick nod of her head. Squeezing her thighs, she urged the horse in the direction of the field.

  “Quickly, my lady. A race is not won with hesitation,” Edmund called over the beat of the horse’s hooves.

  With a glance back over her shoulder, she said, “Nor is it with petulant faultfinding, Mr. White.”

  The muscles of his lip twitched.

  While Edmund waited for her to set the mare into motion, she led the horse to the far end of the field. Were the lady not able to spur the beast from the gate, to set a pace that could be maintained for the length of the field… He had less than six weeks to produce a team worthy of an Emberton win against Lord Satterfield’s fastest mount. One that had, prior to Lord Amhurst’s recent purchases, been the talk of the racing world. Along with the marquess’s jockey, Mr. Garrington. The man was a genius on a horse, consistently guiding the marquess’s mounts to victory for the past five years.

  Five years of experience against Lady Albina’s six weeks.

  Edmund ran a hand over his face and sighed. The mare and its rider settled into position, Lady Albina turning her head toward him.

  “Begin on my count,” he shouted. He held up his hand with three fingers raised. “One, two—”

  The pair passed by him, a blur of reddish-brown and black, the rider on its back hovering low over the saddle, as though suspended in midair.

  He forgot to count, so transfixed was he by the powerful speed of the mare, or at least he was, until he caught sight of the wobbling form on top of it. Lady Albina hovered above the saddle, but her legs were not tight enough, her head not low enough, and her rear not nearly as high as was required for a solid victory. Or her safety. She could be hurled across the field, never to recover, should she not maintain erect form and firm control of the raging beast. Should any harm be brought to either animal or rider, he would never forgive himself. And neither would the earl.

  With a grunt of displeasure, Edmund headed toward the far end of the field, where the lady and mare finished their run. He trod over damp grass and swollen, muddied earth, his footsteps marked across the dew-covered lawn.

  “A certain victory,” Lady Albina hooted. “We had to have made it in less than seven seconds.”

  Edmund crossed his arms over his chest. “I would not know.”

  “You were to count. To record our run for measure,” she said, exasperated.

  “Which I would have, had you not disqualified yourself from the measurement.”

  Her dark brows furrowed together. “I ran as you requested.”

  “But not when I asked. Should you start before the count is finished, you finish before you begin. False starts are not tolerated in the derby.”

  Her chin jutted upward in a familiar, defiant tilt. “And what of my form?”

  “What of it?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes in a most unladylike fashion. “You are my instructor.”

  “That I am. And one who demands payment for the atrocities he saw committed today.”

  …

  Albina’s pulse thrummed fast in her ear. Of course he would demand payment. She had, after all, agreed to the ridiculous arrangement, assuming he would be the gentleman and wait for her to give it of her own accord.

  However, he had not acted like a gentleman. He’d been rude, arrogant, and entirely crass, demanding they settle payment before he finished with his instruction. She did not settle. For anything.

  “You may have your payment, Mr. White, when I feel my side of our arrangement has been met.”

  “And when would that be, my lady? After the stable hands emerge from the barn to witness our exchange?”

  “I was hoping after you did some actual instruction.”

  His nostrils flared. “I cannot teach those who do not listen.”

  “I listened.”

  He chortled. “If that is truth, then you failed to comply. Plenty of advice was given at yesterday’s lesson, but it is apparent it fell on deaf ears, as you did not apply one piece of my tutelage to your ride.”

  “Stating you have seen atrocities but refusing to tell me where they lie does little to improve my skills.” Whipping off her hat, she tucked it under her arm. She slid off the horse, and stalked off toward the house. She’d find another groom. Another stable hand to offer up his expertise in an area where she was supposedly lacking, though she didn’t know in what way, because her current instructor failed to offer her helpful suggestions.

  “My lady.” Mr. White’s exasperated voice called from behind her. “I only seek to help you.”

  Albina turned around, her chin lifted, her plaited hair licking past her arm. “Then do so, Mr. White. Tell me how to correct my form without insulting me. Unless you cannot. In which case, I shall seek out assistance elsewhere.”

  He ran up to her and took hold of her hand, pulling her into his chest. Her hat fell to the ground as she crumpled against him, her right hand gripping his arm to steady herself. A thick, hard, and solid arm.

  Heavens.

  He lowered his head, his mouth mere inches fro
m hers. “Your head should be flush with the horse’s.” His words were breathy and low, spoken in a rich tenor she could hardly hear over the hammering of her heart.

  “My head,” she whispered. Her thoughts were no longer on her form, but the pair of lips hovering over hers.

  “Place it alongside the mare’s, low and even, as though you see and hear as one.”

  “See and hear as one,” she repeated, her voice far throatier than it ought to be.

  “And your legs,” he continued, “should be tight against her sides.” His hands fell to her outer thighs. With a slight push, he clamped her legs around his. “Like this.”

  God in heaven. She couldn’t think. At least not of anything beyond the pair of hands resting on her thighs. She gave a slight nod and licked her lips.

  He inhaled, an audible, sharp intake of breath. His hands should not have been anywhere on her person. No gentleman would hold her thus, with such bold possession. But Mr. White was not a gentleman. He was a groom.

  And she was, for the first time, glad for it. A heady rush of excitement coursed through her.

  “Is that all?” she whispered. “My head and legs?”

  Slow and sensual, his lips curled. “Your bottom.” His hands slipped to her backside and cupped her supple flesh through the thin leather of her breeches. “It needs to be held high in the air.”

  “M-m-my, my bottom,” she stuttered, lapsing into a mode of speech most often associated with her sister, Henrietta. “Must b-b-be higher,” she ended on a gasp.

  Her breath caught, his fingers burning on her bottom as though they were on fire. No man had ever dared, never imagined to place his hands upon her…certainly not the marquess, who, as a titled peer, would respect the rules of decorum and treat her as a lady. As he ought.

  Yet…she could not deny the surge of pleasure rushing through her at Mr. White’s forwardness. His blatant disregard for propriety was intoxicating. A shot of rebellion that echoed her own. Her rule-breaking, however, was limited to assuming the appearance of the opposite sex. A simple portrayal. A minor deception, though it was quickly becoming more. She had allowed him to kiss her yesterday. Today…today she was allowing him a firm grasp of her bottom. And what’s more, enjoying every second of it.

  “Yes. Your arse higher, your head lower.” Her body shivered at his words, his crude response. No man should refer to her body in such a way, it simply wasn’t done. Yet, Mr. White did not seem to hold to any rules of convention. She shivered again.

  “Are you cold?” Concern lighting his face, he pulled back.

  She giggled, so hilarious was the notion. Why, the temperature was the farthest thing from her thoughts.

  His brow furrowed, then eased into two smooth lines as a knowing look replaced his concern. “I believe I have fulfilled my side of the arrangement for the day, my lady.”

  That, and so much more.

  His hands were still on her bottom, the heat of his fingers searing through the fabric. Goodness. She would not be surprised if the fabric bore burn marks as a treatment of his touch.

  She had to focus. To remember why she was here. The marquess. Her family’s reputation. Shaking her head, she gathered her resolve, not to mention her sanity. “One run down the field hardly constitutes a lesson.”

  “Agreed. But as I stated earlier, you did not arrive early enough for adequate instruction.”

  “I—” Her argument was silenced with his lips pressing onto hers. He clenched her bottom and drew her against him. Rigid with surprise, Albina gripped his arms. She had agreed to this madness, had expected it at the end of the lesson. But the butterflies taking flight in her stomach at his touch, at his teeth nipping her lips…

  Dear God.

  He affected her far more than he should—he was not the marquess. He was not a peer.

  Edmund White could never be in the running for her husband. Heavens, he couldn’t even be a consideration. Not with the current stain on her family’s reputation. To be seen in a compromising position would only further darken the blemish. Her enjoyment of his attention, of his rough chin against hers, of his tongue as it flicked between her lips—shouldn’t matter. But it did. Far too much.

  Kissing a groom was not the reason she had awakened at dawn today. She had a race to win and a marquess to impress. And her family’s reputation was on the line. She was the daughter of an earl, a lady, and she ought to act as such. Releasing her grip, she placed her hands on his chest and shoved.

  He peered down at her, confusion settling over his handsome features.

  “I think that sufficient payment,” she said briskly. She disentangled herself from his arms and took a step back. “Until tomorrow, Mr. White.” With a curt nod, she turned toward the house, praying he didn’t see how her legs wobbled with each step.

  Chapter Six

  An unseasonably warm afternoon breeze swept through Plumburn’s easternmost drawing room, stirring a vase full of spring’s first blooms. The array of lilacs and lilies, however, did not bring Albina its usual aromatic or visual pleasure. Its heady scent and collection of vivid colors was lost on her as she sat staring at the arrangement, her watercolors drying beside her blank canvas.

  All creative thoughts had fled, replaced instead by a flood of conflicting emotions. How was she to focus when her mind was addled? Torn by the pleasures induced by one man in order to seduce another? Another who was determined to reserve his attentions for the champion of a race she had little hope of winning if she could not master both the fundamentals of horseback riding and her wayward thoughts.

  Somehow, she had to regain a firm grasp on her emotions, could not allow Mr. White to affect her judgment, her rational thoughts, her physical awareness. Even if the slight dimple in his cheek made her palms sweat and the intensity of his gaze stirred a hot fire of pleasure low in her belly. Her attraction to the man was not to be borne. She had a horse to control in less than six weeks’ time, for heaven’s sake…when she was not able to control herself.

  “Albina, dear, are you well?”

  Albina blinked. She shook her head and lifted her gaze. Her mother sat beside Sarah on the far end of the rose-colored settee, her eyes trained and focused on Albina like a hawk on its prey.

  Swallowing, Albina nodded. “Quite well, thank you.” If well was defined as confused. Frustrated. And beyond flustered.

  She tried not to squirm under her mother’s assessing gaze. The woman had a sixth sense for sniffing out the truth, which meant Albina had to be far more convincing when she told the next lie, lest she reveal the truth behind her secrets. And admit she was not quite certain what to think of a groom. A marquess. And her blasted shortcomings riding a horse.

  She dabbed her brush into the little bowl of water she had placed beside her paint. “I cannot decide on the precise hue of violet for the lilacs, is all.”

  “Lilacs? I thought you more focused on the scene outside the window.”

  Albina’s skin warmed.

  Her position in the room and the view it afforded was not by happenstance, as the seat gave her an excellent perspective of the carefully arranged flora. So, too, of the eastern pasture. Along with the stables. And the horses being led in and out of the structure by the earl’s grooms.

  She had, however, no reason to blush. Heaven forbid she give her mother any cause for suspicion. Her passion for riding was a well-known fact, as well as her preference of utilizing horses as the subjects of her paintings.

  So why, then, did the woman continue to stare at her as though she knew Albina was not telling the full truth? And that she had, in the last ten minutes alone, sought the ginger-colored hair of a man who set her lips on fire?

  Adjusting her bottom on the pillowed seat, Albina said, “I sought a different subject.”

  “Variety encourages inspiration.”

  Albina gave a slow nod. “I suppose it does.”

  “It also allows one to compare.”

  “That it does. Which is why I find I cannot decide
between the blue-violet of one lilac or the indigo shade of another.” Albina bit her lip, willing her pulse to slow.

  Her mother was making conversation. Nothing more.

  Though one could never be too cautious. If her mother was fishing for information, it would do Albina well to put her off any scent. She shot Sarah a pleading look. If anyone could distract their mother, it was her studious twin.

  Sarah snapped her book shut and set it on her lap. “I blame Albina’s distractions on lemon tarts. She had at least five the night of the ball. You know she does not handle citrus well. She has been rather off ever since.”

  Albina brought a hand to her mouth and coughed. “Yes, the lemon tarts. I am afraid I overindulged.” And she had, but not on the sweet confections—she had overindulged on a groom with a fondness for kisses. And leaving her breathless.

  Botheration. She needed to get her thoughts in order. It would not do to dwell on past actions. The future was where contentment reigned as the Marchioness of Satterfield. She simply had to get through the next six weeks to earn her title and all would be as it should.

  Her mother’s brow lifted. “Ah, lemon tarts. Some of Cook’s finest. Though I rather thought your woolgathering had more to do with yesterday’s encounter with the marquess than pastries.”

  “The marquess?” Albina asked. She set her brush down alongside her paints, willing her hands not to tremble.

  “Don’t play coy, Albina,” her mother chided. “I am not an imbecile. Henrietta and the duchess were commenting on the encounter earlier. Did he offer his compliments on your riding?”

  “He…well, he…” Albina glanced at Sarah, whose light-brown eyes were wide with concern.

  “He was distracted by the earl and his horseflesh,” Sarah finished. “Why, the duke and the earl were both goading the poor man into making an impossible wager. One the marquess has no hope of winning.”

  Albina’s lips lifted in spite of herself.

  Their mother sighed. “And I suppose this wager has more to do with horses than any references to Albina?”