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To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst)

Page 8

by Frances Fowlkes


  “The marquess is an equestrian enthusiast and understandably interested in the upcoming races at Emberton,” Albina said defensively.

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed at their mother. “You do not think the marquess and Albina a good match?”

  “He is a suitable husband, one of fortune and title.” Her mother interlaced her fingers and set them on her lap. The sentiment felt unfinished. As though she had more to say but was afraid to say it, which would never do.

  “You did not answer the question,” Albina prodded.

  Her mother’s intense gaze caught hers. “My opinion matters little in the grand scheme of things. You will do as you wish, as you have always done. I do hope, however, you will find a happiness in your spouse equal to the one you possess when you ride or paint. You deserve as much, dear, and should not settle for anything less.”

  Albina and Sarah exchanged a glance.

  “Do you not think the marquess capable of bringing me such happiness?” asked Albina.

  Her mother’s face softened. “I am certain he is more than capable. I have seen many a proud man brought to task by the woman who loves him.”

  Albina’s heart warmed. Her mother approved. The marquess…Albina’s decision…her mother approved it all.

  “My concern, however,” her mother continued, “is not whether the marquess will make you a good husband, but whether you will make him a good wife.”

  Frowning, she shot Sarah a questioning glance before settling on her mother. “There are expectations. I am an earl’s daughter.”

  “And he a marquess. Yet, his title alone will not make you happy.”

  Albina opened her mouth to speak, but no words tumbled forth. All form of speech had left, her mental capacity for such things addled by her mother’s absurd reply. A title had everything to do with happiness. Her mother was a countess, and her sister one, too. Even her cousin, an American-born woman, held the prestigious title of duchess. And all three women appeared happy. Incandescently so.

  A title equated contentment. Common knowledge dictated it.

  “I also know,” her mother continued, “oftentimes what we think we want and what we actually require are two different things.” Albina’s brow furrowed. Her mother wasn’t making any sense.

  Ever since Albina had laid eyes on the marquess, she knew he was what she wanted. He was a respected peer with a large estate in Surrey. A man with good fortune and a title above that of both her sister and mother… Was it possible her mother was jealous of Albina possessing the title of marchioness and garnering more societal power than her role as a countess?

  No. Albina swallowed her retort. Her mother was many things, but petty was not one of them. Were she so, her cousin’s ascent to duchess from American merchant would have required the use of smelling salts. If not jealousy, then, what compelled her mother to believe Albina could be anything but happy with the marquess?

  Giving voice where Albina was still unable, Sarah asked, “Are you suggesting Albina would be better suited with another? That the Marquess of Satterfield is…not adequate?”

  Their mother smoothed a crease out of her floral skirt. “You are both in your second season. Still young, but in danger of becoming what some might deem close to expiration, a notion that may compel one to disregard other options they may once have considered.”

  “Sarah and I are nineteen. Hardly ready to be shelved,” Albina scoffed.

  “You are at the height of your youth, my dear. I did not mean to suggest you were not able to secure a multitude of suitors. Indeed, I believe you capable of that and more. Which is why I am concerned. You may have overlooked another in your obsession for the marquess.”

  Albina snorted. “Obsession? It is love, mother. Not some fleeting state of mind. I would do anything for him.” Including redirecting his thoughts away from her sister’s refusal and toward the joy only Albina could bring him.

  “My fears exactly. Though I wonder if he will appreciate the lengths to which you go for him.”

  Of course he would. He said so himself—his admiration would be bestowed upon the winner of the races. Though admiration did not equate love, it certainly meant the appreciation her mother feared he lacked.

  Sarah nibbled on her lip, her gaze flitting between them. Her face bore a look of concern.

  With a flourish, Albina ground her brush into the brick of blue paint. “I believe he will appreciate me, though only time will tell.”

  Time and a race. She would meet with the groom first thing in the morning. She had a derby to win and nothing, not her mother’s concern or a fleeting attraction to her trainer, would stand in the way of winning her prize.

  …

  Edmund slid off the high back of the Thoroughbred stallion, his dusty boots landing hard and fast on the sandy floor. Muted beams of twilight cast the stallion’s stall in a soft glow, providing just enough light to slip off the saddle and begin the last tasks of grooming.

  He rifled through a corner basket searching for his favorite comb. He had run the stallion hard. The horse was owed a good rubdown for his dedication and earnest effort. As was Edmund. And he knew precisely whose hands he wished to knead his tired muscles. The owner of the same pair that had gripped his arms with unfettered passion—the ones belonging to a bloody damn daughter of an earl.

  He let out a bark of laughter. She, the daughter of an earl. A lady. And he, nothing more than a groom, a stable hand in a noble house.

  With the blood of a viscount running through his veins. Though not as high in rank as either a marquess or an earl, his great-uncle’s title was only just beneath Amhurst, his relation’s wealth and land worthy of any gentleman. Including him.

  Not that Edmund would ever claim as much. His great-uncle’s impossible requirements would have to be met. As if he could relinquish racing when a Thoroughbred gifted to him by the earl himself was within his grasp. He smiled. Nothing brought him more happiness than his time with the powerful horses he fed and tended. Edmund ran the brush over the stallion’s black hairs, removing evidence of the past few hours of riding through grass and woods. The idea that such a beast could be his to own, to enter into races—

  “Mr. White, I presume.”

  Edmund’s hand stilled. In the three short months he had been Plumburn’s head groom, he had not been confronted in his barn. Certainly not by anyone of the fairer sex. And yet, in less than a week’s time, not one, but two high-pitched voices had echoed amid the stalls. He was beginning to believe these visits may be a regular occurrence.

  God help him.

  He cocked his head to the side and turned. A woman of similar height and stature as Lady Albina stood before him. But where Lady Albina was soft, this woman was hard, both in eyes and expression.

  A relation. Of similar age, were Edmund to guess. He flung his brush into the basket. “That depends, my lady, on who is asking.”

  “Lady Sarah Beauchamp.”

  One lady from the earl’s line he could attempt to manage. Two—well, even the earl had obvious difficulties in controlling his brood, for this relation stood unchaperoned. In his bloody barn, at dusk. “And to what do I owe this pleasure, my lady?”

  “I will not mince words, Mr. White. I know of your private lessons with my sister.”

  Edmund swallowed. “I do not know to what you refer—”

  “And of your immoral and completely inappropriate method of payment for them.” Her nostrils flared. “And I’ve come to offer you a warning.”

  Jesus.

  Edmund was most comfortable with animals three times his size, and yet, a woman who stood no taller than his shoulder set him at unease.

  Clearing her throat, she continued. “As my sister insists on winning the derby, I seek your word, Mr. White, that should you make her look more the fool, I will ensure you do not set foot in another barn. On this island or the next.”

  While the threat was severe, three words stood apart from the rest, three words that had him stepping forward with intere
st. “More the fool, my lady?”

  Lady Albina risked public humiliation and societal exile. Her decision to ride in a horse race, not to mention in a cross saddle whilst in garments intended for men, reeked of potential scandal. It was foolish at best. And yet, Lady Sarah implied more.

  She lifted her chin. “Your methods of payment interfere with her goal.”

  The only goal Lady Albina Beauchamp had ever touted was her steadfast determination to claim first at Emberton. While his chosen and preferred method of settlement was, albeit, unconventional, it in no way impeded her ability to ride, let alone race. If anything, it motivated her to win, to achieve her goal, for at the end of each lesson, she was rewarded. He had not imagined the way her body would melt against him, warm and supple, her resistance giving way to submission with each kiss and flick of his tongue.

  She desired him. As he did her. And he’d be damned if she didn’t look forward to her requital for his service as much as he looked forward to collecting it.

  He brushed a smattering of dust off his jacket sleeve. “She wishes to win the derby, does she not?”

  Lady Sarah gave a curt nod.

  “Then I fail to see how my fee affects her prize.”

  “Winning the race is only half of what she hopes to achieve.”

  “Half?” Though scandal was likely the probable outcome of Lady Albina’s racing, a chance for fame was conceivable, and what he had assumed she was after. Whatever could she want more than success? More than the potential acclaim should she best her professional, trained, and very male competitors?

  Lady Sarah thrust back her shoulders. “It is not my place to share my sister’s motivations. Only know that should you continue with your inappropriate form of quittance you will harm her chances of future happiness.”

  Oh, he doubted that. Not if she continued in her current vein, sighing with pleasure as he collected her debt. “Come now, my lady. I daresay a simple kiss offers—”

  “There is nothing simple where matters of the heart are concerned.”

  Edmund cocked his head. Had their kisses meant more to Lady Albina than the physical acts he intended them to be? Had her heart been stirred at his touch? Was a gentle-born lady in danger of setting her cap for a groom?

  A slow smile spread across his lips.

  As though privy to his thoughts, Lady Sarah quirked a brow. “Let me be clear, Mr. White. My sister is an earl’s daughter and deserves a man equal to her in both title and fortune.”

  His heart slowed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “As I said before, I am not at liberty to discuss the motivations behind my sister’s current course of action, but your involvement with her, your ‘exchanges,’ put her at risk. Should they be discovered and become public knowledge, it could very well ruin her chances of securing a husband.”

  “A husband.”

  Lady Sarah gave a firm nod. “Indeed.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Her lips pursed together as the sides of her nostrils flared. “My sister seeks an attachment. A marriage proposal.”

  “As do most women,” Edmund conceded.

  “From a likely spectator at Emberton.”

  Most of the bon ton would be in attendance. As the aristocracy selected spouses from within their circle, that Lady Albina wished to do so was not the life-altering revelation Lady Sarah made it out to be. Edmund tried not to be too condescending in his reply. “Yes, I understand, my lady, but how your sister’s potential pool of spouses is affected by her payment—”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Lady Sarah groaned. “My sister has entered the race in hopes of impressing a man of the peerage. One whom she hopes will offer for her.”

  He rubbed a hand through his windswept hair as a trickle of understanding fought its way past his ignorance. Was it conceivable Lady Albina actually harbored the ridiculous notion that she may garner a husband with her win? Which was more absurd—her racing at Emberton, or the belief that she would capture a man’s attention by doing so? No man in his right mind would offer for a girl headstrong and defiant enough to ride and appear as a man. She reeked of trouble. Of embarrassment. Of humiliation brought to a good name.

  Some, however, may be willing to overlook her youthful ambitions and take on the challenge of securing her as their wife. She possessed a title and, no doubt, a dowry worthy of an earl’s daughter. She also had the earl’s backing and that of the Duke of Waverly.

  Along with soft, pink, full lips that made a man hard with want.

  He adjusted his stance lest Lady Sarah lower her gaze and be further appalled by his actions. For he, as she had been so clear to point out, was not Lady Albina’s equal and therefore not worthy of her consideration. He was a groom training a lady to race so she might attract a husband.

  Dear God. He was a fool for not seeing this for what it really was: a bloody damn circus act fit for Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre.

  A high-pitched whinny sounded behind him. Edmund turned his head to see the stallion tethered to his stall, happily munching on his oats. He stared at the beast’s gleaming black coat and sighed. As bizarre and unconventional as the entire charade may be, a Thoroughbred stallion awaited him at the finish line; he had only to train a woman to win it and secure his prize.

  Lady Albina had her goals. He had his.

  Edmund turned back to Lady Sarah. “Whether or not your sister appears more the fool is entirely up to her. If your concern lies with the agreed-upon reimbursement for my instruction and the effects they have upon your sister’s reputation and subsequent chances of securing a husband, you should speak with her not me.”

  Lady Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “You are the one accepting her compensation.”

  “And she is the one offering it. One might think that a contradiction to her secondary goal, unless, of course, she seeks instruction in that area as well.”

  With a gasp, Lady Sarah said, “May I remind you she is a lady, as am I.”

  “Yet she demands I treat her as a jockey.”

  A crimson blush spread across Lady Sarah’s face. “Unless you molest your jockeys after every run, I would mind your place, Mr. White. Impertinence is not a characteristic often sought by future employers.”

  He gave a casual shrug. “Your sister has her conditions. I have mine, Lady Sarah. And I intend to have them met.”

  “You take advantage of her innocence. She is an unwed woman.”

  “Who not only allowed me to select the terms of our arrangement, but agreed to them. I am guilty only of asking for a recompense worthy of my time and name.”

  “I shall report you to the earl. Your behavior is not that of a gentleman.”

  “No, I daresay it is not. As you and your sister have both reminded me, I am but a humble groom employed by your kin, who has determined I am the best man available to tend to his prize horseflesh. Now, if you would have me tell him the jockey I have recommended to replace the ailing Mr. Abbot is not up to snuff…”

  Lady Sarah gaped at him, her eyes widening. “I-I-I…”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered open to reveal a desperate gaze. “What if I were to offer you money? For your time. With the understanding that you relieve yourself from the terms agreed upon by my sister.”

  Edmund took a step back and leaned against the side of the stall. He’d be a fool to refuse her. Money and, were he to take advantage of the situation, a lot of it, was his for the asking. All he had to do was disengage from his original agreement and refuse himself the pleasures of Lady Albina’s kisses.

  It appeared a simple trade, one that made perfect sense, as money was required for the upkeep of a Thoroughbred. While he might secure a horse free of any financial obligation, he still had the responsibility of feeding, housing, and caring for the beast, an expense he could not afford with his current wages.

  And yet, a woman under his instruction, one seeking a husband, had agreed to terms that could prevent her from gaining
one. Was Lady Albina so focused on winning that she had not considered the consequences of her actions? Of the potential havoc her kisses could reign on her reputation? Was her focus, in fact, besting her male counterparts and snubbing the bon ton along with its conventions? It reeked of Lydia—his sister would have done so, albeit in a dress.

  Edmund rubbed a hand over his chin. Or was this all part of something darker and more…sensual? A bored lady curious of actions denied by her single status, allowed only to those in her social circles who were married or widowed?

  Heat spread through his lower extremities. He could not deny his interest in Lady Albina or the enjoyment found in her embrace. His heart pounded at the recollection of her lips, full and lush, parting on a sigh…

  Standing upright, Edmund cleared his throat. He was well aware of the lengths to which he went for his passion, of the sacrifices made for his happiness, which included rejecting a title and the perceived esteem that came with it. And he had no doubt Lady Albina would do the same for hers, precisely as Lydia would have done. Should he pursue this darker side, explore the possibilities… Well, he was naught but a groom. And certainly no gentleman.

  “My apologies, Lady Sarah. I find I cannot accept your generosity.”

  Lady Sarah frowned. “I can double whatever your current wages. Triple them. Name your price.”

  “I already have. And your sister has agreed to pay it.”

  With a curt bow, he strode toward the door, away from Lady Sarah and toward the promise of a dip in the frigid waters of the lake beyond his quarters.

  Chapter Seven

  The act of leaving a warm, comfortable bed before the cock crowed, before even the servants lit the first fires for the day, was inhumane. A heinous act against the order of nature itself. Rest, and adequate stretches of it, were required for the simplest of tasks, which Albina had, prior to this morning, taken for granted. Her eyes, which usually opened without hesitation, stubbornly refused acquiescence, and the limbs that so often responded with adequate physical awareness moved as though detached from her body.

  No sane person would willingly endure the laborious act of rising before dawn, but then, she had proven herself to be of questionable mental health with the acceptance of Mr. White as her riding instructor. The same man who insisted she be present, worse yet, coherent, at the west end of the stable before the sun stained the sky with streaks of red, pink, and purple.

 

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