To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Frances Fowlkes

  What’s more, she had no option but to comply to his absurd request, for she required proper and adequate instruction. Nor would she settle for the subpar teaching she had received yesterday that he claimed was a direct result of her tardiness.

  She had a race to win, one that could not be won with a single pass down a field. She needed time with the mare…and the groom, whose face insisted upon asserting itself in her thoughts, rearing alongside that of another.

  The marquess’s dark hair and steel-gray eyes had haunted her dreams for the past year. She had every line, every angle of his face committed to memory. Yet, copper waves were replacing black curls. Laughing, cerulean-blue eyes were overpowering a pensive silver gaze. A strong, dimpled chin intrigued her more than a broad, round one.

  Albina sighed. A lack of sleep—that had to be the explanation. As soon as she won Lord Satterfield’s admiration, Mr. White and his handsome features would fade into obscurity. Everything would be as it ought, and thoughts of a groom with a pair of full, soft lips would vanish.

  She would no longer dwell on indecencies or obsess over acts that were nothing more than a compensation for his time. Even if yesterday’s kiss had been more fulfilling than the day prior. It had certainly been more…affecting. Her body had responded with an intensity she had not known she possessed. The way her heart had hammered and her head had swum.

  Albina pulled her leather boots over the taut buckskin of her breeches and grunted. He had initiated the kiss, despite his agreed-upon arrangement and its requirement that she be the one to lead. He had broken a rule. More than one. Her cheeks blazed at the memory of his hands on her bottom, clenching, grasping her rear with firm, determined fingers…

  She had to think of something else. Like her form. And her impatience. She could not afford to be disqualified from this morning’s count, because she needed to know how fast she raced the mare. Especially after the corrections Mr. White had…suggested.

  Her face heated as she lifted her hands above her head in a stretch. Her happiness and her future as the marchioness were dependent on her ability to lift her arse, lower her head, and squeeze her legs. All of which she would adjust and improve as soon as she was on top of the mare.

  Pushing open a side door, Albina stepped out of her room into an empty servants’ hall and made her way down the stairs. She took care to skip over the bottom step and its loose, creaky board to reach the east exit. Lifting the latch, she shoved a shoulder against the door and stepped into the fading darkness of dawn. A damp chill hung in the air, the cool nip the perfect remedy for her weariness. She inhaled the fresh, musky scent of earth and set off down the stone path toward the barn.

  With its lofted ceiling, its familiar blended scent of fresh hay and oiled leather, and its stalls filled with premium horseflesh, the stable was easily Albina’s favorite building on the estate. In her youth, she had often snuck down to the warm, bustling barn to be with the horses. Riding them was one of her greatest pleasures.

  The melding of beast and man, racing at impossible speeds, near flying over the earth—the rush of excitement was one unparalleled to anything she had ever felt before. At least, that was, until she had kissed a man.

  Her cheeks warming, she quickened her pace and raced to the west end of the stables and the agreed-upon meeting spot for her morning instruction.

  A high-pitched whinny greeted her as she rounded the corner, along with a look of surprise on Mr. White’s face.

  “Lady Albina.” With her mare beside him, he stood as though dumbstruck at her appearance, though why he should appear thus, she couldn’t fathom. He had been the one to set the abysmally early hour for her instruction.

  “You did say to arrive before the sun rose. Not during, yes?” she asked.

  “That I did, though I did not think you would comply.”

  Albina tossed her plaited hair over her shoulder. Honestly. If he had not meant for his instructions to be followed, why did he issue them at all? She may not like kowtowing to outrageous orders, but she had a horse to ride. And not just any horse, but the earl’s finest. “You made your demands clear, Mr. White. Arrive before the sun to receive instruction.”

  “That I did.”

  “Along with the threat that I would not receive adequate training should I not adhere to your rules. So, here I am…awaiting your tutelage.” Her legs hip-width apart, she stood with her hands clasped in front of her in an expectant stance. Yet, he continued to peer at her through the hazy dimness as though she were an apparition and not a compliant student ready for his instruction.

  Had she done something wrong? Had she somehow misunderstood his request or said something galling or offensive? He must have noticed her inquiring look, for he cleared his throat. “I’m curious to know why you seek my instruction, Lady Albina,” he said.

  She peered at him and frowned. “For the same reason you offered it, Mr. White. I do not wish to look the fool at Emberton. I want to win.”

  But the man still stood, vexing her with his immobility as the first beams of dawn illuminated the darkness. What in heaven’s name had spurred this sudden interest in her motivation? “I cannot teach when I do not know what compels you to learn.”

  Was he obtuse? She took a deep, calming breath and reached for the ribbons, but he lifted them above her head, out of her grasp, her fingers grazing the leather strands. “What does it matter, so long as I put forth the effort to claim the victory?”

  He leaned forward, his face only inches from hers. “It matters a great deal when you’re on the back of a horse in a race that not only endangers your life, but also those of the other riders. Whatever compels you to compete better damn well be worth the risk.”

  Albina fell back on her heels. “I did not think you so invested in my well-being, Mr. White.”

  “I care for my horses…and those who race them.”

  “The earl’s horses,” Albina corrected.

  He clenched his jaw. “They are my horses whilst they are in my care. I ride them. I tend to them. And I choose who races them. Should the horses fail at the derby, or worse, get injured, I am the one who will take the blame, not you, as it will be on my recommendation that you race as Mr. Abbot’s replacement. I believe I’m owed the courtesy of insight as to why you would risk your life, and that of my horses, to race for the earl.”

  Albina glanced between him and the mare stomping impatiently to her right. Accidents with horses were frequent and accepted. Injuries were possible every time she entered the stables. And while racing at high speeds increased those chances, the probability of an accident was an inherent danger of the sport and one she assumed was her decision. Mr. White’s concerns were valid, but as to whether he was owed insight into what drove her to accept those risks…

  He’d think her even more the fool. She ran a hand over the mare’s black muzzle. If he knew she gambled the horse’s livelihood for the possibility of a marriage proposal he’d laugh—and worse, refuse his instruction.

  But he did not, nor would he ever, understand what it was like to be overlooked by the one person you desired above all others. Or to live with the humiliation and fear that a man would reject marriage, even abhor an entire sex, rather than speak with you, because you were not your sister, his first choice. Or what it felt like to embark upon yet another season, because no one desired you in your first or second. Nor could he comprehend the pressure weighing on her shoulders from damage done to the Amhurst name.

  Albina bit the inside of her cheek. She was being ridiculous—the lack of sleep had gone to her head. The marquess would bestow his attentions upon her, especially once he grasped the risks she had taken to gain them. He would see them as the personal achievements they were.

  She turned her attention to the groom. “Personal achievement, Mr. White. It is why I race.”

  He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Nothing more?”

  Was it possible he knew of the marquess and her interest in acquiring his attentions? She patted
the mare’s side. No. The only people privy to that information were her relations, and they would never reveal her true intentions, certainly not to her advisor. There was no benefit in his knowing. But there was something about the slight lift of his left auburn brow, the way it bent higher than its twin, that made her wonder if he was more intuitive than she had originally believed.

  She eyed his square jaw, fresh with russet-colored stubble glinting in the morning light. A sudden urge to brush her fingers across it, to see if it was as rough as it appeared, overtook her.

  Albina closed her eyes and took a step back. If Mr. White was already cognizant of her interest in the marquess, it mattered little. If anything, it benefitted her situation because he knew what was at stake: her future.

  If he was not mindful, however, she need not inform him. And though she might not be forthcoming with the truth, she did not have to be dishonest in her reply. She yearned for success and the heady rush of accomplishment as much as any other jockey.

  “Glory and honor,” she replied, her voice ringing in the stillness of dawn. “We all have our flaws, and I fear pride is mine.”

  His brows lifted.

  He doubted her, as well he should. Which was why it was imperative she diverted the attention off of her and onto him. She glanced at the ribbons still held high in his hand. “What motivates you to ride, Mr. White?”

  He lowered his arm and shrugged. “My motivations are irrelevant. Yours alone concern me.”

  “And yours intrigue me,” Albina countered. “I answered your query. It is only fair you do the same and reply to mine.”

  “Your concern for equality compels you to inquire after my motivations? For there is nothing equal between us, my lady. I am but a groom. And one falling woefully behind in his duties the longer we converse.” He held out the ribbons. “Take these and wait here. I have a mount ready to ride out with you to the upper pasture.”

  She took the leather strips, her fingers brushing against his palm. Her gaze flicked upward to find him watching her, as though he were aware of the sudden jolt his touch had elicited. Which was absolutely absurd.

  Willing the thrum of her pulse to quiet, she straightened her shoulders. “You did not answer my question.”

  He brushed passed her. “No. I did not.”

  “But something must compel you, Mr. White.”

  His back to her, he paused. “And something does. Though I doubt my interests are hardly intriguing enough to hold the attention of a lady.”

  His words stung more than they ought, the truth behind them filling her with unease. Albina shifted in the sand. She had treated him as she had been taught, as the rules governing their worlds dictated she should. As an earl’s daughter, she was above a stable hand, no matter how high his rank.

  Her actions, however, seemed impolite. Rude. Even petty. She had asserted her title above his and reminded him repeatedly of his station, as though he mattered not. Her face heated with shame. The horse had received better consideration. She may be a lady, but she was a human first, as was he, deserving of the same courtesies. Anything less was…not right.

  “You are wrong.”

  He cocked his head and turned. “Am I?”

  “Quite. I would not inquire after your interests if I did not wish to learn them.” A truth that had only just been realized, but a truth nonetheless.

  He rubbed a hand over his face and laughed. “I am, as you have so oft reminded me, Lady Albina, a groom. Decorum dictates I am not allowed to express my opinions or my personal interests with a member of the house.” He shook his head and took a step toward the barn.

  Albina lunged toward him, her hand gripping his elbow. “I don’t suppose it does, but as my presence this morning is in clear defiance of those same rules, I think them void for the time being. You are, after all, first a man.”

  An attractive, virile man who stood less than a hand’s width from her chest. His nearness sent her heart aflutter. It did not appear to discern between instructor and marquess, and for this moment, Mr. White, not Lord Satterfield, stood before her, heating her insides.

  His gaze fell to her hand. “Freedom.”

  Suddenly aware of the tension in his arm, Albina released her grip.

  He tugged on the short brim of his riding hat. “I ride to escape into the depths of my mind, where I am, as you so deftly pointed out, a man first.” His gaze flitted behind her, to the wooded lands she knew stretched beyond Plumburn’s borders. “In that moment, I have no responsibilities. No worries pressing upon my shoulders. It is but the horse and myself, riding together as one, with naught but pleasure as our goal.” His gaze returned to hers. “That, my lady, is what motivates me to ride. A venture to which we must attend, should we accomplish it before our time runs out. My steed and the upper pasture awaits.”

  “Yes, of course.” She gave a slow nod, attempting to absorb everything he had revealed. And failing miserably. She’d had no idea he felt as strangulated as she, hedged in by the expectations of their designated stations. She was to marry, and marry well, before Society deemed her past an age necessary to capture a man’s attention. And he…he was pressured by the mores of his rank.

  He disappeared into the barn, returning moments later with a massive steed at least three hands taller than the horse she had ridden the day prior. “Let us work on the refinement of the skills we touched upon yesterday.”

  The memory of those “skills” brought a rush of heat to her cheeks, no doubt staining them a bright red. Albina turned toward her mare, lest Mr. White see her very physical reaction to his words. “Of course. Would you like me to lead us out?”

  “At a steady gait. And mind the fox holes and mole mounds. The horse’s health is your prime concern. You cannot race without an able horse.”

  “I may not be an adequate jockey, but I know my way around a horse, Mr. White.” She slid her foot into the stirrup and hefted herself onto the mare’s back. Albina’s bottom melded into the saddle’s leather, her thighs clenching the beast’s muscular back. Restrained power thrummed beneath her, the horse snorting in eager anticipation of the promised ride.

  With a click of her tongue and a gentle jab of her heels, the mare was off at a respectable walk toward the upper pasture and away from the streaks of pink and orange lighting the early morning sky.

  Mr. White followed behind, the hard clomp of his steed’s hooves falling into rhythm behind hers. She adjusted herself on the saddle, well aware of his gaze on her. She rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath. She was a capable rider, having been in the saddle since she was first able to walk, albeit a sidesaddle and not the masculine contraption that now sat beneath her legs. It had not taken her long to venture into the freedoms riding astride possessed. Her father had even encouraged such behavior, providing her with her first pair of breeches, stating that if a woman was going to ride as a man, she should be clothed as one—so long as no one bore witness to the indecency, in particular, her mother.

  Albina glanced down at her threadbare jacket and waistcoat. While not her first set of men’s clothing, they were the last her father had provided before his death almost six years prior.

  Wind whistled past her ears, the early-morning chill seeping through her thin coverings. Perhaps Mr. White was right and a new set of garments was necessary. Especially were she to continue training in the ungodly hours before dawn. She slowed her mount, allowing him to come alongside her.

  “Have you forgotten your way to the pasture, my lady?” he asked, a hint of a smile on his lips.

  “Hardly, Mr. White. I know Plumburn better than its new master, though you didn’t hear that from me.”

  His mouth lifted. “Duly noted.”

  “I was, however, thinking.”

  His auburn brows lifted. “And what consumes the mind of a lady?”

  “Her attire. And its current condition.” She took a deep breath and swallowed. “I wondered if you might be able to procure me a new set of clothing. Something a bit more s
uitable for our mornings together.”

  She waited for a laugh, a smug retort, an acknowledgment of his prior foresight concerning her attire.

  “Are you cold?”

  Albina frowned. He was asking after her? She studied his face and saw naught but sincere disquiet. “I-I am.”

  He transferred the ribbons to one hand while the other tugged at his coat sleeves, working them off his arms. With a shrug, he slid out of his coat and extended it to her over the gap between their horses.

  Perplexed at his generosity, she stared.

  He sighed and shook the dark wool. “You will need this. I intend to see you perform at top speeds. I cannot expect any compliance or true assessment if you are stiff with cold.”

  She took the jacket with tentative fingers. “Careful, Mr. White. One might be fooled into thinking you a gentleman.”

  He snorted. “Oh, I’d say I’m in as much danger of that as you are of being mistaken for a lady—especially when I secure you attire befitting of a jockey racing for the Earl of Amhurst.”

  Albina started at his words. “You’ve spoken to the earl—on my behalf?” She shoved her arms into the welcome warmth of his jacket. Scents of the barn, of oats and feed, of freshly oiled leather, and…and lye soap clung to the dense wool.

  “I had to account for Mr. Abbot’s absence and my hours spent training.”

  Her blood raced loud and fast in her ears. “And? What did you say? What did you tell him?” She had thought more of a trial period was required before he would go to the earl, that she would have to prove herself worthy of the groom’s time.

  He stared forward, at the expanse of grass and weeds stretching before them. “That you were worthy of his horses. Now, prove me right. And show me you’re ready to learn.”

  …