To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Frances Fowlkes

  His thoughts were consumed with her. Not only because he wished for her to succeed and win the race at Emberton, but because he was enchanted by her determination. Her spirit. And the hint of a promise that she may see past his lack of title and return his affections. He had, ever so briefly, questioned his decision to remain at Plumburn, in his current role as the earl’s groom. Were the horses worth more than a possible future with Lady Albina? Were the privileges granted him by his station greater than those allowed by a viscount?

  He was being foolish. Overthinking the possibilities. The stallion, firm and solid beneath him, was real. His fanciful dreams were not.

  But however outlandish the direction of his woolgathering may be, the idea he may have injured her feelings with a careless observation irked him. She was no doubt embarrassed by the marquess’s overt interest in her married sister. He clicked his tongue, urging the stallion to move at a faster pace. Lady Albina glanced at him and replied in kind, encouraging the mare into a canter.

  He leaned forward, the stallion matching his cues, hastening his pace, near galloping across the pasture. As he guided the stallion to match Lady Albina’s ever-quickening gait, he held fast to the ribbons.

  “My lady,” he called, but his voice was silenced by the sound of an animal going faster than a mere ride in the upper pasture. They were racing. And Lady Albina was not at all outfitted for the venture. Her voluminous skirts flapped against the side of the mare as she sought to maintain form while sitting in a sidesaddle best suited for leisurely walks through a springtime meadow.

  She faltered, her hands fumbling for something to hold on to as the mare’s racing instincts took over and she bolted across the upper pasture. Edmund kicked his heels into his stallion’s side. He had to reach the mare and coax the animal into slowing.

  His head low, he kept his eyes on the mare and Lady Albina’s bouncing body. Her saddle restricted her movements, preventing her from throwing a balancing leg over the back of the galloping horse, and she full well knew it. Other than maintaining control and form, there was little she could do to prevent injury to both her and the horse. He only prayed she continued to stay in the saddle while he came alongside her.

  The stallion raced forward, his hooves pounding, his nose snorting with the exertion of the run while Edmund poised like the jockey he trained. With his bottom lifted, his knees bent, his head lowered, he came alongside Lady Albina’s charging mare. Her terror-filled eyes wide, her knuckles white where they gripped the saddle, Lady Albina mouthed words that were ripped away by the wind, though Edmund needn’t hear them.

  She needed help, and he would do his damnedest to provide it. With the ribbons wrapped firmly around one hand, he reached for the mare’s lead with the other. The mare, trained for racing as she was, saw his horse as a competitor and unleashed another burst of speed.

  Edmund grappled with his saddle, struggling to maintain his position as he strove to catch the mare barreling across the clover-studded field. With another jab into the stallion’s sides, he surged forward, again maneuvering alongside the wayward mare.

  He had one shot to grab the ribbons and yank the mare into submission. One shot before his stallion was taxed and unable to keep pace with a horse who, for all intents and purposes, appeared unresponsive to Lady Albina’s commands.

  Edmund lunged his hand toward Lady Albina, who flung the ribbons into his grasp. With a firm yank, he forced the mare to slow, his horse reducing speed alongside her.

  “That’s a girl,” he whispered to the mare. “Nice and easy.” The horse shook its black mane and eased into a walk. Returning the ribbons to Lady Albina, he sat back into his saddle and took a deep breath.

  “Thank you,” Lady Albina whispered. She peered at him, her cheeks flushed, her hair loosened and wild about her face. “I did not—”

  “You did not have proper handling of the horse,” he retorted. “I need you to be fully confident in your role as her master.”

  “And I will,” Lady Albina said defensively. “Had I been in proper attire on a cross saddle I would have better handled—”

  “You need to establish your dominance. She needs to know you are in control.” He raked a hand through his hair, his hat somewhere on the trail behind them. “I cannot have you making mistakes like this at Emberton. It’s bad enough you did it in front of the earl.”

  Lady Albina’s face reddened. “Had your stallion not compelled her—”

  “My stallion was what allowed me to stop her. You alone are to blame for her behavior, commanding her to leave my side—”

  “I wished to cease our conversation,” she said hotly. “As I do now.”

  “Because you do not have the advantage, as you do not have it with the mare?”

  Lady Albina’s nostrils flared as her back stiffened. But whatever words she had hoped to lash at him died on her lips at the appearance of the Marquess of Satterfield racing toward their party.

  He eased his horse into a walk, rearing the beast next to Lady Albina. “I say,” he said, catching his breath. “What the devil happened?”

  Lady Albina peered down her nose at Edmund then adjusted in her seat and addressed the marquess. “My mare took off unexpectedly. No doubt spooked by a mole or some such. All, however, is in hand. There is no cause for concern.”

  The marquess eyed her warily. “Just so, my lady. Thank goodness for Mr. White’s expertise. He appeared to handle the situation quite remarkably.”

  Edmund would have tipped his hat in gratitude for the compliment, but as it had disappeared, he nodded instead—as Lady Albina sniffed.

  “While Mr. White’s assistance was timely, it was not necessary. Given another moment or two, the mare would have responded to my lead.”

  “Forgive me, Lady Albina, but from my vantage, the mare required the firm hand of a man knowledgeable—”

  “A woman is not knowledgeable, my lord?” she asked, her voice thin.

  “In matters of equestrian handling?”

  She gave a curt, tight-lipped nod.

  “I think it safe to say, given this incident as an example, a man’s knowledge of horses supersedes that of a woman.”

  “Experience lends nothing to the equation, Lord Satterfield?” Lady Albina asked.

  “Well, perhaps. But even if you are as skilled a rider as your sister boasts, the evidence speaks against you, my lady.”

  “Allowances must be given for unexpected misfortunes,” Edmund interjected. “The lady could not have accounted for the mare’s unexpected reaction.”

  The marquess frowned at Edmund. “A skilled rider would have anticipated the horse’s reaction and responded accordingly.”

  “Which she did. Lady Albina maintained her place on the horse. A lesser rider would not have handled the situation with as much grace or poise.”

  “While I applaud your attempts at flattering her ladyship, Mr. White, I think it safe to say a woman’s place is not on the back of a horse. Your rescue is evidence horses respond better to a man’s touch.”

  “Be that as it may, a man is not encumbered by yards of fabric encasing their legs, nor by a saddle restricting the placement of those same appendages, my lord. I think it safe to say, were a woman given equal advantages as a man, she would prove just as skillful a rider, and the horse would be as responsive.”

  Her lips parted on the softest gasp, Lady Albina’s eyes widened at his bold sentiment.

  Nothing but the chomping of the horses’ teeth as they chewed the meadow’s clover filled their ears, the silence certain indication Edmund had said too much.

  Jesus. Had he truly given voice to such things? And to the bloody damn Marquess of Satterfield?

  Lord Satterfield shot Edmund a perturbed look. “An interesting opinion, though a touch brazen for someone of your…social standing.”

  Edmund was a fool. He had stepped over the line of propriety and earned himself the reprimand, however degrading it might be to receive it in front of Lady Albina.

 
; “I find his sentiments quite refreshing.” The earl’s daughter’s eyes were narrowed at the marquess, her face a mask of cool hauteur.

  “Honestly,” the marquess scoffed. “As a member of the sex Mr. White defends, I would expect no less of you—however comical his ideas.”

  Lady Albina frowned. “My opinion is less valued because of my sex.” Although she said the words as a statement, her intonation proved it a question.

  “Your opinion holds merit, my lady.”

  “But not as much as yours.”

  The rest of the party’s arrival saved the marquess from responding.

  “Is everyone all right?” the earl asked, his gaze darting between Lord Satterfield and Lady Albina.

  “Yes, of course,” Lady Albina said as she nodded toward Edmund. “Due in large part to Mr. White’s expertise and excellent handling.”

  The earl tipped his hat to Edmund, and his gaze lingered, concern swirling in its depths. “Thank you, Mr. White. You have my gratitude.”

  Edmund held back an oath. The earl’s questions would require answers—and, at present, he did not have them, for he barely knew what to make of Lady Albina either.

  His confidence in her riding had been shaken, her inability to lead the mare more than a pressing concern—a very real fear. Yet…had she not been hindered by the restrictions of both her saddle and her attire, he was certain she could have handled the beast.

  He glanced at Lady Albina. She gave a small smile and looked away. His blood warmed, his position on the horse quickly becoming an uncomfortable one. Even if he did not know what to make of her, he knew she was an exemplary woman. No one less than extraordinary would have defended him against the marquess’s feeble argument.

  His confidence returning, Edmund conceded she was gifted with handling the Thoroughbreds. Lady Albina Beauchamp knew how to ride a horse. He only wished he was the mount she rode.

  Chapter Ten

  An evening spent ignoring her mother’s inquiring looks was tiresome in and of itself. Diverting Sarah’s dogged questions about what precisely had occurred whilst in Mr. White’s presence on the ill-fated ride further added to her weariness. By the time Albina had extinguished the light and pulled the feather-filled blankets over her head, she was blissfully ready to succumb to her exhaustion and put the day’s tumultuous events behind her.

  Only, sleep eluded her. She stared into the black void of her room, her mind refusing to quiet. No matter how much thought and effort she placed into focusing on absolutely nothing, her mind replayed the events of the afternoon as though on a continuous, never-ending loop.

  Albina tossed and turned, even throwing pillows onto her head in hopes they might block out the marquess’s indignant glares. His steely gray eyes had looked upon her with distaste and contempt, arrogance and hauteur. He could not have been more adamant in his displeasure or candid in his persuasion. She had been weighed and measured. And had been found woefully wanting.

  Her groans and pillow-muted screams did not diminish her humiliation nor ease her embarrassment. No matter how long or loud she vented her frustrations, the facts remained—she had underestimated the mare and overestimated her ability to control her, in front of both the marquess and Mr. White, two men she wanted most to impress.

  Though why she even wished to impress the marquess was beyond her, other than the simple fact that he alone remained the only eligible candidate for her husband. He was a marquess who maintained both title and fortune. Along with a full set of teeth.

  Again, she screamed into her pillow. He may share her interest in horses, but that was all the marquess shared with her. He certainly was not interested in her. Not as a person. And certainly not as a wife.

  Unless he saw her ride. Of course…she could be caught up in the fantasy of a man who did not exist. The marquess, regardless of her skills, could very well not be the man she had believed him to be for the better part of a year. She might capture his attentions with a win, but what if he was not worth the capture? What if his true self was the one he had displayed this afternoon? The one callous in his remarks? Rude in his behavior? And most importantly, undeserving of her attentions?

  All of her training, her hard work, could be for naught.

  Which was why after flopping, screaming, crying, and wallowing in morbid indignity for the better part of the evening, she had come to the only resolution worthy of her plight. If she had any doubts or lingering concerns over her participation in the Emberton Derby, they were laid to rest, diminished by her urgent and overwhelming desire to right her wrong and prove herself worthy of her birthright.

  She was the offspring of the former Earl of Amhurst. Her sex mattered not in the affairs of flesh and blood. Had she been born male, she would have the same lineage of ancient kings and lords coursing through her veins. Through fate and circumstance, she had not been born the male her mother strived for, but one half of a pair of daughters her father sought to instruct with the best governesses money could afford. She was nobility and worthy of the crown she sought at Emberton, even if the marquess did not hold her opinions in regard. She had worked hard, dammit, and she was worth the win.

  Nobility, however, did not allow arrogance. She was ashamed of her own displays of hauteur, though they were not near as offensive as those of the marquess. Lord Satterfield may be a man and of a noble line, but Mr. White acted more the gentleman, defending both her character and her sex. He alone bore confidence in her abilities whilst the marquess, the earl, and even her sisters had voiced their concerns over her place on a horse.

  Mr. White had been bold in his defense, the heat with which he spoke revealing the sincerity behind his words. He believed in her and she in him.

  God in heaven.

  Albina bolted upright in bed, tossing the covers to the side. A quick look out the window confirmed the hour to be early but between those acceptable to head down to the stables and meet with Mr. White.

  If he was still here.

  As she fumbled with her clothes, flinging off her nightdress and snatching up her binding, Albina’s heart raced. Were she responsible for his dismissal… If his argument made for a call in his removal…well, she’d never forgive herself.

  He may have given voice to words far more brazen than allowed his station, but they had been spoken without malice or ill intent. And in her defense. She had to see him, if only for the assurance he had not been removed from his position by the earl. For if he had been removed…if she were never to see him again… Her stomach dipped.

  Tucking in the edges of her hastily wrapped binding, she searched the darkness for the rest of her male attire. Her erratic pulse and shortness of breath were the direct result of guilt; they had nothing to do with the possibility of never again seeing Mr. White’s playful smirk or shameless stares.

  She swallowed, her heart screaming in her chest.

  Her concern stemmed from her possible role in his dismissal. It certainly did not have anything to do with the buoy of confidence she felt with his encouragement, or the tingle of excitement that coursed through her whenever he appeared.

  The stables. He had to be in the stables. She would not allow herself to dwell on the possibility that he might be lost to her forever…

  She shoved an arm through the opening of her waistcoat and stilled.

  Good God.

  She had fallen for Mr. White.

  The fabric slipped over her arm, landing on the floor in a whisper of frayed silk. Mr. White. Her heart yearned for Mr. White. For his crooked smile, his left dimple, his auburn hair. His audacious banter, his sincere passion for the horses, for the race…for her.

  Her heart belonged not to the Marquess of Satterfield but the head groom of her brother-in-law’s stables. Blue blood did not make her skin prickle or her lungs breathless. Nor did aristocratic propriety encourage her passion or allow her freedom.

  Mr. White, however, did all of the above.

  And more.

  Which made it all the more imperativ
e that she make certain he remained at Plumburn.

  Albina snatched up the waistcoat, frantically pulling the pieces of her wardrobe together so that she might see Mr. White and…and, well, enjoy what she beheld.

  Fleeing from her room, she dashed through the servants’ halls and into the brisk chill of the early morning. She rushed through the darkness, her lungs burning and all manner of decorum tossed aside as she ran as fast as her legs allowed.

  Rounding the bend, she urged her legs forward and made it to the darkened stables with her chest heaving, her feet aching, and her heart pounding.

  “Mr. White?” she asked, breathless.

  Albina stepped into the barn. The familiar smells of horse and hay teased her senses, her eyes searching the darkness for Mr. White’s tall, lean frame. He had to be here…

  “Lady Albina?”

  Her heart leapt at the sound of his gravelly baritone. Relief filled her as excitement replaced fear. He had not been dismissed; he remained at Plumburn, at least for the present. His defense of her had not warranted his immediate removal.

  Near giddy with gratitude, she stepped farther into the barn toward his voice.

  Mr. White appeared, his face and very bare torso lit by a solitary candle.

  Dear God in heaven.

  She clutched a hand to her mouth and tried to remember how to breathe. Pale, freckled skin rippled with muscles as he lifted the candle, the dim light illuminating a dusting of fiery red hair across his chest.

  There were no words to describe her mortification at his state of undress. Or, for that matter, the overwhelming urge she had to reach out her hand and to brush her fingers across his skin.

  He lowered his head, peering down at his state of undress. “Forgive me. I did not realize the lateness of the hour. I had not expected…” His words faded, his gaze lifted and locked onto hers.

  Albina merely nodded, her mouth unwilling to form the words necessary for a response. He was, in a word, breathtaking. She forced herself to swallow, to pull her gaze away from his and allow him some sort of privacy while he dressed, but she couldn’t seem to turn her head away. She was transfixed. Immobilized by the broadness of his shoulders, the symmetry of his torso, and the rigid indentions of his stomach.