To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Frances Fowlkes

  Her sister’s concern was a valid one. Albina would be nothing more than a missus, her title of lady disappearing as quickly as the societal opportunities afforded to her by her current rank. Edmund, however, served to gain—a lot—were she allotted the same dowry as Henrietta upon her marriage to the earl.

  He would be elevated financially, and she would be reduced to the role of a groom’s wife. She would, however, be with the man who set her heart aflame. Who shared in her interests. And who believed in her as no other person ever had.

  Albina reached for her sister’s hand, clasping it with her own. “I will marry for love and assume whatever consequences come as a result.”

  Sarah squeezed Albina’s hand and nodded. “Promise me one thing, Albina.”

  “Anything.”

  “Win the damn race, will you?”

  …

  Edmund sat in a stiff, hard-backed chair, his legs bent, his back straight, and his hands, while open and resting on his lap in a natural state, sweating profusely into his breeches. A quick glance around the earl’s study proved little had changed from his last summons, save for the neatened stack of papers resting on the polished mahogany.

  Rain battered the windows, the early-afternoon shower making it appear far later in the day than the actual hour. In fact, were he to give it further consideration, the storm outside reflected the tone inside the large, spacious room. Dark. Menacing. And exceptionally dismal.

  Which was rather fitting, given he was certain of the reasons behind his summons. Edmund was going to hell. Straight into the blackest bowels and pits of despair. He was sure of it.

  For less than seven hours had passed since Albina, sated and flushed with their lovemaking, had left his side. Less than seven hours since he had held her beautiful curves and exquisite body against his naked flesh. And less than seven hours since he had chosen her as his future wife. He wanted nothing more than to be with her, riding, training, kissing… He clenched his jaw and focused. He had to appear unaffected, as though her scent did not still linger on his skin, teasing him.

  Hell. The seventh level. And should it exist, the eighth. For if Edmund could smell the light notes of honeysuckle of Albina’s soap, so, too, could the earl—her protector, the man who undoubtedly wished to remove Edmund from his employ.

  He was an ass. And the earl would likely tell him so once he arrived.

  If the man did not shoot Edmund dead for his impertinence first.

  The door to the study opened. Edmund stood, the change in position welcome. Had he waited any longer, his hands would have left stain marks upon his thighs.

  The earl strode toward Edmund. “Mr. White.”

  “My lord.”

  “No doubt you know why you are here.”

  There were a vast number of reasons, including debauchery, defilement, and impertinence. To which crime the earl referred, however, remained a mystery. Unless, of course, he wished to address them all, in which case Edmund would not leave the room alive. Or, at the very least, without a fresh hole or two in his heart.

  Lord Amhurst continued to stare at him with his good eye in expectant silence, which Edmund quickly filled with a compliant nod.

  “I know you are a busy man, Mr. White.”

  Indeed. Far busier than the earl no doubt wished. Especially where it concerned his sister-in-law.

  “Which is why I will not waste your time and be succinct in my query.”

  Edmund clasped his hands behind his back. While it presented a more confident stance, it also allowed him to hide the slight tremor of his hands. Never had he been more grateful for the earl’s reputation for being a man of few words. Were Edmund to perish at his hand, at least it would be quick.

  “Do you still feel confident in Lady Albina’s chances after yesterday’s…incident?”

  Edmund blinked. Good lord. The earl wished to know his opinion, not his state of mind. Or whether he wished to die from a sword or pistol.

  His opinion was easily given, especially where it concerned Albina. “Lady Albina is a skilled rider, my lord.”

  “That she is. You did not, however, answer my question, Mr. White.”

  “I believe she can win Emberton.”

  The earl’s brows lifted. “Is this your professional opinion or one biased by your affections?”

  Edmund swallowed. Hard. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “One needn’t two eyes to see what can be observed with one.”

  Perspiration dripped down Edmund’s temples. “My affection?”

  “My wife’s sister is a beauty and a woman of high regard. It is hard to believe time spent in her company would not yield an affection, Mr. White.”

  “My, lord—”

  “Which is why I must know if your assessment is based on her abilities or your attachment.”

  Edmund’s mouth opened, but no words sputtered forth. His tongue refused to move, his lips frozen, as though they were made of ice.

  “Do you deny you have formed a friendship with my relation?”

  A friendship. Not an amorous relationship, but an affection of sisterly regard. Edmund forced his pulse to slow. Dear heavens, he’d be put in the grave with his assumptions. “No. Of course not.”

  “Then I must know if Lady Albina is a worthy competitor, fit to represent the house of Amhurst.”

  With his wits about him, Edmund offered a firm nod. “I believe so.”

  “And your assessment—”

  “Is a professional one. While I agree yesterday’s ride was less than satisfactory, with further instruction, I think her capable of achieving a win at Emberton.”

  “Further instruction.”

  “Another day or two—”

  “I have received word the Marquess of Satterfield has departed for Emberton. He is a fierce competitor, as I am certain you know.”

  Clearing his throat, Edmund said, “That he is, my lord.”

  “I do not think you a dim-witted man. You have spent time in his presence.”

  Uncertain of the earl’s direction, Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “That I have.”

  “Then you know he is not one to take a loss lightly. Whether it applies to horses…or to missed opportunities.” He ran a finger along the inside of his cravat, loosening the linen. “I wish to divert his attention to Lady Albina. It is essential she takes first. Anything less, and the marquess will discount her.”

  Edmund frowned. “I am afraid I do not follow, my lord. The marquess will discount the mare Lady Albina rides? Are you wishing to sell her to the marquess?”

  “Oh, heavens no. The bay mare remains mine. Lady Albina, however—”

  “Is your prize,” Edmund whispered.

  “Precisely.” The earl clasped his hands together. “Lady Albina has, for some time, set her cap for the marquess. It is my wife’s wish to see her sister’s happiness fulfilled through marriage to the marquess. A man whose eyes have been recently…diverted. A win would certainly help to redirect his gaze.”

  Off the earl’s wife and onto Albina. His Albina. Edmund’s blood stirred. Possessiveness gripped him as a surge of jealousy reared its head, inciting him to argue against the earl’s presumption.

  “My lord, I—”

  “The Thoroughbred stallion remains your payment upon a win, along with an extra two years’ wages, a jockey of your selection, and full boarding and feed for your horse for as long as you are employed here, given she rides under Amhurst colors.”

  Air hissed from his lips. Surprise did not begin to describe the utter shock paralyzing both his limb and tongue. He stood, unblinking, the full impact of the earl’s words seeping through a haze of disbelief. Such an offer was beyond generous. It was…nonsensical, a dream.

  And a goddamn wager. He may be incapable of speech at present, but his mind was clear. He was to trade Albina for the one thing Edmund had wanted above all else: to be the master of his own race.

  It was an unconceivable idea, rendered more so by the fact that he had already c
laimed Albina as his own. She was to marry him.

  But to marry him…would mean a loss of title for her. Of status. Of the life she had grown accustomed to. And while she had allowed him privileges, he was not a fool. Love waned when tested against the harshness of his reality. Once her hands were dirtied with work, he doubted she would find him half as attractive or appealing as she had this morning when he was but a diversion in her mundane routine.

  Once the thrill of the race was over and her accomplishments proven, would she still want to step into his world? To be a part of him? And everything he was? When she had, for some time, apparently pined after the marquess?

  Edmund could not compete with a marquess. He was a no one. A groom. To ask the earl for Albina’s hand in marriage would be…more than an impertinence. It would be a crime.

  Especially if Albina had used him to help her gain insight and more experience to seduce Lord Satterfield. Edmund had been played. As a pawn in some sordid scheme. She had used him to better herself, to gain attention from a man who could offer her the moon.

  His heart wrenched, his gut sinking into a low pit of despair.

  “You have two days to train with Lady Albina before we depart for Emberton, Mr. White. I shall make certain her mornings are cleared to allow extra instruction time. I advise you to use it wisely.”

  Edmund nodded, blinking, his body void of the joy he had experienced only hours before. Two days of extra time with a woman who sent his blood racing and his heart pounding.

  While he trained her to impress someone else.

  “Two days,” he said numbly.

  “Good man. I’m certain you will not disappoint.”

  Edmund swallowed the lump in his throat.

  …

  “Harder.”

  Albina yanked on the ribbons, pivoting the mare toward Edmund and his glacial glare. “I cannot push her any harder,” she grunted. “She is at her limit.”

  “Her limit is the one you set for her. Do it again. And this time do it faster.”

  Early-morning sunlight glinted on the untended beginnings of a beard along his jaw, making it appear as though his face shimmered with fire.

  Much like the one in his heart that had, in all due haste, been extinguished. As though a bucket of winter stream water had been tossed over his head, freezing him of the warmth he had offered in abundance the morning prior.

  Had she harbored any notion their training would reflect their prior intimacies, she was sadly disappointed. From the start of her arrival through the first hour of their practice, he had been nothing but reserved, distant, and even contemptible, refusing to offer any sort of praise or encouragement, his only remarks those of criticism and disappointment.

  Her training was one wrought with confusion, anxiety, and utter distraction. Had she said something to make him believe her indifferent? That she had not been satisfied beyond measure? That she wished nothing more than for him to hold her in his arms and whisper endearments?

  “But I—”

  “We leave for Emberton in a day’s time. Do you not wish to win the race?”

  “Yes, of course, but I had thought—”

  “You could win without putting in the time and effort?” he asked. “Need I remind you the majority of the bon ton will be in attendance? Watching you. Watching your horse. And wondering if their carefully placed wagers will be doubled or collected.”

  Albina let out a huff. “I don’t understand why—”

  “The only thing you need to understand is that the earl is counting on his jockey, the one I have recommended, to bring honor and recognition to his name.”

  Stress. It had to be the pressure of the race that had him acting as though their time together had not existed at all. As though less than four and twenty hours prior they were not conjoined in the most intimate of embraces.

  Her cheeks heated at the memory, her pulse racing at the very thought of his lips on her…on her…well, on her. He had spoken of attachment. Of unrequited love. And yet he stared at her as though she were incompetent. Unable to urge her horse faster. As though she meant nothing more to him than a win in a silly race.

  And perhaps she didn’t.

  Edmund cleared his throat. “The run awaits you, my lady.”

  “Edmund—”

  “The run.” He nodded toward the stretch of grassy, compacted earth, his eyes hard, his jaw set.

  She had offered him her heart, the very soul of her being, which he had readily taken—and stomped upon with his cool indifference and disregard. She had thought…had naively believed he returned her affection. Apparently, she had misread the desire in his eyes for nothing more than lust. She had been but a quick tussle in the hay. A conquest. Marriage, indeed. He was not about to make any offers to the earl.

  Her shame was equaled only by her anger. How could she have been so silly? So foolish to believe a man could want her for more than one moment of lowered inhibition? She had been tricked, seduced by praise and the belief that she was more than an easy target desperate for attention, but a damn fine rider. Which she very well was.

  Albina clenched her jaw and gave him her best indignant glare. If he would not allow her to finish a complete sentence, she would not allow him the privilege of her time.

  She patted the mare’s side and directed her toward the stables.

  “The run, my lady, is in the opposite direction,” Edmund called.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “How perceptive of you, Mr. White. Perhaps you can use that same perception to deduce my intentions.”

  He urged his stallion forward, aligning himself with her. “Our time is not yet finished.”

  “Oh, but I think it is. I no longer find myself inclined to instruction. I have other appointments that require my attention.”

  “And I suppose they are more important than training for a derby you want nothing more than to win?”

  Albina cocked her head. “Winning is not everything. Especially when to do so would require more time in your presence.”

  Edmund snorted and shook his head. “And what of Lord Satterfield? No doubt winning is everything where it concerns him.”

  Albina’s heart stopped. No. He didn’t know. Couldn’t possibly know. She had misheard. She flicked her plaited hair behind her shoulder and peered at Edmund with her most innocent of expressions. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do not pretend ignorance. You heard my words and to whom they refer.”

  “I believe I did. But then, you mentioned Lord Satterfield.”

  Edmund lifted his brows.

  “I fail to see how the marquess has any bearing on the outcome of the derby,” she said with a slight shift in her saddle.

  “I should think a great deal, given the earl wishes to best him in the competition.”

  Albina loosened her grip on the ribbons. Of course. The two men were constantly boasting of the pedigree filling their stables. That the earl wished for his horseflesh to outrun the marquess’s was a natural assumption. “And I should continue to endure your grueling and tyrannical methods to save the earl from a potential loss?”

  He nodded. “It would behoove you, yes. Especially as the earl has placed an exorbitant amount on your win.”

  “He has?” She licked her lips. This was unprecedented. The earl had yet to make her acquaintance as a jockey, a slight no doubt engineered by Edmund in order to maintain her secret. But that her benefactor should place so much faith in a man he had never met, let alone seen race, was difficult to believe. Then again, she had witnessed him wager with Lord Satterfield over the presumed weight of a toad. Who knew what men, especially those still at odds over Henrietta, might do?

  Edmund gave a curt nod. “Should you win, your house would benefit greatly.”

  “You must have spoken very highly of my skill. The earl would not have made such a wager unless he believed it won.”

  Edmund turned his head away. “I don’t believe he would.”

  Albina let out a breath. The we
ight of a win was not only on her shoulders, but his as well. His position was undoubtedly in question, and should he not come through with his promise of a win he would lose everything.

  Did her temper not run short when faced with uncertain outcomes and outrageous demands? They departed for Emberton in a day. She gave a small sigh of resignation. She could make another pass down the run if her compliance allowed him a small relief in his anxiety.

  She urged the mare around. “I suppose another pass could be made.”

  He lifted his gaze. The ice in his eyes thawed a degree or two as the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

  “Make it count.”

  Albina lowered her head and jabbed her heels into the mare’s side. She’d make it count. She had little choice to do otherwise. Edmund’s future, and hers, depended upon it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emberton had changed little since Albina’s last visit. A quaint, respectable village located on the Duke of Waverly’s sprawling Thornhaven estate, its close proximity to London made it easily accessible for the bon ton to gather for the much-anticipated annual derby.

  Decorated with sprays of flowers, ribbons, and banners welcoming London’s finest, the village swelled with the hundreds gathered to see the country’s fastest horses from the wealthiest houses compete.

  Their boisterous voices could be heard in every stall of the stable, the hum of excitement and eager anticipation felt by both the horses and their riders.

  Including Albina.

  Sweat rolled down her temples, soaking into the starched white cravat wound tight around her throat. She could not decide if her hands shook with fear or trembled with anticipation, if her heart soared with excitement or raced with terror.

  She paced the length of the stall, forcing her lungs to fill with air pungent with horseflesh…and roasted almonds. Adjusting her navy riding jacket, the crest of the house of Amhurst embroidered in gold on the front lapel, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Her first ruse had been a success, her lie-in at Thornhaven with Sarah at her side convincing enough for both the earl and her mother to discourage her from attending the day’s events. Now she was here, dressed, her horse saddled, and the race only minutes away. The day she had trained for, had spent hours anticipating, was here.