To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst)

by Frances Fowlkes

  Albina nodded toward a small pile of similar letters neatly stacked on a corner table. “You can place it with the others.”

  “Are you not going to read it?”

  “No.”

  “But why not?” her mother asked with a desperate air.

  Albina lifted her chin. “I am not interested in what the marquess has to say.”

  Her mother stomped over to the pile, flinging the letter against the others, also unopened, with a snort. “You have pined after the man for the better part of a year, Albina. He is, at long last, interested in you as a prospective wife. Now is not the time to play coy.”

  “You think I encourage his affections by not returning them? Then, please, by all means, find me a pen, and I shall write the man and put him out of his ill-guided misery.”

  “You would make little of his pursuit? He is, as you have argued on more than one occasion, the best candidate for your husband. I would not have you trifle with his emotions—”

  “I would not do him the dishonor, though I cannot say he has done the same for me.”

  Her mother arched a dark brow. “I do not disavow his distracted air where it has concerned you. But you have now gained his attentions, this ridiculous racing scheme of yours resulting in the very thing you had hoped to claim. Why not grasp it with both hands?”

  Albina narrowed her eyes. “Because I do not wish to suffer through a marriage knowing I am not his first choice, knowing that whenever we visit Plumburn, his eyes will stray to Henrietta.”

  Her mother’s face softened. “He is a man changed, my dear. If you would only give him the chance—”

  “A chance? As he has denied me for the past year? No.” Albina shook her head, balling her fists in her lap. “The only reason he seeks me now is because of my skill in the saddle, not for any shared emotional connection. A man’s pride is fragile, Mother, and his has been wounded with my win. He seeks me as some sort of consolation prize. If he cannot win the race through his man, then he should have it through a woman.”

  “Has he made reference to that in his letters?”

  “He does not have to. His actions have spoken louder than any words, written or otherwise.”

  As did another’s.

  If the marquess had gone out of his way to seek her out, Edmund had done the opposite, disappearing from her life as though he had never been a part of it, an apparition, unseen and unheard.

  She had written to him, of course, but her queries went unanswered, her requests to return to Plumburn refused by both her mother and the earl. That either person could be devious enough to prevent her letters from reaching their intended recipient was a consideration, but she was more afraid of the alternative—that Edmund had received her letters of apology, of her professed love and attachment—and did not wish to reciprocate.

  Had he not turned away from her at the derby? His retreating form offering not the praise she so desperately sought, but his harsh disdain?

  And for what? She had done everything he had asked of her. Everything and more.

  But he had brushed her aside as though she were nothing more than a temporary victory. His job ended, his goal achieved, she was no longer of any use to him. Her stomach roiled at the very idea. Her fingers curling into her palms, her nails dug deep into her flesh. Her heart ached, as though stabbed through with a dagger of his refusal.

  Was her heartache in vain? Was Edmund not banished, but actually well, as the whispers of one particularly meddlesome housemaid suggested? Had Edmund been rewarded for his part in their scheme? For her achievement in the derby? Had he gained some variety of fame and fortune to be enjoyed in his supposed exile while she sat and rotted in a black void of her own despair? Had he truly loved her, she would have been the only prize he sought. He would have come for her. Would have ridden night and day to have her in his arms once again.

  Swallowing her wretchedness, she picked up her paintbrush before slamming it back down on the easel’s ledge, water splattering from its dampened bristles. “I believe I will retire, Mother. A nap is in order. I have not slept well in a fortnight.”

  Not when her life was crumbling around her. When her heart felt as though it would never beat again. When all feeling had been lost, her mind numb, her body a vessel of despair.

  “Perhaps a nap will help soothe your mind, dear.” Her mother settled a hand on Albina’s forearm.

  Albina nodded numbly. “Yes. Perhaps.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  One week was an exorbitant amount of time. Within its seven days, Edmund had learned his limitations, both physical and mental, though it had taken only two days to determine he no longer reaped joy from his once pleasurable work. And another three days to allow that the discontentment was not from a lack of interest in horses, but from the association they held with a woman who haunted both his dreams and every waking thought.

  Albina.

  Edmund squeezed a pitchfork and shoved it into a pile of fresh-smelling hay. His forearms strained with the exertion, his muscles protesting and screaming their displeasure, but not as much as his head from the anguish wrought by the certainty of Albina’s fate.

  She was to be married. To the Marquess of Satterfield, if the earl had his say. Was she, even now, seducing him? Fluttering her long lashes in his direction? Wooing him with her bright, honey-colored eyes or her tinkling, fay-like laugh?

  As he lifted the hay and tossed it into the nearest stall, Edmund groaned. He should have run to her, congratulated her for her huge accomplishment, her hard-earned win. God knows all he wanted to do was hold her in his arms in a crushing embrace as he praised her for a job well done.

  But he had seen the thick arm of the marquess possessively wrapped around her. Had known in that instant she had played him for the fool he was. She had never wanted Edmund, the lowly groom that he was, but the wealthy, titled marquess. From the start of her sordid scheme to the very finish, she had used him to obtain her ultimate prize.

  And yet, he couldn’t help but to foolishly wonder, if she had known how proud he was of her achievement, would she have left him so readily? Oh, Edmund was not an idiot. He knew very well the earl’s hand was heavy in her departure for “rest”—at least that was what he was told when he had asked a stable hand the reason behind her quick withdrawal to the country. But he had hoped a letter from her would make it into his hands. Or a message sent via a sympathetic servant, letting him know of her current state. Silence, however, was the order of the week, his letters ignored.

  Which meant the marquess was pursuing his bride, and Edmund was not to interfere. Unless, of course, Albina did not share the marquess’s affections and, despite the dictation of social order, wished to defy its constraints and take a groom as her husband…

  Had she not written him back because she was not able or because she agreed with the earl, that the marquess was, in fact, her better match?

  With another grunt, he stabbed the metal tines into the hay. He was teasing himself, allowing for improbable possibilities. Was he simply to disregard her, the new Marchioness of Satterfield, when she came to visit her sister at Plumburn? Was he to turn his head whenever she visited the stables? Or worse yet, was he to simply avert his gaze when he would inevitably catch a glimpse of her sharing in some sort of outward affection with the marquess?

  Edmund slapped away the wooden handle of the pitchfork and ran his hands over his sweat-covered face. No. He had not imagined Albina’s whispered endearments. Or the tiny prickles that rose over her skin whenever he touched her hand. Hope blossomed, deep within his gut. What if she was guilty only of being a victim of the earl’s scheming hand? What if her feelings for Edmund were real?

  He would not stand idle while some other man made an offer to a woman he had already claimed for his own. The devil could keep his horses, his winnings, his job. Life was not worth living if Albina was not with him to share it.

  He loved her.

  And it was time he started acting like it.

&
nbsp; Edmund snatched a rag off the stable ledge and wiped off his face. He had a letter to pen. He only hoped his great-uncle was a forgiving man and would accept Edmund’s steadfast apology.

  …

  For the third time, Edmund once again found himself in the Earl of Amhurst’s study, sitting in the same stiff-backed chair he had twice occupied, staring complacently at Albina’s benefactor. Only, this time, Edmund had asked for the audience. And he did not intend to leave until the earl gave him a favorable answer.

  The earl eyed him, his eye patch absent, with a knowing look. “I cannot say I am terribly surprised to see you, Mr. White.”

  Edmund gave a thin smile. “No, I daresay you are not.”

  “I had expected to see you before, quite honestly, striking while the iron was yet hot with the horses and all that. To settle on your accounts.”

  “Yes, well, I first had a letter to write.”

  “To your great-uncle, perchance?” the earl asked, a dark brow lifting over his damaged eye. “Lord Bonham?”

  Edmund cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. “You know of my relation?”

  The earl lifted a magnifying glass off his table and peered through its thick lens. “He wrote me when you first sought employment.”

  “Four months ago?”

  The earl nodded, his functioning eye large in the glass. “He bade me refuse you employment due to your impending responsibilities.”

  “And you ignored his request?” Edmund asked, aghast.

  “Much as you had.” The earl set down the magnifying glass. “I was curious to see what kind of man would give up a viscountcy for the life of a groomsman.”

  Edmund snorted. “A foolish man who was not quite right in his senses and who no longer wishes to stay the course. I have written my great-uncle, and I have accepted his terms to claim the title.”

  Tilting his chin, the earl peered at him. “Have you?”

  Edmund’s resolve remained firm, his gaze not once leaving the earl’s questioning face. “I have, my lord.”

  “I was under the impression that the terms set by your relation were severe and not in your favor.”

  “Four months ago, they were not. I have come to have a new appreciation for sheep.”

  The earl’s brow lifted over his good eye. “You do not care for my stables, Mr. White?”

  “Oh, I care for them a great deal, as my work attests. It is simply that I have come to care more for the life possible as a gentleman than that under the restrictions of a groom.”

  Lord Amhurst fingered the magnifying glass’s handle. “You have sought my audience to give notice for your departure?”

  “Yes, and to ask for your permission to take Lady Albina’s hand in marriage. I wish to make her my wife.”

  The earl’s jaw clenched.

  Taking advantage of the man’s silence to press his cause, Edmund barreled forward. “I realize a viscountcy is beneath a daughter of an earl, but my great-uncle assures me the estate is far richer than I had originally presumed.”

  Lord Amhurst lifted a quieting finger. “You wish to marry Lady Albina Beauchamp.”

  “Most ardently,” he said, without hesitation.

  “You would accept your relation’s terms, which, were I to recall, included forsaking your interest in horse racing, to marry my wife’s sister.”

  “Yes, my lord.” He folded his hands in his lap.

  “That would mean the loss of the stallion won by her hand. Along with the prestige gained as a formidable instructor. You do recall the duke has put in a good word with Prinny?”

  Edmund wiped his palms on his legs. “I do. But it is Lady Albina’s hand I seek. Not the regent’s.”

  Pushing off his desk, the earl stood, one hand grasping his chin. “I did not know the depth of your attachment. I had thought the marquess—”

  “I realize I will never have the social standing or the wealth of the marquess, but I do love her. And I am far gone enough in my heartache to risk my pride and ask her for her hand. I only require your permission to do so.”

  Dropping his hand to his side, the earl sent Edmund a rather forlorn look. “Do you believe she returns your affection, Mr. White?”

  “I believe so. Though I have not heard from her since Emberton. Before then, I had thought her heart decided.”

  “You must forgive me. I only endeavored to help a friend while doing what I believed to be right by Lady Albina. Lord Satterfield and I have been acquainted since our childhood. It is, however, only recently that we have… That is to say…” The earl cleared his throat. “As you know, I sought to steer my friend in Lady Albina’s direction. She had, at least until recently, set her cap for Lord Satterfield.”

  His breath caught on two little words. Until recently.

  Noting Edmund’s silence, the earl came around the desk. He settled himself against the massive mahogany structure and peered at him.

  “Lady Albina confessed her feelings toward the marquess had diminished, that she had transferred them to another. To you. I believed her love unrequited, an infatuation born from spending too much time in your company. She was, after all, prior to your involvement, quite taken with the marquess. For more than a year, she has set her cap for the man. To have her emotions so easily shifted… Well…I thought, with some time apart from you, she would have the space to know her mind, and her attentions might be refocused to Lord Satterfield. He did, after all, appear to be genuinely interested in Lady Albina after the race.” The earl swallowed and gave Edmund an imploring look. “My intentions were noble. But I fear I may have meddled where I ought not. And for that, I offer my apologies.”

  Edmund ran a hand through his hair. He could not think ill of the earl for his misguided attempt to help a friend and to do what he believed best by Albina; he only hoped the plan had gone awry and Albina was still his to pursue. A swell of giddiness, of newly sprung promise, tugged at his lips.

  “My forgiveness is given. I only ask that I might leave directly for Rosehurst to speak with Lady Albina—that is, if I have your permission, sir.”

  Relief swept over the elder man’s face. “You do, Mr. White, but on one condition.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That you allow me to speak with Lord Bonham concerning Lady Albina’s dowry.”

  Head cocked, Edmund sat forward. “Lady Albina’s dowry?”

  “Yes, my good man,” said the earl with a smile. “She does have one.”

  “Of course, but I had thought—”

  “You would not receive it?”

  Edmund blinked. “Yes.”

  The earl chuckled. “Lady Albina’s dowry is substantial.”

  “I am not marrying her for her dowry, sir.”

  “I would be insulted if you were, Mr. White. But the lady does come with a sizeable fortune that has recently doubled due to the heavy collection of winnings pocketed at Emberton. Winnings won at her hand.”

  Edmund swallowed. “But I have already collected on my share as per your instruction, my lord.”

  “Yes, I am aware. As I am that you are owed a stallion from Lord Stanley’s line.”

  “That I must decline per my great-uncle’s stipulations.”

  The earl ran a finger along the edge of the desk. “He may request you decline the stallion, but he cannot refuse the two mares that are included in Lady Albina’s dowry, along with the money allotted for their care. You know, I visited Lord Bonham not long ago. His land was quite suitable for Thoroughbreds—and sheep, of course.” He gave Edmund a wink.

  “I don’t know what to say, my lord.” Edmund sat back in his chair, his mind reeling.

  “You needn’t say anything to me, Mr. White. It is Lady Albina who holds the cards to your fate.”

  Edmund’s heart raced. He peered up at the earl. “I have your permission, then?”

  “And my blessings. Along with another mare, I think. Her winning mare. A peace offering from me to Lady Albina, for you to deliver to her posthaste, along with
my most sincere apologies.”

  Relief at Edmund’s good fortune pulled his lips into a smile that he could not quit even if he had attempted to do so. “I cannot promise she will accept your offering, but I will gladly deliver the horse and your apology to Rosehurst.”

  “Yes, well, I cannot promise she will accept your offer either, though I feel the odds are in our favor.”

  “And why is that, my lord?” Edmund asked.

  “Because our headstrong Lady Albina never learned how to accept the word ‘no.’”

  Edmund stood and bowed. “If that is the case, I shall depart directly, before the marquess makes an offer Lady Albina cannot refuse.”

  …

  Albina sat with her forehead pressed against her knees, her arms wrapped protectively around her legs in a most unladylike pose. Fortunately, there was no one to correct her poor posture or to comment on her self-indulgent misery, for she was alone in the western drawing room, her paints and her sparsely covered canvas her only company.

  Not that she was complaining. The bright sun poured through the paned glass, her place on the cushioned window seat the perfect spot to absorb the warmth and the welcome solitude.

  She had somehow escaped her mother’s hovering presence. And that, in and of itself, was a feat to be savored. Albina took a deep breath and closed her eyes…only to open them to the sound of rustling skirts and hurried footsteps. Lifting her head, she glimpsed someone scurrying into the room. With a quick, purposeful hand, her mother smoothed her skirts. “Albina, dear, you have a visitor.”

  “Please relay my apologies to Lord Satterfield. The same headache with which I was afflicted when he visited yesterday still ails me.”

  “It is not the marquess who has come to call, but a messenger from the earl. He says he comes bearing gifts.”

  Albina straightened her legs and plopped her feet onto the floor. “Gifts? From the earl? Did he say which earl?”

  Her mother rolled her eyes heavenward. “Don’t be simple, Albina. The Earl of Amhurst, of course.”