To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) (13 page)

“He knows full well that Henrietta is no longer an option for his wife. I admit, I may have had a few reservations about the marquess and his attraction to you”—Albina tossed the brush at her sister—“yet he was here but two weeks ago,” said Sarah with an
oomph
as she caught the silver-handled heirloom. “No man would return so soon if he did not appreciate the company.”

“As much as I would love to believe it was my company he sought, there will be others in our riding party, one of them being the earl himself. Perhaps this is another friendly inquiry into the horse Amhurst has settled upon entering into the derby.”

“Or,” her sister persisted, “he is pressing his suit.”

Albina’s hands paused on the kinks of her hair. Was it possible? Had all the prayers, the wishes, the fervent pleas, been answered? Had the marquess finally been swayed in her direction? She snatched the robe Sarah offered her and thrust an arm into one of the sleeves. She had only hours before she would see him, before she could assess his interest and gauge whether or not he had truly turned a corner.

“I did not think you approved of the marquess as my selection for husband,” Albina said.

Sarah pressed her lips together, as though giving thoughtful consideration to her response. “I believe, given your preferences, the marquess is your best option. Of course, he could recant his attentions if you do not get a bath. Dear heavens, Albina, you smell like a horse.”

“It is what happens when you ride one.” Albina sniffed her hair. A good dose of horse lingered, but so did a hint of Mr. White’s lye soap. Her eyes lifted to the mirror. Her dark hair puffed around her face, giving her a wild appearance and distracting from the confusion rioting in her eyes.

The marquess was returning to Plumburn. To ride, with her by his side. As she had done this morning with a very attentive, highly competent, and charming teacher, who was handsome, dashing—all things shared by the marquess…but with Mr. White, everything seemed more genuine. The marquess was well aware of his physical appeal. Mr. White, while confident, did not seem to be mindful of how the sun caught the shadow of his copper-colored beard, the fresh growth of his whiskers giving his face an almost ethereal quality, as though he were some sort of deity and she his mortal follower…

Sarah tugged on the bellpull beside the bed. She must have noticed Albina’s hesitation, for she said, “Let us see what the afternoon holds, Albina. I am certain the outcome will be in your favor, unless you ruin it with more time with the groom—a man not even required, should the marquess continue to visit.”

Albina inhaled a deep breath. Mr. White would not be essential.

Her insides churned, her stomach rioting against what once would have been welcome news. The idea of not seeing the auburn-haired and blue-eyed man should fill her with relief and a sense of accomplishment. Her task would be completed, her goal achieved, her need for his services gone.

True, he was an irritating nuisance, a demanding taskmaster who challenged her, pushed her to limits she’d never thought possible… And she was grateful for it. He was knowledgeable in racing, exceedingly so. The differences in her posture and speed after making the adjustments he suggested were significant and, what’s more, advantageous for a win she wanted, despite the marquess’s attendance.

While the marquess remained the ultimate prize, the sense of accomplishment gained from racing against the most prestigious and well-trained jockeys England had to offer was beyond heady. To possibly win a race intended for men—why, if she were to achieve that, there were no limits to her capabilities. Or to others like her. Mr. White had, in fact, given voice to the possibility of her success.

Albina touched a finger to her lips, still tender from his morning kisses. The simple recollection sent little prickles across her skin. He affected her, yes, and what’s more, she enjoyed their time together. A lot.

He had been nothing but patient with her bumbling and skittish attempts at intimacy. Encouraging and guiding her, never once making her feel silly or foolish. If anything, he had bolstered her confidence with his gentle tutelage—

Sarah rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll instruct the maid to dress you in your fetching green riding habit. No doubt the marquess will be unable to take his eyes off you.”

“Oh, yes,” Albina breathed. “The marquess.” The raven-haired, gray-eyed prize she had been dreaming about for the past year.

Sarah gave Albina a gentle squeeze. “Yes, silly, the very man you wish to marry. Who is undoubtedly here to see you.”

The Marquess of Satterfield. A man of great wealth and title, who would ensure her family’s name would return to its former luster, not to mention a place in Society and a warm, comfortable roof over her head, along with the respect owed a woman of her rank.

He was her perfect match, a man who would elevate both her and her family in Society, more so than even the current earl was able to accomplish. She had expectations to fill. Aspirations to meet. Reputations to repair.

As a rider, a horse enthusiast, and as a jockey, she had a race to win, yes. But as a woman, as a daughter of Amhurst, she also had responsibilities. To marry a man best able to elevate both her and her family in status, title, and rank in Society. Were she to manage both a win and a marriage proposal from a marquess, all doubts of her ineptitude, her lack of beauty and accomplishments, her second-rate status beside Henrietta, would vanish. No longer would she been seen as an expense, an unmarried obligation, or an embarrassment.

She’d be a winner. On the race track. And off.

She had only to focus on the marquess and believe what she had all along, that he was her best option for a spouse, for her future. No more confusion. No more misplaced emotions. Her goal for the remainder of the day was clear—ensnare the marquess with her conversation and beauty.

With another glance in the mirror, Albina blinked away images of the endearing Mr. White and forced herself to replace them once again with the wealthy, noble marquess.

…

In a becoming shade of mossy green wool embellished with brass buttons and gold cording, Albina strolled alongside Sarah and Henrietta, her cheeks warmed by the high afternoon sun, the short brim of her riding hat doing little to protect her skin from its penetrating rays and glaring incandescence.

The Marquess of Satterfield, along with the earl, awaited her at the stables, and yet, she could not see either of them for the sun’s brilliance. She would have to scrunch her brow and squint her eyes to make out their tall statures, actions she would not do for fear the resulting grimace would scare off a recently turned marquess.

He had returned, and since she could make out neither a scowl nor frown, or his face at all for that matter, he was therefore pleased with the addition to his party—namely her. His lack of interest had nothing to do with her inferiority. Albina was, after all, Henrietta’s sister and bore similar features and traits. Even if her hair was not as dark and glossy as her sister’s or her skin quite as unblemished or smooth, she was still comparable to her elder sister.

Albina took a deep breath. The marquess’s standards of beauty were obviously high, but so were his expectations concerning his horseflesh and the world of racing.

A world in which she excelled, due in large part to a firm, broad-chested trainer.

No.
Her thoughts would be directed toward the marquess this morning.
Only the marquess. Not Mr. White, even if he was her instructor who complimented, praised, and noticed her.

A long ride with the peer was precisely what she needed to get Mr. White and his scorching embrace, affectionate words, and beneficial instruction off her mind. Squelching the memories of Mr. White’s handsome face, she near skipped down the path, eager to greet the marquess and receive his attentions.

Her sisters stumbled to keep up with her enthusiastic pace as Albina rushed around a bend in the path—and stopped. A tall, broad-shouldered man, copper hair glinting in the sun, stood to the right of the man who should have been her sole focus for the day.

“What is it?” asked Sarah, breathless beside her.

“Uh, a, pebble. In my shoe.” Albina wiggled her booted foot, trying hard not to stare at the third man waiting at the barn. What the devil was Mr. White doing in the stables? At this hour?

He was a groom, yes, but…but she had not expected him to be present. He was the head groom, not a mere stable hand, and had responsibilities like riding the Thoroughbreds or directing the other staff, not acting as a personal groom to the earl. Unless acting as the earl’s groom was precisely what he had been hired to do.

Her heart beat against her ribs. Mr. White was simply doing his job, he had not come to see her, or worse, take their party out riding as a guide was wont to do. She cleared her throat and strode toward the barn. Surely all would be settled and her fears misplaced once in the company of the marquess, who she could clearly see now, no grimace or squinting required.

Just as she could clearly see Mr. White, as his handsome face turned toward her—

“The marquess is aware of your interest in him, Albina. There is no need to remind him of your enthusiasm.” The navy trim of Sarah’s gray skirt flittered into the edges of her vision, the click of her riding boots on the stone path as quick and sure as Albina’s own. Sarah’s breath was thin, her voice strained with exertion.

Albina forced her steps to slow. “Yes, of course.” There was no need to appear affected by the marquess, even if it was Mr. White’s appearance that had hastened her steps, had stirred the swarm of butterflies in her stomach…

Her sister smiled approvingly. “You look quite fetching this afternoon. He will no doubt take notice of your new dress.” As she scanned the company of men, she came to an abrupt halt.

“Sarah?” Albina paused and turned toward her. “Is everything all right?”

Her eyes ever widening as she continued to stare in the general direction of the barn, Sarah remained mute.

Had she seen something Albina had missed? Albina swiveled toward the stables and was once again confronted by the party of three men, who were all glancing up the path, aware of their presence, the earl even waving.

“Of course everything is all right,” Henrietta replied, coming up beside Albina and returning the earl’s wave. “I’d say it was even better, given that the earl’s new head groom has offered to take us out this afternoon.”

Albina’s heart stopped. She must have misheard her sister, for she could have sworn Henrietta had said the groom would lead them out. Which meant Mr. White would ride along with them. With listening ears and far-too-perceptive blue eyes. How was she to flirt with the marquess if Mr. White was always there, silently observing?

Goodness. She had a hard time flirting as it was, her wit nowhere near as sharp as Sarah’s, and her practiced eyelash batting and skills with the fan not as accomplished by half as Henrietta, who had attracted an earl without flirting at all. All Albina possessed was a good fashion sense and a passable singing voice. Along with the ability to ride astride whilst wearing breeches and a waistcoat, which she could hardly do in the company of the earl—at least not until Emberton, when she would be disguised as a jockey.

If Lord Satterfield continued to act as an impenetrable fortress impervious to her charms, all hope was lost, and Mr. White would see her for what she was. A lady without a lord, incapable of reeling in a catch worthy of an earl’s daughter. A laughingstock of the
beau monde
.

No, Mr. White’s riding out with them would not do. At all. Somehow, she had to convince Henrietta a guide was not needed, as Albina was more than capable of filling the role. No one knew Plumburn’s extensive lands better than she. First, however, she had to align Sarah to her cause. Two against one always had more success than a solitary objection.

Albina met Sarah’s gaze and lifted her brows. As her twin, Sarah shared with her an unspoken, intuitive form of communication, or at least, that was the hope. Her sister glanced back at the stables, her face placid.

“He
offered
to take us out?” Albina asked, her voice coming out far higher than she had intended.

“Oh, yes,” Henrietta continued, hooking one arm through one of each sister’s and pulling them forward. “He was quite adamant, too. Especially when the earl mentioned the marquess would be joining us.”

Sarah cocked her head. Albina shot her a questioning look, but Sarah shook her head. “Did you happen to mention we would be joining their party?”

“Why would I not?” Henrietta asked with a frown. “He needs to be aware of the number of horses to have ready.”

Sarah forced a smile. “Of course. Though I’m certain his services are no longer required. Albina is more than capable of guiding us, and we would not wish to take the groom away from his other responsibilities.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Henrietta chided. “Mr. White is my husband’s personal groom. It is his responsibility to care for the earl and his horses, specifically the Thoroughbreds, which have, as of late, been more than a passing interest to the marquess. The Thoroughbreds are one of many reasons Mr. White will be riding out with us.” Henrietta eyed Albina warily. “He is the only person the earl has given permission to ride them. Mr. White, that is, and the new jockey he has found to replace Mr. Abbot.” Henrietta peered at Albina imploringly. “I would have told you sooner, but I was only just informed of the replacement—”

“Who did Mr. White recommend to take Mr. Abbot’s place?” Sarah asked, her voice tight.