To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) (7 page)

Blood warming, his pulse increased at the idea of entering her chambers unbidden. Of viewing her in nothing more than a nightshift, her dark curls brushing over a half-bare shoulder…

“Mr. White.”

The personification of his fantasy appeared through the fog as though she had stepped straight from a dream. Gone was the nightshift, replaced with the thin, worn garments from the day before, including the same pair of breeches that showcased the slight flare of her hips and the perfect, rounded curve of her bottom. His cock hardened.

He needed a distraction.

“You’re late.”

Lady Albina thrust her hip to the side, a hand resting against the seductive swell. “As you did not give a specific time to arrive, I do not claim responsibility for your accusation.”

“If you want to win, you will be here before the sun rises. Not as it breaks.”

“I should think it difficult to ride in the dark.”

“Not if you ride with me.” He thrust the ribbons toward her, the horse whinnying in protest at his less-than-gentle handling. “I do not have time to argue with you, my lady. Unless you have changed your mind about racing?” Perhaps she was not as interested as the earl suspected.

“No.” She snatched the proffered ribbons and stalked to the horse. Her stance softened, her entire body easing as she ran a hand along the mare’s neck. The beast snorted its pleasure.

Good
. He needed the mare and the lady to have a connection. He also needed them to cross a finish line in a highly competitive race, but for a beginning lesson, he could have had worse—the horse could have not favored her handling.

And he could have encouraged hers. He could have given in to the lust coursing through him and taken her on the grass, dew and dirt be damned, encouraging her to handle areas of his very stimulated body.

“You need a new set of clothing,” he said roughly.

She glanced down at her shoddy attire. “Does this not suffice?”

“Not if I am to recommend you as Mr. Abbot’s replacement. You are to represent the Earl of Amhurst. You must dress accordingly.”

“And at the derby, I shall. But for morning practices, when you alone are viewing my person, I should think my attire more than adequate.”

Adequate for arousing him to painful proportions, and little else. “My stable hands wear better fitted clothing.”

She slipped her foot into the stirrup. “Careful, Mr. White. One might presume you are taking on airs.”

“Not airs, but concerns.”

“Concerns?” She hoisted herself up and over the horse, her voluptuous bottom adjusting on the saddle.

“Your attire is unsuitable for riding. One can immediately determine your sex through those rags.”

She glanced down at her threadbare shirt, at the waistcoat pulled taut at the buttonholes, where the fullness of her breasts strained against the puckered fabric. Her cheeks flushed, but her hands remained wrapped in the ribbons.

He had to get a handle on his thoughts—he had a race to win, not some bed sport to claim. She was an earl’s daughter and the current earl’s sister-in-law. It would behoove him to remember his place, even if he could not stop watching the seductive sway of her plaited hair.

“Are you not to ride as well, Mr. White?”

Edmund blinked. Rubbing a hand over his jaw, he shook his head. “No. Today I observe. I need to see how well the two of you work together.”

Lady Albina nodded. “Fair enough. Shall I run her, then?”

“In the west field at full gallop. I’ll be counting how long it takes you to get her to speed.”

She let out a breath. “And what of her name? The mare. What shall I call her if I wish her to go faster?”

Edmund shrugged. “It hardly matters, as it is not her name that will urge her faster, but your handling and guidance. Two things that are worth far more of my time than your concern over her name. Now go. Prove to me you wish to win the derby.”

Lady Albina’s nostrils flared. “There is no need to be short with me, Mr. White.”

“There is if I wish you to win.”

“It is my name on the line should I fail. I am the one who seeks to lose everything.”

Edmund let out a coarse chuckle. “You think it is you who will stand embarrassed and humiliated should you not claim victory at the derby, Lady Albina?” He stalked toward her and grabbed her ankle, forcing her to peer down at him. “You are here based on my recommendation. On my promise to the earl that I have sought out a jockey who I believe has excellent competence in their craft. My word, Lady Albina, is on the line, and so too, my position with the earl. Should you not place effort into your instruction, I shall lose my recommendation from the earl and, therefore, my ability to secure another employer.”

“Oh,” she whispered.

“Yes. Now. Prove to me I have not made a mistake. That you have the set of skills required to win Emberton.”

“Yes. Of course.” A pink tongue darted between her lips, momentarily distracting him from the quick nod of her head. Squeezing her thighs, she urged the horse in the direction of the field.

“Quickly, my lady. A race is not won with hesitation,” Edmund called over the beat of the horse’s hooves.

With a glance back over her shoulder, she said, “Nor is it with petulant faultfinding, Mr. White.”

The muscles of his lip twitched.

While Edmund waited for her to set the mare into motion, she led the horse to the far end of the field. Were the lady not able to spur the beast from the gate, to set a pace that could be maintained for the length of the field… He had less than six weeks to produce a team worthy of an Emberton win against Lord Satterfield’s fastest mount. One that had, prior to Lord Amhurst’s recent purchases, been the talk of the racing world. Along with the marquess’s jockey, Mr. Garrington. The man was a genius on a horse, consistently guiding the marquess’s mounts to victory for the past five years.

Five years of experience against Lady Albina’s six weeks.

Edmund ran a hand over his face and sighed. The mare and its rider settled into position, Lady Albina turning her head toward him.

“Begin on my count,” he shouted. He held up his hand with three fingers raised. “One, two—”

The pair passed by him, a blur of reddish-brown and black, the rider on its back hovering low over the saddle, as though suspended in midair.

He forgot to count, so transfixed was he by the powerful speed of the mare, or at least he was, until he caught sight of the wobbling form on top of it. Lady Albina hovered above the saddle, but her legs were not tight enough, her head not low enough, and her rear not nearly as high as was required for a solid victory. Or her safety. She could be hurled across the field, never to recover, should she not maintain erect form and firm control of the raging beast. Should any harm be brought to either animal or rider, he would never forgive himself. And neither would the earl.

With a grunt of displeasure, Edmund headed toward the far end of the field, where the lady and mare finished their run. He trod over damp grass and swollen, muddied earth, his footsteps marked across the dew-covered lawn.

“A certain victory,” Lady Albina hooted. “We had to have made it in less than seven seconds.”

Edmund crossed his arms over his chest. “I would not know.”

“You were to count. To record our run for measure,” she said, exasperated.

“Which I would have, had you not disqualified yourself from the measurement.”

Her dark brows furrowed together. “I ran as you requested.”

“But not when I asked. Should you start before the count is finished, you finish before you begin. False starts are not tolerated in the derby.”

Her chin jutted upward in a familiar, defiant tilt. “And what of my form?”

“What of it?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes in a most unladylike fashion. “You are my instructor.”

“That I am. And one who demands payment for the atrocities he saw committed today.”

…

Albina’s pulse thrummed fast in her ear. Of course he would demand payment. She had, after all, agreed to the ridiculous arrangement, assuming he would be the gentleman and wait for her to give it of her own accord.

However, he had not acted like a gentleman. He’d been rude, arrogant, and entirely crass, demanding they settle payment before he finished with his instruction. She did not settle. For anything.

“You may have your payment, Mr. White, when I feel my side of our arrangement has been met.”

“And when would that be, my lady? After the stable hands emerge from the barn to witness our exchange?”

“I was hoping after you did some actual instruction.”

His nostrils flared. “I cannot teach those who do not listen.”

“I listened.”

He chortled. “If that is truth, then you failed to comply. Plenty of advice was given at yesterday’s lesson, but it is apparent it fell on deaf ears, as you did not apply one piece of my tutelage to your ride.”

“Stating you have seen atrocities but refusing to tell me where they lie does little to improve my skills.” Whipping off her hat, she tucked it under her arm. She slid off the horse, and stalked off toward the house. She’d find another groom. Another stable hand to offer up his expertise in an area where she was supposedly lacking, though she didn’t know in what way, because her current instructor failed to offer her helpful suggestions.

“My lady.” Mr. White’s exasperated voice called from behind her. “I only seek to help you.”

Albina turned around, her chin lifted, her plaited hair licking past her arm. “Then do so, Mr. White. Tell me how to correct my form without insulting me. Unless you cannot. In which case, I shall seek out assistance elsewhere.”

He ran up to her and took hold of her hand, pulling her into his chest. Her hat fell to the ground as she crumpled against him, her right hand gripping his arm to steady herself. A thick, hard, and solid arm.

Heavens.

He lowered his head, his mouth mere inches from hers. “Your head should be flush with the horse’s.” His words were breathy and low, spoken in a rich tenor she could hardly hear over the hammering of her heart.

“My head,” she whispered. Her thoughts were no longer on her form, but the pair of lips hovering over hers.

“Place it alongside the mare’s, low and even, as though you see and hear as one.”

“See and hear as one,” she repeated, her voice far throatier than it ought to be.

“And your legs,” he continued, “should be tight against her sides.” His hands fell to her outer thighs. With a slight push, he clamped her legs around his. “Like this.”

God in heaven.
She couldn’t think. At least not of anything beyond the pair of hands resting on her thighs. She gave a slight nod and licked her lips.

He inhaled, an audible, sharp intake of breath. His hands should not have been anywhere on her person. No gentleman would hold her thus, with such bold possession. But Mr. White was not a gentleman. He was a groom.

And she was, for the first time, glad for it. A heady rush of excitement coursed through her.

“Is that all?” she whispered. “My head and legs?”

Slow and sensual, his lips curled. “Your bottom.” His hands slipped to her backside and cupped her supple flesh through the thin leather of her breeches. “It needs to be held high in the air.”

“M-m-my, my bottom,” she stuttered, lapsing into a mode of speech most often associated with her sister, Henrietta. “Must b-b-be higher,” she ended on a gasp.

Her breath caught, his fingers burning on her bottom as though they were on fire. No man had ever dared, never imagined to place his hands upon her…certainly not the marquess, who, as a titled peer, would respect the rules of decorum and treat her as a lady. As he ought.

Yet…she could not deny the surge of pleasure rushing through her at Mr. White’s forwardness. His blatant disregard for propriety was intoxicating. A shot of rebellion that echoed her own. Her rule-breaking, however, was limited to assuming the appearance of the opposite sex. A simple portrayal. A minor deception, though it was quickly becoming more. She had allowed him to kiss her yesterday. Today…today she was allowing him a firm grasp of her bottom. And what’s more, enjoying every second of it.

“Yes. Your arse higher, your head lower.” Her body shivered at his words, his crude response. No man should refer to her body in such a way, it simply wasn’t done. Yet, Mr. White did not seem to hold to any rules of convention. She shivered again.

“Are you cold?” Concern lighting his face, he pulled back.

She giggled, so hilarious was the notion. Why, the temperature was the farthest thing from her thoughts.

His brow furrowed, then eased into two smooth lines as a knowing look replaced his concern. “I believe I have fulfilled my side of the arrangement for the day, my lady.”

That, and so much more.

His hands were still on her bottom, the heat of his fingers searing through the fabric. Goodness. She would not be surprised if the fabric bore burn marks as a treatment of his touch.

She had to focus. To remember why she was here. The marquess. Her family’s reputation. Shaking her head, she gathered her resolve, not to mention her sanity. “One run down the field hardly constitutes a lesson.”

“Agreed. But as I stated earlier, you did not arrive early enough for adequate instruction.”

“I—” Her argument was silenced with his lips pressing onto hers. He clenched her bottom and drew her against him. Rigid with surprise, Albina gripped his arms. She had agreed to this madness, had expected it at the end of the lesson. But the butterflies taking flight in her stomach at his touch, at his teeth nipping her lips…