To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) (8 page)

Dear God.

He affected her far more than he should—he was not the marquess. He was not a peer.

Edmund White could never be in the running for her husband. Heavens, he couldn’t even be a consideration. Not with the current stain on her family’s reputation. To be seen in a compromising position would only further darken the blemish. Her enjoyment of his attention, of his rough chin against hers, of his tongue as it flicked between her lips—shouldn’t matter. But it did. Far too much.

Kissing a groom was not the reason she had awakened at dawn today. She had a race to win and a marquess to impress. And her family’s reputation was on the line. She was the daughter of an earl, a lady, and she ought to act as such. Releasing her grip, she placed her hands on his chest and shoved.

He peered down at her, confusion settling over his handsome features.

“I think that sufficient payment,” she said briskly. She disentangled herself from his arms and took a step back. “Until tomorrow, Mr. White.” With a curt nod, she turned toward the house, praying he didn’t see how her legs wobbled with each step.

Chapter Six

An unseasonably warm afternoon breeze swept through Plumburn’s easternmost drawing room, stirring a vase full of spring’s first blooms. The array of lilacs and lilies, however, did not bring Albina its usual aromatic or visual pleasure. Its heady scent and collection of vivid colors was lost on her as she sat staring at the arrangement, her watercolors drying beside her blank canvas.

All creative thoughts had fled, replaced instead by a flood of conflicting emotions. How was she to focus when her mind was addled? Torn by the pleasures induced by one man in order to seduce another? Another who was determined to reserve his attentions for the champion of a race she had little hope of winning if she could not master both the fundamentals of horseback riding and her wayward thoughts.

Somehow, she had to regain a firm grasp on her emotions, could not allow Mr. White to affect her judgment, her rational thoughts, her physical awareness. Even if the slight dimple in his cheek made her palms sweat and the intensity of his gaze stirred a hot fire of pleasure low in her belly. Her attraction to the man was not to be borne. She had a horse to control in less than six weeks’ time, for heaven’s sake…when she was not able to control herself.

“Albina, dear, are you well?”

Albina blinked. She shook her head and lifted her gaze. Her mother sat beside Sarah on the far end of the rose-colored settee, her eyes trained and focused on Albina like a hawk on its prey.

Swallowing, Albina nodded. “Quite well, thank you.” If well was defined as confused. Frustrated. And beyond flustered.

She tried not to squirm under her mother’s assessing gaze. The woman had a sixth sense for sniffing out the truth, which meant Albina had to be far more convincing when she told the next lie, lest she reveal the truth behind her secrets. And admit she was not quite certain what to think of a groom. A marquess. And her blasted shortcomings riding a horse.

She dabbed her brush into the little bowl of water she had placed beside her paint. “I cannot decide on the precise hue of violet for the lilacs, is all.”

“Lilacs? I thought you more focused on the scene
outside
the window.”

Albina’s skin warmed.

Her position in the room and the view it afforded was not by happenstance, as the seat gave her an excellent perspective of the carefully arranged flora. So, too, of the eastern pasture. Along with the stables. And the horses being led in and out of the structure by the earl’s grooms.

She had, however, no reason to blush. Heaven forbid she give her mother any cause for suspicion. Her passion for riding was a well-known fact, as well as her preference of utilizing horses as the subjects of her paintings.

So why, then, did the woman continue to stare at her as though she knew Albina was not telling the full truth? And that she had, in the last ten minutes alone, sought the ginger-colored hair of a man who set her lips on fire?

Adjusting her bottom on the pillowed seat, Albina said, “I sought a different subject.”

“Variety encourages inspiration.”

Albina gave a slow nod. “I suppose it does.”

“It also allows one to compare.”

“That it does. Which is why I find I cannot decide between the blue-violet of one lilac or the indigo shade of another.” Albina bit her lip, willing her pulse to slow.

Her mother was making conversation. Nothing more.

Though one could never be too cautious. If her mother was fishing for information, it would do Albina well to put her off any scent. She shot Sarah a pleading look. If anyone could distract their mother, it was her studious twin.

Sarah snapped her book shut and set it on her lap. “I blame Albina’s distractions on lemon tarts. She had at least five the night of the ball. You know she does not handle citrus well. She has been rather off ever since.”

Albina brought a hand to her mouth and coughed. “Yes, the lemon tarts. I am afraid I overindulged.” And she had, but not on the sweet confections—she had overindulged on a groom with a fondness for kisses. And leaving her breathless.

Botheration. She needed to get her thoughts in order. It would not do to dwell on past actions. The future was where contentment reigned as the Marchioness of Satterfield. She simply had to get through the next six weeks to earn her title and all would be as it should.

Her mother’s brow lifted. “Ah, lemon tarts. Some of Cook’s finest. Though I rather thought your woolgathering had more to do with yesterday’s encounter with the marquess than pastries.”

“The marquess?” Albina asked. She set her brush down alongside her paints, willing her hands not to tremble.

“Don’t play coy, Albina,” her mother chided. “I am not an imbecile. Henrietta and the duchess were commenting on the encounter earlier. Did he offer his compliments on your riding?”

“He…well, he…” Albina glanced at Sarah, whose light-brown eyes were wide with concern.

“He was distracted by the earl and his horseflesh,” Sarah finished. “Why, the duke and the earl were both goading the poor man into making an impossible wager. One the marquess has no hope of winning.”

Albina’s lips lifted in spite of herself.

Their mother sighed. “And I suppose this wager has more to do with horses than any references to Albina?”

“The marquess is an equestrian enthusiast and understandably interested in the upcoming races at Emberton,” Albina said defensively.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed at their mother. “You do not think the marquess and Albina a good match?”

“He is a suitable husband, one of fortune and title.” Her mother interlaced her fingers and set them on her lap. The sentiment felt unfinished. As though she had more to say but was afraid to say it, which would never do.

“You did not answer the question,” Albina prodded.

Her mother’s intense gaze caught hers. “My opinion matters little in the grand scheme of things. You will do as you wish, as you have always done. I do hope, however, you will find a happiness in your spouse equal to the one you possess when you ride or paint. You deserve as much, dear, and should not settle for anything less.”

Albina and Sarah exchanged a glance.

“Do you not think the marquess capable of bringing me such happiness?” asked Albina.

Her mother’s face softened. “I am certain he is more than capable. I have seen many a proud man brought to task by the woman who loves him.”

Albina’s heart warmed. Her mother approved. The marquess…Albina’s decision…her mother approved it all.

“My concern, however,” her mother continued, “is not whether the marquess will make you a good husband, but whether you will make him a good wife.”

Frowning, she shot Sarah a questioning glance before settling on her mother. “There are expectations. I am an earl’s daughter.”

“And he a marquess. Yet, his title alone will not make you happy.”

Albina opened her mouth to speak, but no words tumbled forth. All form of speech had left, her mental capacity for such things addled by her mother’s absurd reply. A title had everything to do with happiness. Her mother was a countess, and her sister one, too. Even her cousin, an American-born woman, held the prestigious title of duchess. And all three women appeared happy. Incandescently so.

A title equated contentment. Common knowledge dictated it.

“I also know,” her mother continued, “oftentimes what we think we want and what we actually require are two different things.” Albina’s brow furrowed. Her mother wasn’t making any sense.

Ever since Albina had laid eyes on the marquess, she knew he was what she wanted. He was a respected peer with a large estate in Surrey. A man with good fortune and a title above that of both her sister and mother… Was it possible her mother was jealous of Albina possessing the title of marchioness and garnering more societal power than her role as a countess?

No. Albina swallowed her retort. Her mother was many things, but petty was not one of them. Were she so, her cousin’s ascent to duchess from American merchant would have required the use of smelling salts. If not jealousy, then, what compelled her mother to believe Albina could be anything but happy with the marquess?

Giving voice where Albina was still unable, Sarah asked, “Are you suggesting Albina would be better suited with another? That the Marquess of Satterfield is…not adequate?”

Their mother smoothed a crease out of her floral skirt. “You are both in your second season. Still young, but in danger of becoming what some might deem close to expiration, a notion that may compel one to disregard other options they may once have considered.”

“Sarah and I are nineteen. Hardly ready to be shelved,” Albina scoffed.

“You are at the height of your youth, my dear. I did not mean to suggest you were not able to secure a multitude of suitors. Indeed, I believe you capable of that and more. Which is why I am concerned. You may have overlooked another in your obsession for the marquess.”

Albina snorted. “Obsession? It is love, mother. Not some fleeting state of mind. I would do anything for him.” Including redirecting his thoughts away from her sister’s refusal and toward the joy only Albina could bring him.

“My fears exactly. Though I wonder if he will appreciate the lengths to which you go for him.”

Of course he would. He said so himself—his admiration would be bestowed upon the winner of the races. Though admiration did not equate love, it certainly meant the appreciation her mother feared he lacked.

Sarah nibbled on her lip, her gaze flitting between them. Her face bore a look of concern.

With a flourish, Albina ground her brush into the brick of blue paint. “I believe he will appreciate me, though only time will tell.”

Time and a race. She would meet with the groom first thing in the morning. She had a derby to win and nothing, not her mother’s concern or a fleeting attraction to her trainer, would stand in the way of winning her prize.

…

Edmund slid off the high back of the Thoroughbred stallion, his dusty boots landing hard and fast on the sandy floor. Muted beams of twilight cast the stallion’s stall in a soft glow, providing just enough light to slip off the saddle and begin the last tasks of grooming.

He rifled through a corner basket searching for his favorite comb. He had run the stallion hard. The horse was owed a good rubdown for his dedication and earnest effort. As was Edmund. And he knew precisely whose hands he wished to knead his tired muscles. The owner of the same pair that had gripped his arms with unfettered passion—the ones belonging to a bloody damn daughter of an earl.

He let out a bark of laughter. She, the daughter of an earl. A lady. And he, nothing more than a groom, a stable hand in a noble house.

With the blood of a viscount running through his veins. Though not as high in rank as either a marquess or an earl, his great-uncle’s title was only just beneath Amhurst, his relation’s wealth and land worthy of any gentleman. Including him.

Not that Edmund would ever claim as much. His great-uncle’s impossible requirements would have to be met. As if he could relinquish racing when a Thoroughbred gifted to him by the earl himself was within his grasp. He smiled. Nothing brought him more happiness than his time with the powerful horses he fed and tended. Edmund ran the brush over the stallion’s black hairs, removing evidence of the past few hours of riding through grass and woods. The idea that such a beast could be his to own, to enter into races—

“Mr. White, I presume.”

Edmund’s hand stilled. In the three short months he had been Plumburn’s head groom, he had not been confronted in his barn. Certainly not by anyone of the fairer sex. And yet, in less than a week’s time, not one, but two high-pitched voices had echoed amid the stalls. He was beginning to believe these visits may be a regular occurrence.

God help him.

He cocked his head to the side and turned. A woman of similar height and stature as Lady Albina stood before him. But where Lady Albina was soft, this woman was hard, both in eyes and expression.

A relation. Of similar age, were Edmund to guess. He flung his brush into the basket. “That depends, my lady, on who is asking.”

“Lady Sarah Beauchamp.”

One lady from the earl’s line he could attempt to manage. Two—well, even the earl had obvious difficulties in controlling his brood, for this relation stood unchaperoned. In his bloody barn, at dusk. “And to what do I owe this pleasure, my lady?”

“I will not mince words, Mr. White. I know of your private lessons with my sister.”

Edmund swallowed. “I do not know to what you refer—”

“And of your immoral and completely inappropriate method of payment for them.” Her nostrils flared. “And I’ve come to offer you a warning.”

Jesus.

Edmund was most comfortable with animals three times his size, and yet, a woman who stood no taller than his shoulder set him at unease.

Clearing her throat, she continued. “As my sister insists on winning the derby, I seek your word, Mr. White, that should you make her look more the fool, I will ensure you do not set foot in another barn. On this island or the next.”

While the threat was severe, three words stood apart from the rest, three words that had him stepping forward with interest. “More the fool, my lady?”

Lady Albina risked public humiliation and societal exile. Her decision to ride in a horse race, not to mention in a cross saddle whilst in garments intended for men, reeked of potential scandal. It was foolish at best. And yet, Lady Sarah implied more.

She lifted her chin. “Your methods of payment interfere with her goal.”

The only goal Lady Albina Beauchamp had ever touted was her steadfast determination to claim first at Emberton. While his chosen and preferred method of settlement was, albeit, unconventional, it in no way impeded her ability to ride, let alone race. If anything, it motivated her to win, to achieve her goal, for at the end of each lesson, she was rewarded. He had not imagined the way her body would melt against him, warm and supple, her resistance giving way to submission with each kiss and flick of his tongue.