To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) (16 page)

Lady Albina’s face reddened. “Had your stallion not compelled her—”

“My stallion was what allowed me to stop her. You alone are to blame for her behavior, commanding her to leave my side—”

“I wished to cease our conversation,” she said hotly. “As I do now.”

“Because you do not have the advantage, as you do not have it with the mare?”

Lady Albina’s nostrils flared as her back stiffened. But whatever words she had hoped to lash at him died on her lips at the appearance of the Marquess of Satterfield racing toward their party.

He eased his horse into a walk, rearing the beast next to Lady Albina. “I say,” he said, catching his breath. “What the devil happened?”

Lady Albina peered down her nose at Edmund then adjusted in her seat and addressed the marquess. “My mare took off unexpectedly. No doubt spooked by a mole or some such. All, however, is in hand. There is no cause for concern.”

The marquess eyed her warily. “Just so, my lady. Thank goodness for Mr. White’s expertise. He appeared to handle the situation quite remarkably.”

Edmund would have tipped his hat in gratitude for the compliment, but as it had disappeared, he nodded instead—as Lady Albina sniffed.

“While Mr. White’s assistance was timely, it was not necessary. Given another moment or two, the mare would have responded to my lead.”

“Forgive me, Lady Albina, but from my vantage, the mare required the firm hand of a man knowledgeable—”

“A woman is not knowledgeable, my lord?” she asked, her voice thin.

“In matters of equestrian handling?”

She gave a curt, tight-lipped nod.

“I think it safe to say, given this incident as an example, a man’s knowledge of horses supersedes that of a woman.”

“Experience lends nothing to the equation, Lord Satterfield?” Lady Albina asked.

“Well, perhaps. But even if you are as skilled a rider as your sister boasts, the evidence speaks against you, my lady.”

“Allowances must be given for unexpected misfortunes,” Edmund interjected. “The lady could not have accounted for the mare’s unexpected reaction.”

The marquess frowned at Edmund. “A skilled rider would have anticipated the horse’s reaction and responded accordingly.”

“Which she did. Lady Albina maintained her place on the horse. A lesser rider would not have handled the situation with as much grace or poise.”

“While I applaud your attempts at flattering her ladyship, Mr. White, I think it safe to say a woman’s place is not on the back of a horse. Your rescue is evidence horses respond better to a man’s touch.”

“Be that as it may, a man is not encumbered by yards of fabric encasing their legs, nor by a saddle restricting the placement of those same appendages, my lord.
I
think it safe to say, were a woman given equal advantages as a man, she would prove just as skillful a rider, and the horse would be as responsive.”

Her lips parted on the softest gasp, Lady Albina’s eyes widened at his bold sentiment.

Nothing but the chomping of the horses’ teeth as they chewed the meadow’s clover filled their ears, the silence certain indication Edmund had said too much.

Jesus.
Had he truly given voice to such things? And to the bloody damn Marquess of Satterfield?

Lord Satterfield shot Edmund a perturbed look. “An interesting opinion, though a touch brazen for someone of your…social standing.”

Edmund was a fool. He had stepped over the line of propriety and earned himself the reprimand, however degrading it might be to receive it in front of Lady Albina.

“I find his sentiments quite refreshing.” The earl’s daughter’s eyes were narrowed at the marquess, her face a mask of cool hauteur.

“Honestly,” the marquess scoffed. “As a member of the sex Mr. White defends, I would expect no less of you—however comical his ideas.”

Lady Albina frowned. “My opinion is less valued because of my sex.” Although she said the words as a statement, her intonation proved it a question.

“Your opinion holds merit, my lady.”

“But not as much as yours.”

The rest of the party’s arrival saved the marquess from responding.

“Is everyone all right?” the earl asked, his gaze darting between Lord Satterfield and Lady Albina.

“Yes, of course,” Lady Albina said as she nodded toward Edmund. “Due in large part to Mr. White’s expertise and excellent handling.”

The earl tipped his hat to Edmund, and his gaze lingered, concern swirling in its depths. “Thank you, Mr. White. You have my gratitude.”

Edmund held back an oath. The earl’s questions would require answers—and, at present, he did not have them, for he barely knew what to make of Lady Albina either.

His confidence in her riding had been shaken, her inability to lead the mare more than a pressing concern—a very real fear. Yet…had she not been hindered by the restrictions of both her saddle and her attire, he was certain she could have handled the beast.

He glanced at Lady Albina. She gave a small smile and looked away. His blood warmed, his position on the horse quickly becoming an uncomfortable one. Even if he did not know what to make of her, he knew she was an exemplary woman. No one less than extraordinary would have defended him against the marquess’s feeble argument.

His confidence returning, Edmund conceded she was gifted with handling the Thoroughbreds. Lady Albina Beauchamp knew how to ride a horse. He only wished he was the mount she rode.

Chapter Ten

An evening spent ignoring her mother’s inquiring looks was tiresome in and of itself. Diverting Sarah’s dogged questions about what precisely had occurred whilst in Mr. White’s presence on the ill-fated ride further added to her weariness. By the time Albina had extinguished the light and pulled the feather-filled blankets over her head, she was blissfully ready to succumb to her exhaustion and put the day’s tumultuous events behind her.

Only, sleep eluded her. She stared into the black void of her room, her mind refusing to quiet. No matter how much thought and effort she placed into focusing on absolutely nothing, her mind replayed the events of the afternoon as though on a continuous, never-ending loop.

Albina tossed and turned, even throwing pillows onto her head in hopes they might block out the marquess’s indignant glares. His steely gray eyes had looked upon her with distaste and contempt, arrogance and hauteur. He could not have been more adamant in his displeasure or candid in his persuasion. She had been weighed and measured. And had been found woefully wanting.

Her groans and pillow-muted screams did not diminish her humiliation nor ease her embarrassment. No matter how long or loud she vented her frustrations, the facts remained—she had underestimated the mare and overestimated her ability to control her, in front of both the marquess and Mr. White, two men she wanted most to impress.

Though why she even wished to impress the marquess was beyond her, other than the simple fact that he alone remained the only eligible candidate for her husband. He was a marquess who maintained both title and fortune. Along with a full set of teeth.

Again, she screamed into her pillow. He may share her interest in horses, but that was all the marquess shared with her. He certainly was not interested in her. Not as a person. And certainly not as a wife.

Unless he saw her ride. Of course…she could be caught up in the fantasy of a man who did not exist. The marquess, regardless of her skills, could very well not be the man she had believed him to be for the better part of a year. She might capture his attentions with a win, but what if he was not worth the capture? What if his true self was the one he had displayed this afternoon? The one callous in his remarks? Rude in his behavior? And most importantly, undeserving of her attentions?

All of her training, her hard work, could be for naught.

Which was why after flopping, screaming, crying, and wallowing in morbid indignity for the better part of the evening, she had come to the only resolution worthy of her plight. If she had any doubts or lingering concerns over her participation in the Emberton Derby, they were laid to rest, diminished by her urgent and overwhelming desire to right her wrong and prove herself worthy of her birthright.

She was the offspring of the former Earl of Amhurst. Her sex mattered not in the affairs of flesh and blood. Had she been born male, she would have the same lineage of ancient kings and lords coursing through her veins. Through fate and circumstance, she had not been born the male her mother strived for, but one half of a pair of daughters her father sought to instruct with the best governesses money could afford. She was nobility and worthy of the crown she sought at Emberton, even if the marquess did not hold her opinions in regard. She had worked hard, dammit, and she was worth the win.

Nobility, however, did not allow arrogance. She was ashamed of her own displays of hauteur, though they were not near as offensive as those of the marquess. Lord Satterfield may be a man and of a noble line, but Mr. White acted more the gentleman, defending both her character and her sex. He alone bore confidence in her abilities whilst the marquess, the earl, and even her sisters had voiced their concerns over her place on a horse.

Mr. White had been bold in his defense, the heat with which he spoke revealing the sincerity behind his words. He believed in her and she in him.

God in heaven.

Albina bolted upright in bed, tossing the covers to the side. A quick look out the window confirmed the hour to be early but between those acceptable to head down to the stables and meet with Mr. White.

If
he was still here.

As she fumbled with her clothes, flinging off her nightdress and snatching up her binding, Albina’s heart raced. Were she responsible for his dismissal… If his argument made for a call in his removal…well, she’d never forgive herself.

He may have given voice to words far more brazen than allowed his station, but they had been spoken without malice or ill intent. And in her defense. She had to see him, if only for the assurance he had not been removed from his position by the earl. For if he had been removed…if she were never to see him again… Her stomach dipped.

Tucking in the edges of her hastily wrapped binding, she searched the darkness for the rest of her male attire. Her erratic pulse and shortness of breath were the direct result of guilt; they had nothing to do with the possibility of never again seeing Mr. White’s playful smirk or shameless stares.

She swallowed, her heart screaming in her chest.

Her concern stemmed from her possible role in his dismissal. It certainly did not have anything to do with the buoy of confidence she felt with his encouragement, or the tingle of excitement that coursed through her whenever he appeared.

The stables. He had to be in the stables. She would not allow herself to dwell on the possibility that he might be lost to her forever…

She shoved an arm through the opening of her waistcoat and stilled.

Good God.

She had fallen for Mr. White.

The fabric slipped over her arm, landing on the floor in a whisper of frayed silk. Mr. White. Her heart yearned for Mr. White. For his crooked smile, his left dimple, his auburn hair. His audacious banter, his sincere passion for the horses, for the race…for her.

Her heart belonged not to the Marquess of Satterfield but the head groom of her brother-in-law’s stables. Blue blood did not make her skin prickle or her lungs breathless. Nor did aristocratic propriety encourage her passion or allow her freedom.

Mr. White, however, did all of the above.

And more.

Which made it all the more imperative that she make certain he remained at Plumburn.

Albina snatched up the waistcoat, frantically pulling the pieces of her wardrobe together so that she might see Mr. White and…and, well, enjoy what she beheld.

Fleeing from her room, she dashed through the servants’ halls and into the brisk chill of the early morning. She rushed through the darkness, her lungs burning and all manner of decorum tossed aside as she ran as fast as her legs allowed.

Rounding the bend, she urged her legs forward and made it to the darkened stables with her chest heaving, her feet aching, and her heart pounding.

“Mr. White?” she asked, breathless.

Albina stepped into the barn. The familiar smells of horse and hay teased her senses, her eyes searching the darkness for Mr. White’s tall, lean frame. He had to be here…

“Lady Albina?”

Her heart leapt at the sound of his gravelly baritone. Relief filled her as excitement replaced fear. He had not been dismissed; he remained at Plumburn, at least for the present. His defense of her had not warranted his immediate removal.

Near giddy with gratitude, she stepped farther into the barn toward his voice.

Mr. White appeared, his face and very bare torso lit by a solitary candle.

Dear God in heaven.

She clutched a hand to her mouth and tried to remember how to breathe. Pale, freckled skin rippled with muscles as he lifted the candle, the dim light illuminating a dusting of fiery red hair across his chest.

There were no words to describe her mortification at his state of undress. Or, for that matter, the overwhelming urge she had to reach out her hand and to brush her fingers across his skin.

He lowered his head, peering down at his state of undress. “Forgive me. I did not realize the lateness of the hour. I had not expected…” His words faded, his gaze lifted and locked onto hers.

Albina merely nodded, her mouth unwilling to form the words necessary for a response. He was, in a word, breathtaking. She forced herself to swallow, to pull her gaze away from his and allow him some sort of privacy while he dressed, but she couldn’t seem to turn her head away. She was transfixed. Immobilized by the broadness of his shoulders, the symmetry of his torso, and the rigid indentions of his stomach.

A light breeze stirred through the barn, whisking out the light. Her eyes adjusting to the dimness, Albina blinked and did her best to regain her composure, along with her speech.

“I had thought… I did not know if you had…” The darkness swallowed her words. She was unfit, unable to speak, afflicted with a numbness of the mind.

“If I had been dismissed, my lady?”

Albina nodded, rather dumbly, for her silent admission was unlikely to be seen in the dim lighting. She could barely make out the outline of her arm, let alone his face or his…his naked torso.

The barn was suddenly very warm. She fanned her face with her hand and concentrated on words.

Not bodies.

Or flesh.

Or Mr. White’s state of undress.

But words. From her mouth.

Albina took a deep breath. “I did not know if you had left.”

He remained silent, the awkward quiet filling her with the certainty she had offended him with her assumption, which was precisely what she had intended not to do. She made to right her wrong when his low voice broke the tension. “Would you have been upset if I had?”

She let out a breath. Of course she would be upset. “I do not wish to play a role in anyone’s dismissal, Mr. White. Least of all yours.”

“Because you would no longer have an instructor.”

“No. Or rather, yes.” Albina bit her lip. She was revealing far too much. She had only just discovered her deep attachment to the man. She needn’t appear overeager or more vulnerable than necessary. His interest in her might not extend beyond kissing or equestrian instruction, and he might very well not reciprocate her feelings.

Which meant a change in the course of the conversation was in order. “Do you sleep in the barn, Mr. White?”

He chuckled, his rich laughter filling the dark void. “Only when I must.”

Rustles met her ears, the likely sounds of his attempts to rekindle the flame and clothe himself. Though, were he unable to find his clothes, she would not be sorry for it. Her only hope was that he was able to start the fire, and quickly, so the view of his naked chest returned.

Albina flushed. She ought to feel some sort of shame at her forward and brazen thoughts, but the only emotions thrumming through her veins were of an urgent, carnal nature.

The scrape of a match revealed her prayers, had indeed, been answered. His torso remained bare.

She sucked in a breath of air.

“One of the mares is ready to foal,” he continued. “I wanted to be near her on the off chance my assistance was needed.”

“Of course.” His reasoning was sound, his excuse valid. It did not, however, explain why he was without adequate clothing. And remained as such. Not that he needed to be adequately clothed; she rather liked the view.

Her gaze must have revealed her curiosity, for he glanced down at his chest. “I’m afraid blood—from the mare stained my last shirt,” he added, having glimpsed what she was certain to be her horrified expression. “I did not think it prudent to ask the earl for another set of clothes, not after yesterday’s…incident.”

Albina frowned. “You would leave yourself exposed? In the cold?”

“No,” he said with another chuckle. “I was in the middle of sorting through some discarded linens when you appeared. Though, it appears the pile is woefully lacking since I last plundered it to supplement your attire.”

“My attire? But I had thought the earl supplied—”

“I did not wish to bother the man with incidentals. I took from my reserve and those of my staff.”

His graciousness was unexpected. And incredibly kind. “You did not need to do as much. My riding clothes were sufficient.”

“You were cold, my lady. Your attire was less than ideal.” He stared at her, his eyes ablaze. “I must confess, however, it is not clothing I want to discuss or give you at present, my lady.”

Her blood hummed. “No?” she whispered.

“I fear not.” He took a step toward her and lifted his hand. His fingers brushed across her cheek, searing her skin with their warmth. “I want to give you a kiss.”

Albina rolled her lips, suddenly conscious of their existence. Of course he wanted to kiss her, why would he not? They were his dues for instruction. That she had yet to receive said instruction was a minor infraction of their agreement…and one he had evidently overlooked.

Ignoring the tickle of his fingers as they tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, she cleared her throat. “As a prepayment for your services, I presume.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “No. Not as a payment or as a fulfillment of debt. I wish to kiss you because I desire to do so.”

Her heart beat loud and fast, deafening the quiet stirrings of the barn. She caught a whiff of leather and lye soap before he lowered his mouth to hers, his arms enveloping her.

He was surprisingly warm, heat radiating off his chest as he pulled her closer. Her hands settled on his arms, her bare palms against his naked flesh. Her mind was torn, undecided in its concentration, switching between the silken warmth seeping into her hands and the urgent caress of Mr. White’s lips over hers.