To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) (20 page)

Albina lowered her head and jabbed her heels into the mare’s side. She’d make it count. She had little choice to do otherwise. Edmund’s future, and hers, depended upon it.

Chapter Twelve

Emberton had changed little since Albina’s last visit. A quaint, respectable village located on the Duke of Waverly’s sprawling Thornhaven estate, its close proximity to London made it easily accessible for the
bon ton
to gather for the much-anticipated annual derby.

Decorated with sprays of flowers, ribbons, and banners welcoming London’s finest, the village swelled with the hundreds gathered to see the country’s fastest horses from the wealthiest houses compete.

Their boisterous voices could be heard in every stall of the stable, the hum of excitement and eager anticipation felt by both the horses and their riders.

Including Albina.

Sweat rolled down her temples, soaking into the starched white cravat wound tight around her throat. She could not decide if her hands shook with fear or trembled with anticipation, if her heart soared with excitement or raced with terror.

She paced the length of the stall, forcing her lungs to fill with air pungent with horseflesh…and roasted almonds. Adjusting her navy riding jacket, the crest of the house of Amhurst embroidered in gold on the front lapel, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Her first ruse had been a success, her lie-in at Thornhaven with Sarah at her side convincing enough for both the earl and her mother to discourage her from attending the day’s events. Now she was here, dressed, her horse saddled, and the race only minutes away. The day she had trained for, had spent hours anticipating, was here.

And she was sick to her stomach for it. Doubt ate away at her resolve as fear crippled her confidence. She no longer believed herself capable of riding, let alone winning a race that would set the tone for the rest of her life.

Her knees wobbled. She gripped the stable door for a measure of stability.

“Nervous?”

Albina spun toward the deep, familiar voice, her spirits lifting at the sight of Edmund’s concerned face. “How can I not be?” she asked. “If I fail—”

“You will not fail, Albina.” He brushed past her and ran a hand along the mare’s short rusty brown hairs. “You have worked hard for this race, training ceaselessly.”

Albina gave a slow nod, her brow furrowing. “That I have, but no outcome is certain, especially in a race. Any number of factors could contribute to my loss. A pebble in the mare’s shoe, a faster horse, a better jockey—”

Edmund turned. He reached for her gloved hand and clasped it in his own. “I could not be prouder of your achievements on a horse. You have a gift. And that, combined with your hours spent training, will not fail you.”

Were the stables free of other grooms, she would have pulled him into an embrace and kissed him right there. The man she had come to love had returned, if only for a moment. As it were, she was a woman dressed as a man, her breeches and jacket designating her as a rider. Her sex had to remain hidden, her identity a secret, until she revealed herself to the earl.

She could not, nor did she wish to, hide the hope that flickered at his kind words, the first ones spoken since their…their shared intimacy, his early departure to Emberton, readying the horses, preventing any further conversation, until now. He had spoken with utter sincerity, without doubt, without hesitation.

He had faith in her—he believed her capable of winning this race. She simply had to adopt his confidence to cover the lack of her own. She gave his hand a squeeze in gratitude.

Which he promptly dropped. Rubbing his palm on his breeches, he said, “You needn’t fear the Marquess of Satterfield’s jockey. I happen to know for a fact the he is a snit of a man, favored less only by horses than by people.”

Fearful someone had overheard his remark, Albina glanced about the barn. “You should not say such things. ’Tis bad luck.”

His arms falling to his sides, he straightened his back. “I—”

She stepped toward him and placed a hand on his arm. “You what?”

He peered first at her hand, then at her, his gaze a tormented one filled with fear and anger, hurt, and pain. That he should be so affected by the outcome of the race had her stomach in knots, her mind light-headed.

“I…I want… That is… There is something I should…” With a quick shake of his head he uttered an oath and said, “The only bad luck is not kissing your trainer before heading out.”

Albina’s heart fluttered and her knees weakened at his unexpected flirtation. She whispered, “Oh? I am to believe, then, that all the jockeys kiss their male trainers? In gratitude, no doubt, for their services?”

“Of course,” Edmund said, a playful smirk on his face, the anxiety of the race vanished from his handsome expression. “It is a time-honored tradition. One that ensures a win in your favor.”

She allowed herself a laugh, albeit a quiet one, lest anyone discern her sex from her feminine mirth. “You, sir, are not truthful. In the slightest.”

His smirk gone, replaced by a look of innocence, he clutched a hand to his chest. “I am aggrieved and insulted you do not believe I would tell you anything less than the truth.”

“You are shameless,” she whispered. “There are people here. Watching. We are not without an audience, and I do not intend to ruin my chances in this race. My doubt is one thing. That of others is another. Should I be discovered—”

“You won’t. At least not until the appropriate time you choose to reveal yourself.”

He pulled her into the front corner of the stall and wrapped her in a tight embrace, the mare directing a curious stare in their direction. Were her knees not already weak from her nerves, they would be from his nearness.

“For good luck,” he said, as his lips found hers. With a sigh, she resigned herself to his antics and allowed herself the pleasure of being in his arms.

“Mr. White.”

Albina sprang out of Edmund’s grasp and into the mare’s muzzle. Snorting, the animal voiced its displeasure.

Edmund strode out of the dark corner, along the flank of the mare, toward the stall door. “Can I help you?”

A short, stout man with a ruddy complexion held up a pair of looking glasses and peered down his birdlike nose.

“If you wish your master’s horse to race, my boy, I suggest you get it afield. The first run waits for no man. Or horse for that matter.”

“Yes, of course.” Edmund unhooked the mare’s ribbons. “I shall have her out directly.”

“See that you do.” With a sniff, the man left, likely to reprimand another miscreant groom.

Albina rubbed the mare’s velvet nose. “We can do this,” she whispered more to herself than the horse, but the mare sniffed, as in agreement.

“Yes, you can,” Edmund assured her, his serious and strained countenance returning. He eased himself alongside the horse and stepped out of the stall. “Just remember your training. Trust your instinct. And if need be, do not hesitate to take matters into your own hands. While most houses play nice, not all abide by the rules.”

Albina swallowed as she joined him outside of the stall. “You did not say—”

“Keep your eyes open and pay attention to your horse.”

Her heart racing, she stared at him as though he were speaking a language other than the king’s tongue. “You never mentioned they might be anything less than honorable.”

He led the mare to the end of the barn. “Yes, well, I did not want you heedlessly worrying. They may not be dishonest. For all I know, they may all act like the gentlemen they represent.”

“Edmund,” Albina whispered. “I can’t—”

“You can and you will. You have no other alternative. The earl is counting on you to represent your family’s name.”

Albina gave a slow nod. The earl. Her sisters. Her mother. The entire Amhurst name. Bile rose up on her tongue.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. White.” A man no taller than Albina’s shoulders strode up to them, his ruby jacket and yellow crest that of the Marquess of Satterfield. “I had heard the earl was entering his bay mare”—he paused and glanced at Albina—“with a novice rider.”

The man could not have been more obvious with his assessment, his eyes roving over her person, as though she were a beast on display. She would have been affronted were she not disguised as a man, or at least the young boy Edmund swore she appeared.

“Novice he may be, but he can ride,” Edmund replied. “You may have a bit of competition this year, Garrington.”

“I doubt that.” The man sniffed. He lifted his nose. “May the best
man
win.”

He strode away, confidence in every step.

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Edmund.

Albina’s insides roiled. Her secret was discovered, her identity revealed before the allotted time. They would never let her compete to claim the title—

Edmund’s hand rested on her arm. “Despite what I said earlier, Garrington is a decent rider, though he pushes too fast in the beginning. Pacing is crucial.”

“But what of my—”

“He believes you too wet behind the ears to be of any serious threat.”

“He does not question my sex?” she asked in a whisper.

Edmund pursed his lips. “No one wishes to be played the fool. If he questions it, he will not call you out until you win and give him cause.”

“
If
I win,” she corrected.

He peered into her eyes, his deep-blue gaze increasing her pulse. “You will win, Albina. I bet my livelihood on it.” He pulled on the ribbons, directing the mare toward the group clustered at the starting line.

She could see nothing but an endless sea of people beyond the grassy stretch set aside for the race. Had she not visited the area with Edmund earlier, she never would have known where to guide her horse.

“Riders, please mount your horses.”

Edmund nodded and handed her the ribbons. She took them in her grasp, hefting her leg over the mare’s back, and settled herself onto the horse. She eyed the other jockeys readying for the single shot to be fired and prayed to all that was holy she did not fail Edmund. To disappoint the earl would be humiliating. To disappoint Edmund… She could not conceive it, so great a dishonor to both him and her a loss would mean.

Emberton was hers to win.

Gritting her teeth, she urged the mare forward and into the race.

Chapter Thirteen

Edmund lived and breathed the racing world. He knew every rider, every horse, and the combined duo’s strengths and weaknesses. Years of experience had been honed as race after race was watched, discussed, and dissected at great length.

The majority of his childhood had been spent in crowds such as the one at Emberton, collecting wages, paying losses, and learning the sort of information one often ignored—which jockeys favored which horses, which lords gambled away their fortunes, and whose mouth boasted untruths.

Garrington was a serious threat. The Marquess of Satterfield, however, was a bigger one.

The tall lord had his head alongside Garrington’s, the pair engaged in a hushed conversation. And Edmund knew precisely what it was they discussed.

The marquess’s overt glances toward Albina went unnoticed, at least by her, so focused on her place in the chaos that she failed to see their disbelief and scorn.

Her ruse had been discovered, her sex identified.

Which was hardly surprising. Her petite frame may be the same height and weight of those she raced against, but her silhouette was not. No amount of binding could hide her round bottom or perfectly proportioned hips.

Whether the marquess was appreciating Albina in her tight-fitting breeches or reeling from the revelation that the earl had his wife’s younger sister racing against his seasoned jockey remained unclear, for his ogling was cut short with one of the derby’s officials escorting him away from the horses and to the front of the lawn set apart for viewing.

With a loud shot, the race started, and Edmund had neither the time nor ability to reflect further, for his focus centered on Albina’s dark jacket and the bay mare’s brown backside.

He had not deceived the earl—Albina was his best chance at winning Emberton. Mr. Abbot, though a seasoned jockey, had neither the intuition nor the natural agility Albina possessed. Her love for the race was evident in the way she handled her horse, maintaining both speed and form as she barreled down the run, outpacing both the hopeful second and the third.

She was performing beautifully, she and the mare in perfect unison, as though they were not horse and rider but one beast outracing the competition.

Save for Garrington. While as loathsome as Edmund had earlier professed, the man had talent. Skill. And years on Albina’s six weeks.

Garrington, however, knew her secret. A revelation that may prove to their advantage.

If the jockey was one thing, he was arrogant. His overconfidence had near cost him the win last year with a miscalculated adjustment midrace. Edmund only hoped the same occurred within the next fifteen seconds, with Garrington believing in popular truth: a woman could never best a man, most certainly at a man’s sport.

And yet… Edmund’s pulse raced and his breath caught as Albina came alongside the marquess’s stallion. He pulled his hat off and clutched it in his hands, twisting the woven brim.

He’d made wagers before, but never had the stakes been higher than those placed on this moment. A loss was guaranteed regardless of the outcome. Albina would never be his. And he was the worse for it. He would have to endure watching the marquess take a feigned interest in Albina should she win, and he would no longer hold his position were she to lose.

Their horses were abreast, Albina riding low and fast, Garrington high and hard, with the finish a mere ten feet away.

Pulling her legs in tighter, Albina pushed the mare, inching her past Garrington’s stallion…and…and… Dear God.

She won.

She’d won the bloody Emberton Derby.

Edmund stood frozen in place, his knuckles white, his entire body rendered immobile by Albina’s success. She’d done the impossible.

And won.

Were he able to think, he would not have heard his thoughts, so loud was the roar of the crowd, the spectators cheering Albina.
His
Albina. Whom he had just lost to the earl’s schemes and the leering eyes of the Marquess of Satterfield.

Edmund stared forward, his vision blurring, his mind reeling.

A solid slap on his back had him stumbling forward.

“Congratulations, Mr. White.”

Edmund turned his head. The Earl of Amhurst and the Duke of Waverly stood beside him, both their faces spilt wide with grins.

Righting himself, Edmund forced his fingers to relax their hold on his hat’s brim.

“The house of Amhurst is in your debt,” the earl continued.

All he could do was nod. He had to get to Albina. To congratulate her, to hold her, to shout his praises—she had done what he had believed she could, and he needed to tell her so.

“Excuse me, my lord—”

“You shall have first pick of Lord Stanley’s stables, Mr. White. Stallion, mare, you have earned your selection.”

Edmund stilled. He had forgotten. The Thoroughbred. His prize. With her win, Albina had given him his long-desired dream.

The duke tipped his hat. “Bravo, Mr. White. Your training is commendable. Prinny was unable to make today’s festivities, but he did ask me to relay any talent of particular interest. I shall make certain to tell him of your achievements.”

Prinny
. The bloody sovereign of England. Were Edmund not able to breathe before, he certainly could not now. His head spun.

“Th-th-thank you,” he sputtered, amazed he had the cognizance to utter words, let alone a phrase.

“No, my good man, thank you,” said the earl. “You have helped achieve what I did not think possible.” He nodded toward the finish line. “In more ways than one.”

Peering through the revelry, Edmund caught sight of Albina, the deep navy of her jacket blending with the Marquess of Satterfield’s dark sleeve wrapped around her shoulders.

His stomach twisted.

The race had been won, yes. His heart, however, had been thoroughly lost.

…

Albina held a hand to her chest, the pounding of her heart audible through the thick linen strips bound tight across her rib cage. She dismounted her horse, her feet planting themselves on the trampled earth. Her knees trembled, and her hands shook as she peered at the blur of men and horses gathered around her. There was only one man she wished to see, and she scanned the crowd, searching for his copper hair and tall frame.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, praying her head would stop spinning and her knees would hold.

She’d done it. She’d won the Emberton Derby.

Good God in heaven.

She hadn’t thought… Well, she was not fully certain the mare had outpaced the stallion until she heard the Amhurst name being declared the winner. And now that she had won, she wanted nothing more than to share in the dizzying bliss of her success with the one man who had made it possible, the one man who had believed in her when she hadn’t believed in herself.

Edmund.

“Congratulations.” A firm palm slapped her on the back, forcing her to open her eyes to steady herself.

Albina flicked her gaze upward. The Marquess of Satterfield stood before her, his fingers touching the brim of his hat, his dark brows arched high, as though her win was still in question and he hadn’t quite willed himself to believe the outcome.

“Lord Satterfield.” She returned his acknowledgment in kind, touching her fingers to the narrow brim of her riding hat. She peered over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Edmund making his way toward her. Surely he wished to share in their achievement, to hold her tight against him, whispering words of affection and congratulatory praise.

“It is quite astonishing my gray was outrun by a bay.”

With another furtive glance beyond his person, Albina returned her gaze to the marquess. “Is it?” she asked. “I did not know the color of the horse had anything to do with its potential.”

The marquess offered her a thin smile. “Not its color, perhaps, but its sex.”

“Oh?” Albina pulled the sleeves of her jacket over her wrists, adjusting the garment to hide the slip of binding that had somehow worked itself loose. She was no fool. If the marquess was half the man she had once believed him to be, he saw through her thin guise and knew full well to whom he spoke.

But…he had glanced at her person so few times in the past year, perhaps he did not recognize her at all.

She peered at him, at his square chin and strong jaw, which clenched ever so slightly at her overt observation. Then again, a pot of gold might exist at the end of every rainbow. He questioned her sex; she was certain it was not the horses to which he referred, but her.

“Yes, it is quite extraordinary when one takes the time to contemplate such things,” he continued, his steely gaze catching hers. “I had not thought a mare capable of outrunning a stallion.”

Truth be told, neither had she. She had believed the marquess’s horse would outrun the mare, but she had been able to maintain her pace and push for an extra burst of speed at the last second to cross the finish line ahead of Mr. Garrington and the gray stallion.

Pride flared in her chest. Her bay had performed beautifully, and Albina possessed the win to prove it, although the sex of the horse and its rider had played little part in her achievement.

“It is fortunate then,” she said, her voice a tad strained, “that you are not a gambling man, my lord.”

“I fear today, I prove an exception to that clause.”

“You bet against my bay?” she asked.

“I bet against Amhurst and his unknown jockey.”

Albina held back a smile. “How unfortunate that you misjudged your competition.”

The marquess slipped his arm around her shoulder. A hint of cedar and musk tickled her nose as he gripped her upper arm.

A year she had lusted after the marquess. A full twelve months had been devoted to capturing the man’s attention, of pining for this very moment when he acknowledged her presence and held her close…

Only it didn’t feel quite how she believed it would. No surge of excitement pulsed through her veins at his touch. Nor did her heart flutter or her stomach flop at his close proximity. Instead, a hollow sort of emptiness seeped through her, replacing the elation of her successful run.

Albina frowned. She had done what she had set out to do. She had captured Lord Satterfield’s attention, yes. Though she no longer required or wanted it.

His arms, while thick and strong, were not the pair that had held her at her most vulnerable. Nor were his eyes, while smoldering and gray, the blue set that sent her heart into a palpitating fit.

The marquess gave her arm a squeeze. He bent his head and lowered his voice. “Had I known your benefactor had placed a woman as his rider—”

“You would have still bet against me, my lord.” She pried his fingers from her sleeve. “I am, as you have said quite recently, a woman rider who is unable to control her horse as well as her male peers.”

He dropped his arm and faced her, his full lips pulled into a smile that, not long ago, would have rendered her unconscious. She did not, however, feel in any danger of fainting. Nor were her knees wobbly or her pulse erratic.

“It takes a thoroughly skilled rider to best Garrington and my stallion,” he said, his voice low. “That you, despite your sex, should—”

“Despite my sex?” she asked.

“Well, yes,” he said, oblivious to his offense. “You cannot deny luck played a significant role in your win.”

Albina pursed her lips, choosing her words carefully. “No. I do not deny luck played a significant role in my achievement.”

The marquess smiled, surprise at her admission evident on his face. “While I must confess I did not think—”

“No, I do not believe you did, for you did not allow me to finish, my lord. I have an abundance of good fortune, for I am so very lucky that Mr. Garrington misjudged my riding abilities and the capabilities of my mount. I am lucky that my horse was perfectly selected to match my stature and personality. And I am devastatingly lucky to have an instructor who had the patience, skill, and finesse to impart upon me the technique and confidence required to not only outrun Mr. Garrington, but also identify a worthy competitor.”

The marquess lifted a brow and, perhaps for the first time, actually studied her person, his gaze roving over her form, much as Garrington had done in the barn prior to the race. “It appears I have misjudged you as well.”

Albina smiled. “Oh, most indubitably so.”

His lips curled into a slow smile. He lowered his head, ensuring his words were heard by her alone. “There is something to be said for a woman who races as a man.”

Albina held back a snort. If she didn’t know any better, she would have believed the marquess was engaging in a bit of flirtation. With her. The woman he had, only moments before, insulted.

“That there is,” she said. “And I believe it is that she can not only race as a man, but win like one, too.” She turned her head in time to see Edmund through a small break in the crowd. “If you will excuse me, my lord, there is someone with whom I need to speak.” She bowed and shouldered her way past a particularly large gentleman.

“Amhurst’s jockey,” the marquess called. “Please give me a moment of your time.”

She continued her trek forward. She had tarried long enough for the marquess; she had no intention of doing so further. Especially not when Edmund lingered.

Or at least, she thought he waited. With his back still turned, he walked away from the crowd, not toward her. Or the winner’s circle. Or the Duke of Waverly and the earl.

A hand clamped on her shoulder, the pungent smell of tobacco accompanying it. She spun to see the same man who had grumbled his disfavor at her tarrying in the barn. “The earl requests your presence.”