To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) (3 page)

Her gaze faltered, a flicker of fear passing across her eyes. She thrust her shoulders back and lifted her arm, wiggling her fingertips shy of the mare’s muzzle. “
I
am not within an arm’s length.”

He swallowed a curse. Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he jerked her forward.

“You are now, so I am going to ask you again. State your business before I have a boy sent to wake the earl and drag what will undoubtedly be his disgruntled arse down here.”

She bristled under his touch, though whether it was from his coarse language or his tight grip, he was unsure. He was, however, certain he had gotten his point across. Her jaw flexed as she lifted her gaze to meet his.

“I mean no harm or foul play. I simply wish to ride.”

And he simply wished to raise racehorses. But life was never that simple.

“And what makes you think you can ride the earl’s best mare?”

She jerked her arm from his grasp and lifted off her hat. A tumble of dark chestnut curls spilled over her shoulders and down the front of her jacket. She was beautiful, an incarnation of an ancient goddess hell-bent on distracting him from his chores and delaying his morning routine.

“Because I am Lady Albina Beauchamp. My sister is the Countess of Amhurst. Shall I drag her
arse
here to verify my claim?”

A supposed daughter of an earl stood before him with a look of superior indignation plastered across her heart-shaped face—complete with a very un-ladylike oath still fresh on her tongue. An overwhelming desire to taste the wry twist of her lips took hold of him, but reason, and a good nudge of the horse’s snout into his back, had him regaining control of his better judgment.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his stance. “You could be the Princess of Wales, my lady, and you would still not have the authority to be here.” He had his orders—the earl had been clear. No one was allowed to touch the horses save for the earl, the jockey, and Edmund. The countess’s sister was not one of those three.

“I have every authority to ride the earl’s horses. I am a guest. At Plumburn.”

“And yet, the earl employed me to make certain no one outside of him, Mr. Abbot, and myself touch this horse, let alone ride it.”

“An oversight, I am certain. Surely he would allow the countess to ride the bay.”

“I think we both know that is not true.”

“I know no such thing.”

“Oh?” he asked. “Then why did you not simply state your presence and ask to ride the mare, instead of sneaking around like a two-bit thief in men’s clothing?” The nostrils of her little nose flared. Her mouth opened to lash him, but he denied her the rant by continuing his. “Do you know why the earl has forbidden anyone to ride this horse, my lady?”

“Because he wishes to race it at Emberton?” A caustic tone blanketed her words.

Edmund blinked. “Well…yes.”

“Perfect. Because I wish to ride her at Emberton.”

“I beg your pardon?” Surely he had not heard her correctly. She had said something monstrously profound.

“I wish to race this mare at the derby.” She interlaced her fingers and stared down at her hands. “The earl’s jockey is unwell.”

“Unwell?” Mr. Abbot had shown no signs of illness the day prior. A lithe and nimble man, he had appeared the epitome of health on his last ride.

“Quite unwell, I assure you. And unable to train for the derby, which is why I seek to serve as his replacement.”

Despite his determination to hold it back, a loud, raucous burst of laughter shot from his mouth. “You cannot be serious.”

“But I am.” She lifted her head, her eyes narrowed. “Now, if you would excuse me—”

“No.” He shifted to stall her advance. “You propose the impossible.”

“I assure you I can ride. But first, you have to allow me to touch the horse.”

Edmund shook his head. “The earl has not given his consent.”

“A minor technicality.”

He peered through a swirl of dust motes at the uncertainty haunting her eyes. “But he has not said yes,” he said, knowing full well he had caught the truth in her admission.

Her head tilted to the side, the shadows dancing over her dark tresses. “He…has not made a final decision.”

“And you think stealing one of his prized horses will sway him to agree to this ridiculous idea of yours?”

“I am not
stealing
his mare, I am borrowing it—to bring prestige and recognition to his house.
My
house. I am a fully competent rider, I assure you. Ask any of your hands. They can vouch for the truthfulness of my assertion and the consistency of my practice. They know me well.”

Edmund crossed his arms in front of his chest to prevent his hand from touching one of her glossy curls. “I rely more on my opinion and not those who are easily swayed by the promise of coin.”

“I did not purchase anyone’s loyalty.” Her fingers tightened around the rim of her hat. “And I shall prove it.”

Chapter Two

Albina spun on her heel, stalking out of the mare’s stall and away from the pair of cerulean-blue eyes she was certain were boring into her back. If proving her skill to the ginger-haired groom with the dimpled chin meant a saddle on top of a horse and leather between her legs, she would gladly oblige.

“And how do you intend to prove your claim, let alone your competence? My staff have not yet returned from the pasture.” He followed, his footsteps heavy and sure on the dirt floor.

“By riding a horse.” Goodness. She would have thought the solution an obvious one.

“In…in your present attire?”

Albina stilled, glancing down at her thinning masculine garments. The pair of gentleman’s breeches had grown tight over the last few years as her hips had widened, but they were still suitable and more than adequate for the style of riding she enjoyed best.

“You can’t very well expect me to ride astride in anything else.” She glanced down the stalls and made her way to the familiar backside of the trusted bay mare she usually requested for her morning rides.

“Well, no, I don’t expect I would—were I to allow you to ride astride.”

“Then it is a good thing I do not require your permission.”

He snatched the tail of her jacket, the wool pulling taut against her chest. She took a step back to steady herself and swiveled her head to shoot him her best indignant glare. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Nothing happens in this barn without my permission.” He stared at her with the full authority granted his position—an authority she had grossly underestimated.

Albina cleared her throat. “I am the earl’s guest.”

“Which is precisely why you cannot ride a horse astride. It is not decent for any woman. Let alone one connected to the earl.”

“And yet I have been doing so for longer than you have been head groom.”

He maintained his grip on the coarse fibers of her old jacket and narrowed his eyes. “You have not ridden astride while I have been at Plumburn.”

“No,” she said slowly. “Only because I have not yet had the opportunity.” With a deft twist, she tugged her jacket out of his hand and took a step forward—only to have a wide palm bear down on her shoulder.

The man was far too intimate for his position. She had never been so manhandled, so…affected by a man’s touch. Why, her flesh prickled beneath his hand. Most likely because the morning was still new, and the air damp. She was reacting to the chill—and not the overbearing grip of some manservant and his appealing musky and oiled-leather scent.

“I am afraid that particular opportunity to ride astride has once again eluded you.”

“Oh? And how do you propose to confirm the sincerity of my claim?” She lowered her shoulder, sloughing off his hand and once again making her way toward the mare.

“By watching you ride—with the proper saddle and attire.”

“Excellent, as this attire is befitting a jockey.” She entered the stall and stepped alongside the horse.

He followed not two steps behind, his tall, lean frame darkening the entrance of the stall. “Were you a man, as your clothing suggests, I would not argue your logic.”

“I need not be a man for you to allow me the opportunity to prove myself worthy of the position I seek to claim.”

Albina settled her hat on a hook and lifted a set of leather ribbons off another. No argument was made, no cynical remark or counterclaim given. She fought the urge to glance back to verify he had heard her more than rational request, when the sound of departing footsteps echoed in the small space.

Was he leaving?

He’d been a nuisance, an irritating, buzzing gnat in her ear, upsetting her plans and disparaging her title. She ought to rejoice at his departure and her apparent good fortune… Only, she wished for him to witness her ride.

Because, devil take it, she was a good rider. Her ego aside, she wished his approval to gain access to the filly—an access not yet granted to her by the earl.

But one that would be soon, should Henrietta work her magic and convince the man to see things as they stood—with Albina riding in the derby to attract the marquess’s attention. But in the event her sister failed in her endeavors, well, a second option was essential. And having the groom witness her ride was part of that course.

Gripping the ribbons in one hand, she placed another on the steed—only to have her fingers swipe against a quilted pad being thrown over the mare’s withers.

The groom’s low voice whispered over the horse. “She was groomed earlier and is ready to ride—if you are.”

Her heart sped, her blood pulsing with unfettered excitement. She edged around the horse to the front corner of the stall, where she was afforded a full view of the groom’s broad shoulders and trim backside.

Albina averted her gaze, a warm heat creeping up her neck. “You…you have rescinded your objections?”

He lifted the saddle—a cross saddle—and settled it on the mare’s back. “I have. Against my better judgment.”

“Why?” She honestly hadn’t meant to give voice to the question. He was, after all, preparing and tacking the horse to ride astride. It was in her best interest to remain silent and allow him to continue the task.

But then, Albina had never been able to keep quiet.

He peered down at her, a ginger brow quirked upward. “A titled woman determined to defy convention is seeking my approval. My interest is piqued, my lady.” He fiddled with the saddle skirt, his gaze dipping to the oiled leather. “Curiosity, it seems, has overridden my good sense.”

She fought the smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. “You won’t be disappointed.”

“That remains to be seen.” He fastened the girth and placed the bridle over the mare’s sleek snout. He held out his hand, his forefinger curling inward. “The ribbons, if you please.”

She handed him the leather strips and stepped aside while he guided the mare out of the stall and into the aisle. He paused and turned back, capturing her gaze with his searing blue one. “You have this one opportunity for both my silence and my opinion. Should I find you near the racers again without the earl’s consent, I will not hesitate to notify him of your presence, your intent…and your appearance.”

Albina nodded, barely able to contain the surge of excitement his words rendered. She reached for the old hat settled against the barn wall. “Duly noted, Mr.…?”

“White. Mr. Edmund White.”

“Well, Mr. White, the next time you see me, I will not require the earl’s permission, for you will recommend me to him yourself.”

…

She was confident. Edmund would give her that much.

And headstrong, defiant, and far more brazen than a woman of her station afforded, and yet, he found himself intrigued to see if the fiery lady lived up to her boasting and pompous claims.

If one could call her a lady. She might possess a title and hold connections to monarchs and high-seated bureaucrats, but she wore a set of clothing so threadbare and worn, not even the stable hands mucking out the stalls would see fit to don them. The thin and sadly tattered fabric, however, firmly established her sex, revealing a figure he could neither deny nor ignore.

He kept his gaze not on the round curve of her bobbing bottom, but on the russet-brown mane of the mare alongside him…or at least he tried to focus on the coarse hairs. His focus, unfortunately, seemed drawn to the oddity of a woman in front of him. The one in men’s clothing. Revealing far more than she likely intended. She was either incredibly naïve or ignorant to the fact that anyone with a set of eyes bore witness to a figure most men only viewed in private rooms. With beds.

If she was ignorant to that fact, no doubt Lady Albina Beauchamp was all words and empty boasts, her talents nothing more than a bored and pampered lady wishing for some sort of escape and thrill on top of a horse.

She certainly did not possess the talents required of a true master jockey. He held back the laughter tickling his throat. A woman. Racing. In place of a jockey. What sort of disillusionment and insanity must have gripped the poor girl to think her capable of filling such a demanding, skilled, and perhaps most notably
masculine
occupation?

True, she had the petite stature required of the position and likely came in at the proper weight, should his gaze be a reliable estimation, but one needed more than correct body proportions to win a race. A firm command of the horse, an intimate knowledge of riding technique and horse anatomy, along with the ability to make immediate decisions for unpredictable problems—they separated the amateurs from the professionals and made the jockeys near as valuable as the horse they rode upon. They were also skills one did not learn from a governess or obliging groom.

Edmund doubted Lady Albina had ever ridden harder than a cantor, and certainly not the full gallop necessary to win a race—though she seemed more than capable of making immediate decisions.

Such as the one where she’d convinced him to watch her ride.

“I should think a position at the top of the small bluff over there will afford you the best view.” She pointed west, her unpinned curls lifting and catching in the light breeze.

He shook his head and blinked. He had to focus. But damn, if her hair didn’t call out like a siren, begging for his touch…

“Mr. White?” She turned her head to peer at him, her inquisitive eyes the same shade as the mist-shrouded hills behind her.

He swallowed, his mouth dry. “Yes?”

“The bluff. Do you think it a fine vantage point?”

Not quite as fine as the one he currently found himself in, with the sun behind her, illuminating her voluptuous figure.

“Uh…yes.”

She nodded and set her hat on the saddle. Lifting her hands, she gathered her hair into a queue at her nape. She held the riotous curls in one hand and reached for the hat with the other. With a deft flick of her wrist, she flung her mane up and underneath the crown of the hat.

Leaving him spellbound.

Jesus.

It would do him well to remember she was a daughter of the former earl, a lady—not some tavern whore charging for a tumble.

And yet, she hoisted herself over the mare, spreading her legs as well as any of the practiced women he had ever bedded.

She stared at him with an equal measure of agitation and impatience. “Do you intend to walk the two miles out to the bluff or will you saddle a horse and ride, Mr. White?”

He pulled his gaze away from her buckskin-encased thighs and shook himself out of his reverie. “Ride, yes,” he said, still in a daze.

“Then I suggest you start saddling your selection. I do not have all day.”

Neither did he. Edmund had horses to groom, train, and run. Evaluating the riding technique of a bored lady had not been on his morning agenda. Which was why he made his way back into the barn and saddled the spirited bay mare the earl had only recently acquired. He had to run the girl anyway. Why not kill two birds with one stone?

Edmund adjusted the leather bridle and gripped the thick lead, guiding the steed into the morning sun.

Lady Albina’s face brightened at his approach. “Shall we make a wager, Mr. White? Your mare against mine? The first one to the bluff wins?”

“And what would the prize be, my lady?” He could think of more than one thing he’d very much like to win, like a long, slow kiss on her set of full, pink lips.

“Your full recommendation to the earl when I arrive on the bluff a minute before you.”

“And when I pass your mare and end up the victor?” he asked. “What shall I win?”

She nibbled on her lip, drawing the supple flesh between her teeth and making his position on the horse a very uncomfortable one. “I named my terms. It seems only fair you should do the same.”

Naïve, then. She was definitely naïve. And he had no qualms exploiting the fact. “A kiss. On my lips. From yours.”

Her eyes widened, her porcelain skin flushing scarlet. He could almost hear her inner voice willing her to object his bold request, but she squeaked out a definite affirmation. “Done. On the count of three, we race to the bluff.”

His blood warmed, and nothing, he was certain, but God himself could prevent him from claiming his prize.

She brought her mare alongside his, a hint of uncertainty passing over her delicate features. “I expect nothing less than honest sportsmanship.”

“And I expect nothing less than a good race, my lady.” He settled into the stirrups and gave her his best rakish smile. “One…two…”

His words were drowned out by the clomping of hooves and Lady Albina’s high-pitched laughter.