To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) (5 page)

“Of course. Though I must reiterate that the length of our delay is determined by your—”

“Acquiescence, yes, I know.” She strode up to his towering form and lifted her face. His expression had not changed, the devilish smile still curling his lips—at least five inches above hers. “I cannot reach your mouth, Mr. White. You must lower your head.”

“Like this?” he asked. He slouched ever so slightly, laughter shining bright in his eyes.

“Lower,” she ground out. Her hands bunched into fists.

“What if you were to stand on your toes?”

Albina huffed and stood on her toes. The man was intolerable. He was the one who wanted the blasted kiss. She had a horse to return, a dress to don, and a mother to deceive. She didn’t have time for his teasing. Her fingers wrapped around his arms for a measure of stability and, steadying herself, she pressed her mouth against his.

A bolt of static surged through her, elevating her heart rate and expanding her lungs. With a gasp, she pulled away, her lips burning from where they had connected with his. Releasing his arms, she lowered herself onto her heels and blinked.

“Not a bad first attempt, but there is definite room for improvement.”

“I b-b-beg your pardon?” she asked, sputtering.

“This is the part where we assess, my lady. As per our agreement.” Laughter filled his voice.

Dear God. He was mocking her. A wall of fire crept up her neck and settled into her face. Assessment, her foot. “Mr. White, I have no wish to be the object of your—”

“Right. My turn then?”

Before she had a chance to recover from his humiliating critique, he brushed his fingers along her jaw and tilted her head upward, lowering his lips to hers. He moved his mouth over hers, gently at first, then increasing in both pressure and intensity. Her pulse quickened, and all rational thought fled, her focus centered solely on his anise and fennel-flavored mouth. Spicy and sweet, his breath mingled with hers, his tongue gently darting between her lips and rendering an unconscious moan from her throat.

He pulled away, quickly, and far too soon, a startled expression gracing his rugged features. Running a hand over his ginger-colored hair, he shook his head. “It’s late.” His voice was rough and gravelly, void of its earlier amusement.

Lord, had she done something wrong? Had his theory been disproved and the second kiss proven equal to the first? Because she’d been wrong. The initiator did matter.

Not wanting him to see the rush of heat creeping up her neck, she turned toward her horse. She placed one foot into the stirrup but stilled at the sound of his voice.

“Take mine, my lady. Your mare has not recovered and is not fit to ride. She will have to be walked back to the stable.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she grounded herself and turned. “But your mare is one of the Thoroughbreds recently acquired from Lord Stanley.” The same ones he had forbade her from touching earlier that morning.

“So she is. Which is why you will treat her with the utmost care and return her directly at a slow and steady gait, unless you wish to explain your attire to the other grooms.”

“Of course.” She strode to the side of the beast. Pushing off the ground, she hoisted herself onto the broad back of the mare. “Our lesson, Mr. White?”

“Tomorrow, at the same time you sought out the mare this morning. I’ll have her ready to ride outside the west end of the stable. Do not be late.”

…

Edmund walked alongside the horse Lady Albina had driven too hard, too fast, and rubbed a rough palm over his face.

Sentimentalism. Curiosity. Lust.

They were the only logical reasons he could offer for his brash, impetuous, and foolhardy offer.

To train a woman. As a jockey.

Worse yet, he hadn’t offered to any woman, but a lady. Specifically a lady of his employer, who, should he discover Edmund’s scheme, could not only remove him from a position granting him full access to England’s best horses, but prevent him from ever stepping foot in another stable. The stables were where his blood surged to life. Where his beloved horses rested and where his purpose was made clear. He was a damn fine trainer, of that he was certain. But training Amhurst’s kin?

What the hell had he been thinking?

Edmund let out a groan and lifted his gaze heavenward as he slowly guided the weary mare back to the barn.

He knew very well what he’d been thinking when he had opened his mouth to suggest the impossible. And it had nothing to do with the protection of the horses, polite courtesy, or an opportunity to impart his skills to another.

Oh, no, his offer had been born of lust. A sheer, unadulterated yearning for Lady Albina Beauchamp’s voluptuous silhouette. His blood quickened at the mere memory of her pillow-soft lips melding against his, of her buckskin breeches stretched taut over the curve of her thighs.

His gaze lowered to the retreating form of the earl’s prize Thoroughbred with the desirable lady bouncing on top of the horse’s back. He clenched his jaw, his lower half stiffer and more rigid than the ground beneath him.

If lust had given birth to his lunacy and his ridiculous offer, curiosity and sentimentality had fueled it. He gripped the leather ribbons tighter, willing himself to think not of the curvaceous maiden sprinting off toward the stables, but the weakness that had driven him to torture himself with the continued vision of her bouncing bottom by offering not one training session, but a multitude of them—at least, that was, if her display of inexperience was any indication.

She had a semblance of skill, of that he was certain. Had she not, she would have been tossed off the back of the mare long before reaching the summit. She did not, however, possess any concept of form or racing posture.

Much like another female he knew well.

Lydia
. Yes, this was all her fault. His younger sister’s ginger-colored hair and blue eyes, a shade lighter than his own, had flashed in his memory and had incited his rashness.

He sobered, as he always did when his thoughts strayed to his lost sibling. Lady Albina Beauchamp may not share any physical features with his dainty elfin sister, but their personality was one and the same. Bold. Brash. And insistent upon riding a horse astride.

Lydia, however, had always managed to do so in a dress. A brown muslin that had bunched about her knees. The same gown she had worn when she had gotten ill from a fever, never to recover.

Edmund ran a hand over the mare’s coarse mane, more for his comfort than the horse’s. Lydia, her spirit, her interest in horses, and her similar disregard for the rules had, more than lust, compelled Edmund to disregard the responsibilities of his position and risk his very livelihood to offer Lady Albina an opportunity to show him her potential.

She had, after all, sought a groom’s approval. A head groom, but a groom. Not a gentleman. Or a peer. All while under the veil of secrecy.

Which meant she was desperate. But desperate for what? And why?

Edmund shook his head. Was it possible Lady Albina possessed the same interest in horses as Lydia? Did she seek the same passion, the same excitement found on a horse, racing at breakneck speeds?

Such interests were commonplace enough amongst men. But with the fairer sex, his sister alone had shared Edmund’s obsession with the racing world, with the beauty and appreciation of the very horses he raced. The idea that another woman might be inclined toward such diversions was…well, intriguing.

And lascivious as hell.

He urged the horse toward the stables. He had less than four and twenty hours before he was to instruct Lady Albina…and be recompensed for his instruction.

He did not intend on acting the greenhorn again. He would ready himself for tomorrow’s kiss—and the previous unforeseen intensity behind it.

Her pliable lips had nearly undone him, the low moan escaping her throat inciting his pulse to race faster than he had run the damn horse to the summit to claim his prize. The experience of kissing a woman was always an enjoyable one. He had not, however, bargained for the heat that had sparked at this one’s touch or the swift rise of desire she wrought with her sigh of contentment.

Edmund snorted. He had to get ahold of himself. And the sooner the better. He had duties to attend and no time for diversions. Even of the pleasurable sort.

Although he may risk his position by offering his expertise, he would not shirk his responsibilities. Horses needed to be run, groomed, and tended. Stable hands corralled and directed. And his lower half relieved.

Chapter Four

Soft yellow beams of late-morning sunlight pooled over Albina’s floral muslin, the dainty roses printed on the fabric far more innocent in their appearance than the direction of her thoughts.

She had kissed a man. And what’s worse, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Her mind should have been focused on the ride home, on her form and technique, on the mare’s nuances and quirks.

But she could hardly remember the return or her safe, unseen arrival into her chambers. She had only a vague recollection of slipping out of her riding clothes and hiding under her covers before the maid knocked on the door to “wake” her for the day.

The groom’s lips had consumed her every thought. Clouded her brain. For even as she sat readying for the day, her gaze flicking between the inanimate roses on her dress, to her reflection in the vanity looking glass, she was unable to concentrate on anything but the two kisses she had shared with Mr. White.

Albina stared into the silvered glass as her curls were being pinned. She willed her gaze to the dark strands, to her maid’s deft fingers as they plaited and secured, but it continued to dip. Straight to Albina’s lips.

They didn’t appear any different. They maintained their regular shape and color and were certainly nothing like the full pair that had pressed against her mouth, eliciting a rush of excitement that had made her heart race.

And continue to race. Her hand rested against her chest, the rhythm of the organ strong and fast beneath her fingers.

Goodness. She had kissed a man, nothing more. She had also ridden a horse astride. The flagrant disregard for propriety always made her pulse jump, though not quite as much as it had whilst in Mr. White’s arms.

No. She had to stop her wayward thoughts. Had to regain control of her mind and set about getting through the day’s mundane tasks until tomorrow morning, when she could ride yet again. She had a race to win.

More importantly, she had a marquess to impress. His attentions were the prize, his heart and hand in marriage her sole purpose for this scheme.
Heavens
. She had momentarily lost sight of what was truly important.

She ought to be ashamed of herself. No doubt the marquess, with his full, enticing lips, would elicit the same all-consuming rush of bliss when he eventually sought her out. There was no reason to dwell on Mr. White. Or his kisses.

The race. Her performance. And the marquess. She had to focus…

Having fixed the last curl in place, her maid gave a small curtsy. Albina dismissed the girl as her sister, Sarah, entered the small antechamber connecting their rooms.

“Albina.” The single word was filled with curiosity, but Albina waited until the metallic click of the door’s latch sounded, signaling the maid’s departure, to turn and meet Sarah’s eager gaze.

“Sarah.”

Her sister glanced toward the door where the maid had exited then rushed to the plush settee next to the vanity and lowered herself onto the pillows.

“Were you able to ride this morning?” she asked.

Albina nodded, unable to suppress the excitement coursing through her at the memory. “I not only rode, I raced. Whatever concoction you mixed together for Mr. Abbot worked. He did not arrive at half-past six, as we were informed he would, and I was able to slip into the stables unnoticed.”

“Yes, well, that is the concern,” Sarah said, hesitantly. She lifted an overstuffed circular pillow and frowned.

“I don’t understand. Everything went as expected.” Everything but the arrangement with the groom, wherein she kissed the man as payment for her lessons. She tried, however, to look on the brighter side of things—Mr. Abbot had not arrived at the stables, Sarah’s tea had worked. Therefore, all was right on that score.

Sarah lifted a finger to her mouth and nibbled on a nail. A familiar action—and one Albina knew meant something was not as it should be. “I never administered the tea.”

Pulling her shoulders back, Albina sat upright. “How is that possible? Mr. Abbot was not at the stables this morning. I assumed—”

“He was ill? As did I. But when I inquired after his whereabouts, I was told he had departed to Brighton. To visit his ailing mother.”

Albina let out a breath of air. “Then all is well. Save for his mother, of course, but the timing of her unfortunate circumstance could not have been—”

“More perfect, yes,” Sarah agreed. “Hence my concern. The timing is too perfect.” Sarah rolled her bottom lip between her teeth and sighed. “The Emberton Derby is but six weeks away.”

Albina let out a laugh. “The man’s mother ails, Sarah. It is good fortune for us, nothing more. Let us make the most of it.”

“I suppose you’re right. I may be reading too much into the situation.” Sarah gave her a smile. “So then, how was your ride this morning?”

“Exhilarating. And…most revealing.” With a laugh, Albina pushed away from her vanity and stood, lifting her arms into the air and stretching her limbs. “I require some instruction before the derby.”

“As is to be expected. You have never raced before. And your racing technique is therefore nonexistent. I did warn of this—”

“I have an instructor.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “An instructor? To assist you in riding?”

“Yes, of course.” Sarah needn’t know his instruction also encompassed other areas…such as kissing. Albina’s face warmed.

Sarah shot her an assessing glare. “And who would assist you? I’ll confess, I didn’t expect you would make it to the horses. They are rumored to be guarded, protected by—”

“A groom,” Albina said. She resisted the eye roll her sister’s lack of support warranted.

“A groom. Yes.” Sarah tilted her head.

Albina strolled to the window and peered through the glass to the picturesque view of the gardens and the stables beyond them. “The head groom has offered to give me instruction.”

A rustle of muslin, accompanied by the soft thud of two small feet on the carpet, sounded behind her. “Has he? At what price?” Sarah asked.

Her twin was far too perceptive. Albina turned to see her sister standing, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed. “I may have agreed to…”

“To what, Albina?” Sarah tapped her foot on the wool fibers of the carpet. “He is a servant, you a lady, and one who is already breaching the lines of decorum by wearing heaven only knows what whilst in his presence.”

“I am fully aware of my social standing as well as his. He is a groom. Nothing more.”

“And one, should the heightened color of your skin be taken into account, you’ve agreed to allow certain liberties.”

“A kiss,” Albina said on a giggle. “He demands a kiss. After each ride. As payment for his instruction.” Her palms dampened.

Sarah’s eyes bulged as her arms dropped to her sides. “You cannot be serious.”

“It is nothing but a business transaction between two people in accordance with the terms set forth in our…arrangement. I had little choice but to accept should I wish to be allowed access to the Thoroughbreds.”

“You always have a choice,” Sarah said, her voice piqued. “I should have known this ruse would not be as simple as you first painted. Schemes and ruses force people to act out of character, and they become irrational.”

“I am not being irrational. If anything, I am quite the opposite.”

Sarah placed a hand on her hip. “Kissing a groom in exchange for riding lessons is not rational. And neither is riding a horse astride. In a derby, no less.”

“Mr. White is a skilled rider.” And kisser. Her pulse jumped at the memory of his sweet breath warm on her lips.

“He is also a groom, Albina. And one who is taking advantage of your desire to race by filling his own agenda to kiss a gentlewoman. He is overstepping the lines of propriety—”

“As am I.” Albina stalked over to her desk to retrieve the sketchbook and charcoal she kept close on hand for whenever the urge to draw consumed her. She needed a release this morning, a change of topic, a new direction for her thoughts, anything to force her mind off the ginger-haired groom and onto the marquess. The recollection of the marquess’s dark hair and hard, angular jaw always made her smile, as it did now. She simply needed to focus.

“You cannot continue.”

Albina glanced up at her sister’s face. “I cannot continue to sketch?”

“No, continue to meet with the groom,” Sarah said with a sigh of exasperation. “The lessons. Mr. Abbot’s illness. The racing. Well, I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. I did not ask for your acquiescence.”

“No, only my help. Which I refuse to give, should you continue to participate in this madness.”

Albina’s shoulders lifted with a shrug. “I no longer need your help. I only require the assistance of the groom.”

“Then I shall report the groom to the earl.”

Her stick of charcoal snapped as she pressed it against the sketchbook. “You wouldn’t,” Albina hissed. “You would destroy my chances with the marquess.”

“Chances that are hindered by you kissing another man,” Sarah exclaimed. “Did you not stop to think what would happen should the marquess discover your training methods or how you
pay
for them? It is indecent. Far more than any ill-conceived tea I may contrive. Should you think our reputation stained now, it will sink farther still if knowledge of your exchanges is made known. I cannot in good conscience allow you to meet with the groom.”

“Then put it out of your conscience entirely. I have no intention of letting this opportunity slip past me. My future with the marquess is at stake. My very happiness, Sarah. I
need
to race.”

Sarah grunted and clenched her fists. “What of the groom? How do you know he will not take further advantage of you? Request more than a kiss? He is not a gentleman.”

Her sister had a valid point. Albina knew nothing of Mr. White beyond his riding and kissing abilities. While he appeared kind and respectful with the horses, he could be a veritable rake with women. A leech. A man who may, in a few days, desire more than a kiss…

Her face warmed. Surely he would behave himself.

Unless… Albina’s heart raced. Unless she wanted him to do more. She rolled her lip between her teeth. He had been less than impressed with her first kiss, of her lips against his. It only made sense, then, that he should instruct her in both riding
and
kissing. His tutelage was required to make certain she did not disappoint the marquess. Sheer mortification would not begin to describe what she would experience should the marquess find their first kiss less than
impressive
.

Which meant she may need practice and instruction in other areas as well. What those areas were, superficially, she did not know. Something told her the groom would know—and would be more than willing to show her.

Albina flicked her charcoal across the paper, ignoring the way her heart fluttered at the idea of additional instruction with Mr. White. “He is not a gentleman. He is a servant. And one who is under the earl’s employ. Should he act out of bounds, or request anything I do not wish to give, I will report him to his superior.”

“It is not how little you have to pay, but how much you are willing to give to capture the marquess’s attentions that concerns me. And there is still the matter of Mr. Abbot’s replacement.”

“I serve as the replacement.”

“The earl is not a simpleton. Do you honestly believe he will accept you, dressed as some unknown identity, a suitable replacement for his precious Thoroughbreds?”

“He will if the groom recommends me. Which he will.” Albina spoke with conviction, though she was not fully certain of the groom’s loyalty. What if he did not feel her up to the task? What if tomorrow morning, when she arrived for her next lesson, he had a second candidate training alongside her? Waiting on the side, should she show the slightest sign of incompetence?

Thoughts of her incompetence were brushed aside with the opening of the antechamber door. Her lips set in a grim line, Henrietta strode into the room, their American-born cousin, the Duchess of Waverly, behind her.

A weight dropped on Albina’s chest.

She adored the duchess. She adored her sister. But neither looked as though they had pleasant news to share.

“Your Grace.” Sarah stood and curtsied.

“Honestly, Sarah, if I have to ask you to call me Daphne once more, I shall burst from frustration.”

“I fear I am a slave to routine, my dear. I have had my governess’s words drilled into my brain and cannot undo years of etiquette, even if I have your permission to do otherwise. But enough of decorum, what has you in our chambers before breakfast?”

“Henrietta. Or rather, Albina.”

Albina’s relations turned their heads in her direction. She set her drawing effects to the side and said to Daphne, “I presume you have been speaking with Henrietta, then?”

“I have.” Her fair-haired cousin nodded. “And I find your idea to be—”

“Unorthodox? Unbecoming of my station?”

“Fascinating. And one that ought to be applauded for your determination.”

Albina blinked. “My determination.” It sounded as though her cousin agreed with her plan. Indeed, even supported the idea.

“Yes. Which is why when Henrietta informed me of the earl’s refusal—”

“I did try, Albina”—Henrietta shot her a pleading look—“I did my best to convince him, to relay your concerns, but he absolutely refused. And the reason I thought to enlist the duchess’s, or rather Daphne’s, aid. As the race is sponsored by the duke, I—”

“Of course,” Albina exclaimed. “If the earl refuses to listen to his wife, then perhaps the duke can persuade him otherwise.”