To Win a Viscount
by Frances Fowlkes
Copyright © 2016 by Frances Fowlkes. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Spring, 1820
The Marquess of Satterfield was in love with Lady Albina Beauchamp.
He was simply unaware of the fact.
With his broad chin, sculpted cheekbones, and silver-gray eyes, he was a man besotted, pricked by the arrow of Cupid himself.
Of this, Albina was certain. She had only to muster her way through the highly spirited crowd of Plumburn’s oversize ballroom to verify her claim, declare it to all and sundry, and capture the affections she knew to be directed toward her.
If she could make it within a stone’s throw of the man. And if he would deign to look in her direction.
For the past year she had set her cap for the marquess and his glossy black curls. And for at least two-thirds of that time, he had not acknowledged her in conversation.
That, however, was by no fault of her own. She had tried to engage him in some sort of discussion, politely (if not dreamily and a bit overly enthused, if her twin sister, Sarah’s, account of events was to be believed), but the marquess was a man of few words, and even fewer moments for unwed daughters of the peerage.
At least since the Countess of Amhurst, who happened to be her eldest sister, Henrietta, had chosen the earl as her husband instead of the marquess.
Prior to her sister’s rejection, however, the few moments Albina had spent in the marquess’s company, were, why, heaven itself, and she had made it her goal to repeat them. For surely, if she could only place herself at the center of his attentions, he would come to realize that she was the only thing he could ever hope to dream, breathe, and think about.
As he was to her.
Despite his prior lack of judgment in selecting Henrietta over someone more suitable. Like herself.
Albina brushed aside Lady Isabella’s dainty elbow to wedge her way past an inebriated lord and his ward (and rumored paramour, scandal of all scandals).
“I beg your pardon,” Lady Isabella exclaimed.
“My apologies,” said Albina. She shot Lady Isabella an apologetic look. At least as apologetic as Albina could muster, given that she would do far worse than nudge an elbow to make herself accessible to Lord Satterfield. And the bevy of compliments he no doubt had waiting to dote upon her—should she ever make her way through the revelry.
Albina straightened her gown of the softest sable green, a hue that brought out the mossy tones of her forever shifting hazel-colored eyes. Were the marquess to notice the lengths she had gone to make certain the dress not only showcased her eyes but also her svelte figure, she would swoon right there in the center of the ballroom.
But as of yet, the man had failed to notice her. She was certain it was due to the crush and not from any failure of his own.
Thrusting her chest forward, Albina jostled her shoulders between the horde of people come to engage in the celebratory fete and, at long last, found herself near the narrow table of refreshments where Lord Satterfield and his company had settled to converse. With a great inhale, Albina skirted toward the entourage, only to have the wide girth of Lord Dalton block her path.
“I say, fellows,” said the rotund, yet towering, viscount. “What creatures take your fancy this fine evening?”
Albina turned, glancing over her shoulder at the assortment of women gathered in clusters around the gilded and well-lit room. Lady Isabella, easily spotted with her pale, golden hair, stood off to the side conversing with the ever-poised Miss Saxton. While both women were suitable for the role of marchioness, Albina, however was the best candidate for the position, if only for the simple fact that she held him in the highest regard. Certainly he noticed her devotion. She snatched a lemon tart off the nearest silver platter and took a bite.
The rich, sensuous voice of the marquess answered the viscount. Lord, she would know that voice anywhere. Though, in her dreams it was directed toward her and not at Lord Dalton.
“The fine set of bays Lord Colwyn had mounted to his carriage,” the marquess said with a laugh. “Now those could make a man’s mouth water.”
Albina choked on the flaky crust.
“Ah, yes. The bays,” said Lord Dalton. “They are quite impressive. I fear, however, they pale in comparison to his hounds.”
“I care not about the man’s hounds, but his horseflesh. He is set on entering one into Waverly’s Emberton Derby—against my gray stallion.”
“And you fear he will win, Satterfield?”
Horses? The man was set on horses? And not on the abundant spread of women, namely her, who were in attendance? Albina peered around Lord Dalton to see her beloved’s aristocratic chin lifted ever so slightly.
“I do not believe Lord Colwyn’s horseflesh is on the same level as my own,” he huffed.
“Agreed.” Another lord sipped his ratafia and nodded toward Lord Dalton. “It would behoove Satterfield to be far more concerned with the black stallion Amhurst recently acquired from Lord Stanley.”
“A black stallion?” The marquess’s bewitching eyes flashed.
“Oh, yes,” Lord Dalton said. “He is quite exquisite. Though the chestnut filly and the bay mare he also purchased are equally impressive. Amhurst seems quite determined to fill his stables with the best money has to offer. I wouldn’t be surprised if he somehow acquired an Arabian to complement his Thoroughbreds.” Lord Dalton’s gaze settled on her, his brow lifting ever so slightly.
Albina spun around. Grabbing another tart off the platter, she shoved it into her mouth. She had not heard about the Earl of Amhurst’s recent equestrian purchases, but then, whenever her sister spoke of her husband, she waxed poetic over his personality, or his mannerisms, or some physical feature that had her overflowing with a happiness Albina wished to experience, too.
A happiness she was certain existed in the marquess’s arms.
“An Arabian?” the marquess asked, his deep voice an octave higher.
“You could ask for a tour of the stables.”
“And you’d more than likely be denied.” Lord Dalton’s wide shoulders shook with laughter. “Amhurst is no fool. The race is but a few short weeks away. Were I in possession of such prized beasts, I would not allow anyone, friend or foe, near my potential champions. I’d wager even the chap he has acquired to jockey has to petition for time alone with the horse. Everyone knows whoever wins Emberton is a lead contender for Newmarket and the 2,000 Guineas Stakes.”
Music floated past. The skilled quartet her sister had selected for the evening’s entertainments bowed the first notes of a waltz. A dance Albina had hoped to share with the same marquess who seemed more intent on discussing who had the finer horse than on which woman he would like to select as his partner.
She chewed animatedly, her third lemon confection disappearing down her throat. He was supposed to notice her standing there alone, with a hopeful expression on her face, and be the gentleman, offering her at least the courtesy of his conversation.
Of course, he could not see her because of Lord Dalton’s considerably large shadow and the position of the table. If she skirted around—
“Albina.”
She coughed, the tart’s buttered crust still on her tongue, and lifted her gaze to the scrutinizing glare of her twin sister, Sarah.
“I did not know you were partial to lemon.” She nodded toward the crumbs scattered across Albina’s white silk gloves.
Albina brushed her hands together. “Yes, well, tonight they are my favorite.”
“I imagine that is due more to their proximity to Lord Satterfield than to their taste.”
Albina shot her sister what she hoped to be a quelling look and nodded toward Lord Dalton’s thick backside and the group of men beside him.
Sarah rolled her eyes but stepped closer, her long, gloved arms reaching for one of the lemon tarts clustered on the table. “They are deaf to female conversation. Their interest lies not with us but on the derby and how much they should wager.”
“You’ve been eavesdropping?”
“It is not eavesdropping if one can hear their voices over the din—and a string quartet.” She took a bite of the tart as the marquess spoke over the viscount’s laughter.
“The achievement of winning the races is not set on the horse alone, but also on the rider who guides the beast to victory. I know the talent of my own stables, Dalton, but I am not so prideful to boast of winning before the race has been won. My admiration will be bestowed on the champion who claims the title—both man and beast.”
Albina’s ears rang so loudly she failed to hear whatever raucous words Lord Dalton offered as his reply.
His admiration. Captured by the winner of the races. Both man and beast.
The stars had aligned. Her course made clear.
Sarah’s hand clamped down on Albina’s arm. “No.”
“No?”
“Unequivocally no,” Sarah ground out. “I know you, and the look of hopeful vindication glinting in your eye. You must rid yourself of such a foolish notion. Now.”
Albina threw back her shoulders. Why should she not possess such a glimmering aspiration? To prove to all and sundry that the marquess had made an error in his original selection of a wife—her sister now married to Lord Amhurst—and that she was, in fact, the one to whom he should cleave?
That Sarah sought to so thoroughly discourage the notion… Well, it was obvious she was misinformed.
Albina wrested her arm from Sarah’s grasp. “How can you claim to know what I am considering?”
“Though we may not bear identical features, we are twins, Albina. I know you, and the direction of your thoughts, and I strongly advise you to consider another way to earn the marquess’s attentions than through any nonsense involving horses and races.”
Albina blinked. Perhaps her sister was not misinformed. Sarah was, however, misguided. Confused. And in need of a strong push in the correct direction. Preferably toward Albina’s way of thinking.
“Ah, but then you already know I will ignore your advice and instead insist on your aid in achieving my prize.” Sarah had to listen. To see, to understand what the universe had so clearly handed Albina in her quest to secure the marquess.
An opportunity.
To gain not only the attention of the Marquess of Satterfield, but his admiration. She could hardly allow the good fortune to slip through her ringless fingers.
“And you already know I will counter and decline.” Sarah’s tone was firm. But Albina was well aware of her sister’s weakness for logic and had no qualms about using it against her.
“You assisted Henrietta in her scheme to win the earl.”
Indeed, her sister had gone to great lengths to ensure Henrietta’s match, even slipping noxious teas to the other women in consideration for the role of countess. An act of loyalty that now tainted their family’s name. Surely, she would side with Albina and see reason.
“Henrietta’s goal was to ensure our father’s home remained within our family,” Sarah ground out. “You, on the other hand, have no such aspirations.”
“I desire happiness, the same as our sister. Mine is simply embodied within the institution of marriage and not in the brick and mortar of the Plumburn estate.”
Sarah lifted her chin into an all-too-familiar angle of stubborn disagreement. “Marriage is a noble idea, especially when both parties share interest in the notion. The marquess, however, has expressed opinions to the contrary. And quite vocal ones at that.”
Albina stiffened. She need not be reminded of his declarations against marriage. He was a man who simply needed encouragement. And direction. To her.
“Yes, well, he is my choice, and one I wish to pursue, with or without your assistance. Though,” Albina added with a small smile, “it would be much easier with your help than without.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes. “But why him? Why the marquess? He boasts a title and a sizable fortune, but so, too, do half the men in this room.”
A cool and welcome breeze fluttered in through the window, the candlelight briefly flickering and casting Sarah in a shadow. A shadow much like the one her faithful, yet misdirected, actions had brought to their reputation. Of course, Sarah’s teas were not solely at fault. False rumors of the earl’s less-than-idyllic past further soiled the Amhurst name.
Someone with great prestige was required to restore the polish to the family’s slightly tarnished reputation. Someone very much like the marquess.
Albina licked her lips. “Half the men in this room are terrified we will poison their drinks should either of us find them disagreeable. The other half are married, over the age of forty, or missing both hair and teeth. The Marquess of Satterfield is second only to the Duke of Waverly in both rank and fortune. As the duke did with our cousin, gilding over her less-than-tolerable birthright, so, too, can the marquess lift us out of the mire. He, and only he, has the ability to return our name to its former luster. His friendship with Lord Amhurst is the fragile tie that yet holds us in his esteem.”
Sarah let out a soft sigh and lowered her chin. “Are you absolutely certain this is what you desire? To be married to a man who has publicly and most recently stated he wishes to remain unattached?”
“I am.” Albina gave a firm nod. “Minds can be swayed. He is the best candidate for the position of my husband. We do, after all, share a love of horses.”
Sarah laid her hand on Albina’s arm. “I want you to be happy above all else. But you must take into consideration past events. He…he offered for our sister.”
“Several months ago,” Albina countered, her voice rising ever so slightly. “His heart has undoubtedly healed and his mind cleared of any notions he may have harbored. If any doubts remain, why, one could argue it is at our family’s hand that his misery was borrowed, what with Henrietta’s rejection and the pain she inflicted upon him. It is therefore our duty, nay, my duty, to restore him to his prior happiness. A task I shall endeavor to carry through to its completion.”
Taking a step closer, Sarah lowered her voice. “Were I to agree to assist you in your quest to gain the marquess’s attention—”
“I knew you would see reason.”
“I see nothing other than an overly eager and presumptuous sister. I have not yet agreed to your scheming.”
“Scheming?”
Both sisters snapped their heads to the side. Henrietta, her dark brows lifted, peered at them.
Albina was the first to break the silence, the dry crumbs on her tongue disappearing with a quick swallow. “Sarah and I were just—”
“Scheming, were I to guess. The two of you together are capable of no less. That, and Sarah admitted as much.” Henrietta stepped forward to brush a trail of crumbs off the front of Albina’s dress.
“Albina wishes to marry,” Sarah replied.
“A worthy aspiration.”
“The Marquess of Satterfield.”
Henrietta’s hand paused in midair. “Still? Oh, dear. I had rather thought you had given up the idea.”
“I have not, nor shall I ever. I will not be swayed, Henrietta. I have made my decision.” And she had. No one would convince her otherwise.
A look passed between her sisters, the two of them sighing as they returned their gazes to her.
“And how do you propose to gain the attention of a man who has, on more than one occasion, ignored persons of the female persuasion?” Henrietta asked.
Albina clasped her hands together, her eyes straying once more to where the marquess stood, deep in conversation with Lord Dalton. His very presence sent her heart racing. He possessed the soul destined to be forever bound to hers. She was certain of it.
Which was why she took a deep breath and said, “By racing. In the Emberton Derby.”
Sarah’s eyes bulged. “You wish to race?”
“You heard the marquess. It is the beast and the rider who will earn his admiration.”
Sarah snatched Albina’s elbow and led her away from the men, toward a darkened and empty corner of the room, Henrietta trailing close behind. “And what happens when you pass the finish line and seek to claim your prize? You are an unwed daughter of an earl—a lady.”
Albina pulled away from Sarah’s silk-covered hand. “It is not a lady the marquess wants.”
“No, I daresay he does not. But as you are unlikely to sprout a tail, a mane, and an extra set of legs—”
“Don’t be absurd.” Lifting the fan dangling from her wrist, Albina splayed open its painted blades.
Sarah tapped Albina’s wrist with her own fan, her face the very opposite of the humor the absurdity of her words implied. “The marquess may not wish to marry a lady, but make no mistake—a lady is who he will take for a wife. Not a woman flouting convention, sitting astride the back of a horse, her legs encased in buckskin.”
“I have the bloodlines required to secure the role of a marquess.”
“You also have certain expectations and standards to uphold,” Henrietta said with a frown. “And jaunting about the countryside—”
“Will earn his favor. His admiration will be bestowed on the champion of the races, and the champion I shall be.” Albina snapped the blades of her fan shut.
Sarah shook her head, the curls their maid had deliberately placed against her neck swaying with the motion. “Given the minimal possibility the marquess overlooks your indiscretion, there is still the matter of the race itself. You have not ridden astride in months, Albina. The likelihood of your winning, should you somehow convince the stable hand to allow you within ten feet of any one of the earl’s horses, are odds not even the most experienced of gamblers would wager.”
“Your confidence in my talents is staggering, Sarah.”
“And well-founded,” her sister said flatly.
“Regardless, I simply need a bit of practice. And it just so happens I have six weeks to ready before the start of the race.”
“Six weeks?” Sarah harrumphed. “You need more than practice. You need a miracle.”
“Which is why I need both of you to assist me.” Albina took Henrietta’s gloved hands in her own. “I need you to speak with your husband. Persuade him to see—”
“Your lunacy?” Henrietta asked.
Sarah sniffed. “Committing an immoral act of seduction will get you a husband as well, but no one is recommending you take on that endeavor.”
Henrietta shot Sarah a quelling look. “Nor will they. Such an idea is best ignored.” She turned to Albina. “Much like you racing.”
Albina opened her mouth, but Henrietta continued. “However, I know you are not easily swayed, no matter how much sense is in the contradiction of your scheme. I can’t promise acquiescence, Albina, but”—she paused, her hands falling from Albina’s grasp—“I will…I will do my best to present your request to the earl.”
Albina’s heart raced. Her idea would be heard. Voiced. Even considered by the Earl of Amhurst.
Her dreams were on the precipice of reality.
“Henrietta,” Sarah gasped. “You cannot be serious.”
“You know as well as I Albina will continue to press this matter with or without our acceptance. It does little harm to present the idea to the earl. Should he refuse her request—”
“He won’t,” Albina asserted. Surely he would see her side of things, would understand her frustrations with the marquess’s continual indifference toward her person. As well as her intense desire to be wed to a respected and titled peer. She was a daughter of Amhurst, after all.
“Be that as it may,” Henrietta continued, “I strongly advise you to prepare yourself to receive news you may not wish to hear.”
Albina gripped her twin’s arm and pulled her close. “Which is precisely where Sarah comes into play. As a secondary option.”
Sarah’s dark brows lifted. “A secondary option?”
“Yes, should the first and preferable one fail.”
Sarah pulled her arm from Albina’s hands. “And how precisely would you have me assist you? I do not have any earls to persuade.”
“No, but you have skills in the finer arts of tea making.” Indeed, the last time Sarah had blended an herbal tea, Albina had been ill for two weeks, which would allow her enough time to assert herself as the new jockey for the house of Amhurst before the horses were set to race in the Emberton Derby.
Both Sarah and Henrietta stared at her, aghast.
“I cannot race if the jockey remains. His absence is required.”
“Absolutely not.” Sarah crossed her arms. “My days of blending teas are over.”
“But the jockey,” Albina persisted. “I cannot present myself as a replacement and race with him in good health.”
Sarah’s nose flared. “You cannot race if the earl forbids it, either.”
“I have to agree with Sarah, dear,” Henrietta whispered. “You know well the repercussions we all faced when she last dabbled in such things. Mama was beside herself with embarrassment at her actions, and the earl was almost lost to me.”
“But he is yours now,” Albina persisted. “You are happy, Henrietta. I am not. But I have an opportunity to become so, if allowed to race at Emberton.”
Sarah’s shoulder’s slumped, her stony expression shifting into one of sadness and concern. “Happiness will not be found in the arms of the marquess, Albina. Not if you first do not—”
“Eliminate the jockey and practice my riding. You are absolutely right. I have six weeks to prepare before Emberton, and I do not intend to waste another minute. With the administration of your tea in the morning, I shall begin my training. And when the earl gives his consent, I shall have made the most of my time.” Albina flicked her wrist, the blades of her fan splaying open. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a race to win. And a marquess to ensnare. He is no doubt missing my presence.”
If he had even noticed her departure.
She thrust her shoulders back. Of course he had noticed—she had been with Henrietta.
Albina passed a footman and snatched the fullest glass of ratafia off his tray. And drank it in one swallow.
…
Edmund’s heart raced, the same way it always did when a thousand pounds of barely restrained power thrummed beneath his fingers and the firm bristles of his brush.
At sixteen hands high, the inky black Thoroughbred stallion was a masterpiece, the result of meticulously selected champions and pure, traceable bloodlines. He was a creation to be revered. Appreciated. And raced at dangerous speeds.
The horse was the direct opposite of the dull, docile, and painstakingly slow sheep Edmund’s great-uncle seemed determined to press upon him. Yet, were his elderly relation to be believed, sheep were financial stability. A solid future. And what Edmund should assume responsibility of and inherit.
On the condition that he gave up what was, according to the old man, the ridiculous, frivolous, and irresponsible notion of horse racing and all that it entailed. He was to hereby detach himself from the very thing he loved to assume the title his great-uncle was so graciously bestowing upon him.
Unfortunately for his great-uncle, Edmund did not want a title. Or the responsibilities it entailed. Including the bloody sheep.
Not when he already had his heart’s desire. Or at least as close to it as he could ever claim. Sheep may be financial security, but horses—horses required more than stability. They required a fortune. And the modest-sized herd of sheep his great-uncle had amassed was not enough to race one steed, let alone the several the Earl of Amhurst had purchased.
As head groom to the earl, Edmund had the select privilege of caring for the highly coveted horses. Which was why he had ignored his mother’s pleading and his great-uncle’s demands and had accepted the position as soon as it was offered. The stables were where he belonged, where the smell of horse and hay blended with the whinnies of powerful beasts—and the soft footfalls heard on the other side of the stall.
Edmund set down his brush and frowned. Mr. Abbot, the earl’s jockey, was known for early rides through Plumburn’s extensive pastures, but the sun had barely risen, the first pink beams of dawn only now breaking through the stables’ high-set windows.
“Mr. Abbot?” he asked, taking care to keep his voice low so as not to startle the horses. He stepped outside of the stall, glancing up and down the wide aisle running down the center of the barn. Only the occasional stomps and tail swishes of well-groomed horses met his ears—and a soft suppressed sneeze.
Damn. If his great-uncle had sent someone to sabotage Edmund’s position and force his acceptance of the old goat’s ultimatum…
He made his way toward the sound, which came from the area housing the bay mare the earl intended to enter into the rapidly approaching Emberton Derby. Peering into the darkened stall, he squinted, the dim light, along with the hindquarters of the spirited mare, making it near impossible to see into the far corners.
He slipped alongside the steed, rubbing his fingers against the short, reddish-brown hairs of the beast’s coat. Another rustle, and he shot his hand into the shadowy corner, his fingers curling over coarse wool.
He tightened his hold, his hand locking around the fabric, as whatever he had grasped attempted to jerk free. His heart pounded as he wrestled his assailant, thrusting their slender arm behind their back and against his chest.
“On whose orders did you come?” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“My own. Now release me, before I report you to your superiors.”
The words themselves carried little weight. He had been given full authority from the earl to do whatever necessary to protect the Thoroughbreds from any potential threats. What slackened his grip and had him momentarily losing focus was the unmistakable feminine voice with which the words were spoken.
She wrested her arm from his grasp and spun toward him. Enough light was afforded to make out a pair of flashing green-brown eyes staring up at him from under the narrow brim of a gentleman’s riding hat.
Good God.
A woman stood in his barn. In men’s clothing a size too small, were he to judge from the way the worn and thin fabric molded over her soft curves and voluptuous figure.
Jesus.
“State your business.” His voice was low and even, despite the rapid beating of his heart.
“I am not required to speak to a stable boy.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a stable boy.”
His blood continued to race, and for once, he was thankful for the dim shadows of the barn and the veil of protection they afforded. Were the sun higher, the hour later, and her assessing gaze lower, he’d have a damned hard time explaining away his very physical reaction to her nearness.
But he was no longer a youth with uncontrollable urges. And she was not a maid, if the dialect and formality of her speech were to be believed. So who, then, was she? And what the hell was she doing in his barn?
“I do not have to explain myself to a groom, whatever his rank.”
“That is where you are wrong.” Edmund leaned toward her, catching a whiff of rose and bergamot intertwined with the sweet smell of hay and freshly washed horse. “I have the authority to not only question anyone within an arm’s length of this animal, but also to deal with them in whatever manner I deem appropriate and fitting.”
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 arsehere 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. Myhouse. 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.”
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