Free To Win a Viscount (Daughters of Amhurst) by Frances Fowlkes Page A

pounded impatiently on the sodden earth. Early-summer dew glistened on clumps of grass alongside the beast. Vapors of predawn mist rose to cling to the fog that enshrouded the stable.
    The hour was early. The earl’s unruly relation was not.
    Seconds ticked into minutes. Minutes into a quarter hour. He had work to do, dammit. The horses demanded his care, and he looked forward to the peace and comfort found in treating them—he didn’t have time to wait around for a spoiled lady who, for one reason or another, had taken it upon herself to assume the role of a jockey. All while pretending to be a man.
    He shoved a hand through his hair.
    A woman jockey. And he was forced to train her—should she enter his barn and demand his expertise, of course. He had no alternative but to educate her, not unless he wished to incur the disfavor of both an earl and a bloody duke. Well, he may not have any choice in whether or not he trained the girl, but he did have a say in the methods he used. The enforcement of arrival times was one of them. If she couldn’t get her arse out of bed to make time for a race she wanted to win—that she needed to win to save his own backside—he would go and wake her himself.
    Blood warming, his pulse increased at the idea of entering her chambers unbidden. Of viewing her in nothing more than a nightshift, her dark curls brushing over a half-bare shoulder…
    “Mr. White.”
    The personification of his fantasy appeared through the fog as though she had stepped straight from a dream. Gone was the nightshift, replaced with the thin, worn garments from the day before, including the same pair of breeches that showcased the slight flare of her hips and the perfect, rounded curve of her bottom. His cock hardened.
    He needed a distraction.
    “You’re late.”
    Lady Albina thrust her hip to the side, a hand resting against the seductive swell. “As you did not give a specific time to arrive, I do not claim responsibility for your accusation.”
    “If you want to win, you will be here before the sun rises. Not as it breaks.”
    “I should think it difficult to ride in the dark.”
    “Not if you ride with me.” He thrust the ribbons toward her, the horse whinnying in protest at his less-than-gentle handling. “I do not have time to argue with you, my lady. Unless you have changed your mind about racing?” Perhaps she was not as interested as the earl suspected.
    “No.” She snatched the proffered ribbons and stalked to the horse. Her stance softened, her entire body easing as she ran a hand along the mare’s neck. The beast snorted its pleasure.
    Good . He needed the mare and the lady to have a connection. He also needed them to cross a finish line in a highly competitive race, but for a beginning lesson, he could have had worse—the horse could have not favored her handling.
    And he could have encouraged hers. He could have given in to the lust coursing through him and taken her on the grass, dew and dirt be damned, encouraging her to handle areas of his very stimulated body.
    “You need a new set of clothing,” he said roughly.
    She glanced down at her shoddy attire. “Does this not suffice?”
    “Not if I am to recommend you as Mr. Abbot’s replacement. You are to represent the Earl of Amhurst. You must dress accordingly.”
    “And at the derby, I shall. But for morning practices, when you alone are viewing my person, I should think my attire more than adequate.”
    Adequate for arousing him to painful proportions, and little else. “My stable hands wear better fitted clothing.”
    She slipped her foot into the stirrup. “Careful, Mr. White. One might presume you are taking on airs.”
    “Not airs, but concerns.”
    “Concerns?” She hoisted herself up and over the horse, her voluptuous bottom adjusting on the saddle.
    “Your attire is unsuitable for riding. One can immediately determine your sex through those rags.”
    She glanced down at her threadbare shirt, at the waistcoat pulled