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

had at least five the night of the ball. You know she does not handle citrus well. She has been rather off ever since.”
    Albina brought a hand to her mouth and coughed. “Yes, the lemon tarts. I am afraid I overindulged.” And she had, but not on the sweet confections—she had overindulged on a groom with a fondness for kisses. And leaving her breathless.
    Botheration. She needed to get her thoughts in order. It would not do to dwell on past actions. The future was where contentment reigned as the Marchioness of Satterfield. She simply had to get through the next six weeks to earn her title and all would be as it should.
    Her mother’s brow lifted. “Ah, lemon tarts. Some of Cook’s finest. Though I rather thought your woolgathering had more to do with yesterday’s encounter with the marquess than pastries.”
    “The marquess?” Albina asked. She set her brush down alongside her paints, willing her hands not to tremble.
    “Don’t play coy, Albina,” her mother chided. “I am not an imbecile. Henrietta and the duchess were commenting on the encounter earlier. Did he offer his compliments on your riding?”
    “He…well, he…” Albina glanced at Sarah, whose light-brown eyes were wide with concern.
    “He was distracted by the earl and his horseflesh,” Sarah finished. “Why, the duke and the earl were both goading the poor man into making an impossible wager. One the marquess has no hope of winning.”
    Albina’s lips lifted in spite of herself.
    Their mother sighed. “And I suppose this wager has more to do with horses than any references to Albina?”
    “The marquess is an equestrian enthusiast and understandably interested in the upcoming races at Emberton,” Albina said defensively.
    Sarah’s eyes narrowed at their mother. “You do not think the marquess and Albina a good match?”
    “He is a suitable husband, one of fortune and title.” Her mother interlaced her fingers and set them on her lap. The sentiment felt unfinished. As though she had more to say but was afraid to say it, which would never do.
    “You did not answer the question,” Albina prodded.
    Her mother’s intense gaze caught hers. “My opinion matters little in the grand scheme of things. You will do as you wish, as you have always done. I do hope, however, you will find a happiness in your spouse equal to the one you possess when you ride or paint. You deserve as much, dear, and should not settle for anything less.”
    Albina and Sarah exchanged a glance.
    “Do you not think the marquess capable of bringing me such happiness?” asked Albina.
    Her mother’s face softened. “I am certain he is more than capable. I have seen many a proud man brought to task by the woman who loves him.”
    Albina’s heart warmed. Her mother approved. The marquess…Albina’s decision…her mother approved it all.
    “My concern, however,” her mother continued, “is not whether the marquess will make you a good husband, but whether you will make him a good wife.”
    Frowning, she shot Sarah a questioning glance before settling on her mother. “There are expectations. I am an earl’s daughter.”
    “And he a marquess. Yet, his title alone will not make you happy.”
    Albina opened her mouth to speak, but no words tumbled forth. All form of speech had left, her mental capacity for such things addled by her mother’s absurd reply. A title had everything to do with happiness. Her mother was a countess, and her sister one, too. Even her cousin, an American-born woman, held the prestigious title of duchess. And all three women appeared happy. Incandescently so.
    A title equated contentment. Common knowledge dictated it.
    “I also know,” her mother continued, “oftentimes what we think we want and what we actually require are two different things.” Albina’s brow furrowed. Her mother wasn’t making any sense.
    Ever since Albina had laid eyes on the marquess, she knew he was what she wanted. He was a respected peer with a large estate