Unbefitting a Lady
‘Leaving so soon?’ Giles looked up from his paper. ‘Anxious to see your colt?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t suppose we’ll see you before dinner?’ Giles arched a dark brow in query.
‘There’s a lot to be done. I was gone for two days,’ Phaedra said.
‘That’s what Basingstoke is for. Let him do the job he’s been hired for.’ Giles gave her a patient, brotherly smile. ‘You need time to be yourself, to do things you enjoy, Phae. You’ve been working too hard. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’ Giles folded the newspaper and set it aside.
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this spring, Phae. I know now isn’t the best time, but perhaps after dinner tonight?’ It was a token of how much Giles had softened this year that he was asking at all. Last year Giles would simply have issued his edict and considered it done.
‘Perhaps,’ Phaedra offered noncommittally. Giles could talk all he wanted. She wasn’t going to London for a Season. She had the Derby to think about. She couldn’t be spending her days on Bond Street trying on dresses to impress men she wasn’t going to marry, not when Warbourne needed her here. Phaedra grabbed up an apple from a bowl on the sideboard and made a hasty retreat before Giles decided to have the discussion right then.
Unlike the quiet house, the stables were a hive of activity. Horses and grooms rose early. Phaedra went straight to an old, unused tack room she’d converted into an office during the winter and began going through paperwork that had arrived while she was gone. There wasn’t much of it, but the ritual was soothing and it centred her thoughts. Here, sitting at the scarred desk she’d found in the stable storage loft, she felt at home. This was her place. A rough desk, a rough chair, the worn breeding ledgers lined on a shelf that detailed every foal born at Castonbury—all of it defined her world.
Phaedra pulled down a book that catalogued the horses at Castonbury. She flipped through until she found a blank page towards the back. She reached for the quill and inkstand on her desk and carefully wrote Warbourne, followed by his lineage, the price paid and date of purchase. She blew on the ink to dry it and surveyed the entry with a deep sense of pride. It was time to see the colt.
Phaedra strode through the stable, stopping every so often to stroke a head poking out of its stall. She was nearly to Warbourne’s stall when she sensed it. Something was wrong. No, not wrong, merely different, out of the usual. Phaedra backtracked two stalls and halted. Merlin’s stall was empty.
Jamie! Phaedra tamped down a wave of uncertain emotion, part fear and part wild hope tinged by memories of Troubadour and Edward, who had not been parted, not even in death. Phaedra strode through the stables at a half-run looking for Tom Anderson. ‘Tom!’ she called out, finding him cleaning a saddle. ‘Tom, where’s Merlin?’
‘Now settle yourself, missy. There’s nothing wrong,’ Tom said in calm tones. ‘Bram’s got him out in the round pen for a little work. You know how he’s been giving the boys trouble. No one’s been on him for quite a while and the longer he goes without discipline, the harder it will be to instil any in him.’
Phaedra’s emotions settled into neutral agitation. A stranger had taken out Jamie’s horse. It was true, Merlin needed work. But it still felt odd. ‘The round pen, you said?’ She would go and have a look, and if anything was amiss, it would be the last time Bram Basingstoke helped himself to Jamie’s horse.
Phaedra pulled her hacking jacket closer against the cold as she made her way towards the round pen. The day was overcast and grey, the sky full of clouds. In short, a typical Derbyshire March day. There would be twenty-seven more of them, probably all of them save the variance in rainfall. Derbyshire wasn’t known for ‘early springs.’
In the offing, she could see the chestnut blur of Merlin as he cantered the perimeter of the pen. Cantered? That was promising. Phaedra quickened her pace. Lately, Merlin usually galloped heedlessly in the round pen, not minding any of the commands from the exercise boys. This morning, he was collected, running in a circle at a controlled pace.
As she neared, Phaedra made out the dark form of a man in the centre, long whip raised for instruction in one arm, the other arm stretched out in front of him holding the lunge line. But that wasn’t what held her attention. It was the fact that the man in question was doing all this shirtless. This time, Phaedra’s shiver had nothing at all to do with the weather.
Chapter Four
Bram Basingstoke stood in the round pen stripped to the waist and gleaming indecently with sweat. Phaedra was torn between continuing forward—which would result in him putting his shirt on, or standing back to discreetly watch him work, which would result in the shirt staying off a bit longer—a very enticing proposition, especially when one was as well made as he and she’d had very few opportunities to see such a finely honed man. It wasn’t nearly the same as seeing one’s brother en déshabillé.
Phaedra opted for the latter and stayed back by the hay shed. No girl with an iota of curiosity about the male physique would discard the chance to see such a display of manhood. Déshabillé was hardly an apt description. Déshabillé implied casually or partially dressed. She supposed breeches and boots counted as partially dressed, technically. But the point remained, he was closer to ‘half naked’ than partially dressed and gloriously so.
The muscles of his arm were taut with exertion from holding the lunge line, showing developed upper arms and well-formed shoulders. There had been considerable power behind the fist that had floored Sir Nathan the day before. Broad shoulders gave way to a well-defined torso, a veritable atlas of ridges and muscle leading to a tapered waist. With that kind of strength on display it was no wonder Merlin was cantering dutifully through his exercises.
Bram brought Merlin to a halt. She should probably make her presence known. She couldn’t stand here all day ogling the help. Aunt Wilhelmina would have an apoplexy if she knew or if she saw … Phaedra stifled a laugh at the thought of Aunt Wilhelmina seeing Bram like this. She doubted Aunt Wilhelmina had ever tolerated a naked man in her presence. More the pity for her. Phaedra squared her shoulders and prepared to pretend she hadn’t been watching him work.
Bram saw her crossing the field from the hay shed and smiled. He’d felt her even before that. Bram reeled in the big stallion length by length. It had been her. She’d been watching him. The little minx had finally decided to make her presence known. He would be interested to see what she would do now that she had to do more than admire him from a distance. Chances were she wasn’t in the habit of viewing men’s bare chests on a daily basis.
‘Good morning!’ he called out cheerfully, waving an arm her direction. He should put on his shirt, but what would the fun be in that? Still, propriety demanded it. Bram reached half-heartedly for the garment but his hand stalled at a closer view of her. Good Lord, the woman was wearing riding breeches—and wearing them well. Bram left his shirt where it hung on a post.
‘That’s Jamie’s horse,’ Phaedra said without preamble. She propped a booted leg up on a rail, calling far too much attention to the shapely thigh encased in buckskin. In skirts, one wasn’t aware of just how long her legs were. In breeches, there was no avoiding the fact. Bram adjusted his gaze to her face, trying to dispel hot thoughts of those long legs wrapped about him, the curve of her derriere neatly nestled in his hands. The effort succeeded only marginally.
‘I know whose horse it is. The stable lads mentioned he hadn’t had a proper exercise in a while on account of his unruly nature,’ Bram answered coolly, keenly aware Miss Phaedra Montague was a pretty handful of trouble herself. Was she?
Did she have any idea what those legs in breeches did to a man, to say nothing of the white shirt falling loosely over her breasts. He’d always been rather partial to a woman in a man’s shirt. There was something undeniably sexy about it, especially if that was all she wore. Although Bram thought Phaedra Montague was doing a fine job just as it was.
Phaedra tossed her long braid over her shoulder and gave a shrug. ‘He seems to respond to you.’ Her posture was nonchalant but her gaze wasn’t. She was having a hard time looking at him. Bram stifled a grin.
‘He needs a strong hand or he’ll forget you’re the master.’ Bram reached out a hand to stroke Merlin’s long face.
‘Are you going to put on your shirt?’ Phaedra’s eyes flicked to the post where his shirt hung.
‘Did you want me to?’ It was an audacious thing to say to a lady but he wanted her to be honest with herself. He’d never held with the notion of missishness when it came to the opposite sex. He liked a woman who knew her own appetites.
She blushed but didn’t look away. ‘And you thought Sir Nathan didn’t know how to talk to a lady.’ Her eyes flashed with something Bram couldn’t pinpoint—disapproval, or maybe something more electric. Bram’s temper rose at the comparison.
‘I will not be confused with the likes of him. He called you a bitch, I only called you out.’
‘That is a most indecent suggestion!’
They were nearly nose to nose now, the breasts beneath her white shirt almost brushing his chest. He could see the flecks of blue in her grey eyes, could smell the sweet tang of apple about her—a horsey smell and a womanly smell all at once. ‘Be honest, Phaedra, you were watching me. There’s no sin in admitting it.’ He smiled and released her, reaching for his shirt. ‘There’s no sin in liking it either, only in lying.’
Phaedra’s chin tilted in defiance. ‘I think—’
Bram cut her off with a chuckle. ‘Oh, I know what you think, Phaedra Montague.’ He pulled his shirt over his head, remembering at the last it was a work shirt and lacked front fastenings, not his usual Bond Street affair. He shoved his arms through and tucked it into his waistband. ‘Now that’s settled. This old boy could use a ride.’ Lady Phaedra could take the last remark any way she liked.
He patted Merlin’s neck. ‘Why don’t you come along? You can show me the bridle paths.’ It would give him a chance to talk to her about the colt and a chance to see whether Tom Anderson’s admiration was misplaced.
It wasn’t. While he saddled Merlin, Phaedra led out a strong bay mare with a striking white blaze and tacked her with considerable speed. They were out of the stable fifteen minutes later, both horses eager for their head in the cold March morning. The ground was flat and they let the horses run until the house and the stables faded behind them. They slowed the horses, turning them towards the stand of trees lining the perimeter of the Castonbury forest. The forest itself marked the border of the vast parklands.
The grandeur of Castonbury was not lost on Bram. Even the park acreage that extended beyond the cultivated lawns and gardens commanded breathtaking views, unadulterated with follies and man-made vignettes. In the distance, the Peaks made a striking granite backdrop to the forest on his left and the lake waters on his right. In the summer, those Peaks were probably reflected there. Today, though, the waters were grey and choppy.
‘It’s prettier in the spring,’ Phaedra commented, following his gaze to the lake. ‘The heather blooms and there are wildflowers. By summer, it’s a paradise.’
‘I like it this way.’ Bram turned in his saddle to look at her. ‘It’s dark and hard, more masculine, I think.’
‘Of course you do,’ Phaedra replied. ‘It’s not wearing anything. The countryside is naked in winter.’
Bram hooted with laughter so loud Merlin sidestepped. ‘Do you always say the first thing that comes to mind?’ He hoped so. It was an absurdly refreshing departure from the cleverly spiked repartee of the London ladies he knew.
‘Oh, hush up, will you? You’ll scare the horses.’
Phaedra shot him a scolding look, pursed lips and all. It only made him laugh louder. Phaedra’s mare swung in a tight circle, looking for the source of the noise.
‘Now you’ve done it.’ Phaedra quieted the mare long enough to slide off her back. ‘We’ll have to walk them until they settle down.’
They led the horses down to the lake and let them drink. Absolute silence surrounded them. Bram could hear the horses’ lips lapping the water. He could feel the wind that rustled the tall pines. He could not recall the last time he’d actually heard such individual noises. London was one big cacophony of sound. The city had a single volume—loud—which was useful for drowning one’s thoughts but not much else.
‘Your mare is beautiful. She has good conformation, a strong chest. I bet she’s a great jumper. Isolde, right?’
Phaedra looked up from watching her horse drink, a soft smile on her face, a smile he hadn’t seen yet. She was pleased he’d remembered. ‘Isolde’s the best jumper in the county.’
The haughtiness, the hardness, was gone, her defences unguarded in that moment. This was Phaedra Montague revealed. She was utterly lovely when she smiled like that. The man in him went rock-hard at the age-old paradox of wanting to protect that loveliness while wanting to claim it for his own. Such a treasure spoke to the primal nature that lived at the core of a man.
Bram held her gaze intentionally, watching the pink tip of her tongue flick ever so slightly across her lips, watching her eyes flit away and then back. She was unsure and yet excited about the emotional undercurrent rising between them.
She blinked first. ‘You wanted to talk about the colt.’ She stared out over the lake, breaking the spell.
‘Yes, what are your plans for him? Are you going to make a hunter out of him?’ Warbourne would be passably good in that capacity, although Bram thought him a bit on the slim side to truly match the broad-chested strength of Isolde.
Phaedra’s gaze swivelled towards him, her authority returning. ‘I mean to race him on the flat. Have you forgotten already or do you think, as my brother does, that it can’t be done?’ She was defensive over the colt, protective. She had her armour on now.
Bram gave a considering nod. He’d not forgotten. She’d said as much to Giles in Buxton and the implication had been clear when she’d shown him the wagon. Bram ran over the colt’s features in his mind; the long, thin cannon bones in the colt’s legs and the lean hindquarters bespoke the potential for speed—if that speed could be channelled. If Warbourne was anything, he was a racer.
That was the great ‘if’ with Warbourne. Then there was his age to consider. As a racer, Warbourne was running short on time. ‘He’ll be four soon. Most colts race earlier. That could be a problem.’
‘I’m not waiting until next year,’ Phaedra said resolutely. ‘I’m racing him in the Derby. It’s only open to three-year-olds.’
Bram shot her an incredulous look. ‘The Derby? The Derby at Epsom? That’s in May, less than three months away.’
‘May twenty-second, technically speaking,’ Phaedra corrected without hesitation. ‘I’ll need every week I can get.’
Bram had no argument there. Heavy training had just begun for most stables in preparation for racing season opening in April. If Warbourne was the usual horse, it might be enough.
‘Has your brother approved?’ He seemed to recall Giles Montague being a bit reserved on the subject when it had come up yesterday. He could understand why. Warbourne was that rare commodity of the known and unknown and a female trainer was rarer still. Her reception in the racing world was not guaranteed. Giles Montague was right to worry. His sister could be a scandal in the making.
Phaedra shrugged noncommittally. ‘He will once he sees what Warbourne can do.’ Which might be a polite way of saying she’d cross that bridge when she came to it … if she ever came to it. Bram saw the merit of her strategy. Why argue with her brother until she absolutely had to have his permission? If Warbourne wasn’t ready, or if he failed to qualify, what would be the point?
‘No one just shows up at Epsom,’ Bram prodded. Maybe she didn’t know, maybe she hadn’t thought about the precursor races. He wasn’t sure what she knew about the horseracing world.
She gave a curt nod. ‘I know.’ But he could see from the little crease between her eyes she was in deep thought. She was still trying to manage the logistics. He could guide her on that point if she’d let him. Many of his connections and obligations in London had centred around the turf.
‘I’d love to race him at the Two Thousand Guineas in Newmarket but I don’t see how I’ll manage it. I think we’ll have to simply risk it all on Epsom,’ Phaedra said at last.
‘I admire your tenacity,’ Bram began, hoping he didn’t sound patronising. She would not respect condescension. But she had to be made to understand the enormity of her goal. ‘To take a colt like Warbourne all the way to Epsom is a difficult task even if there was more time.’ Bram shook his head. For all she knew, Warbourne was past his prime, ruined. ‘To do it in a single spring borders on impossibility.’
‘But just borders,’ Phaedra said staunchly. Her gaze returned out over the water, stubbornness etched in the tightness of her jaw.
Bram let out a deep breath. He could add annoying and obstinate to the list of adjectives describing Phaedra Montague. ‘I don’t think even I could do it.’
That did bring her gaze back to him. She raised perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘Not too proud, are we?’ She tossed his words back at him from yesterday.
Bram chuckled. He could play that game. ‘Not proud. Just honest. Sound familiar?’
‘Honesty’s been quite the theme today,’ Phaedra said. Her hands were on her hips, emphasising the slimness of her waist. Bram’s hands ached to take their place. ‘While we’re being honest about preferring shirts to no shirts, and who can or cannot train a colt in time for Epsom, let me say this. I am not interested in whether you can train him in time. I am only interested in whether I can.’
If there had been doubt about her seriousness, Bram would have laughed, thinking her comment nothing more than sassy words from a spoiled young miss. But she was in deadly earnest and she meant every last one of her sharp words. Why shouldn’t she? She was the Duke of Rothermere’s daughter. To her, he was nothing more than the latest in a string of temporary grooms.
There wasn’t much he could tell her to change that without giving himself away. But there was plenty he could show her. Maybe he couldn’t read a horse’s mind but she wasn’t the only one who could train a champion or ride like hell and he’d start showing her right now.
‘You say she’s the best jumper in the county?’ Bram eyed Isolde, who’d finished drinking and had turned her attentions to cropping the sparse tufts of grass.
‘Untouchable,’ Phaedra said with her customary confidence.
‘Merlin seems to be a prime goer. I’ll bet he can give her a run for her money.’ Competition sparked in Phaedra’s eyes. Bram grinned. It didn’t take much to stoke that particular fire. She rose to the bait all too easily.
Phaedra gave one of her shrugs. ‘He’s fast, tends to tire over long distances, but he’ll jump any fence you find in the meanwhile.’
‘Then let’s go.’ Bram winked and tossed her up into the saddle before swinging up into his own. He wheeled Merlin around. ‘One point for every log, two points for every fence. First one back to the stables claims a prize. On your mark, get set, go!’
Chapter Five
Phaedra pulled Isolde to a halt a half-length behind Merlin in the stable quadrangle. ‘I win!’ she crowed triumphantly, sliding off the horse’s back and loosening the girth. Isolde was slick with sweat. She’d run hard and jumped harder, much harder, than Merlin.
Bram dismounted and shot her a mischievous smile that boded ill. ‘You can’t possibly think you won?’ Phaedra drew the reins over Isolde’s head. ‘I counted fifteen points for me and only eight for you.’ It had been no small feat to keep track of logs and fences for the two of them while flying breakneck over the Castonbury lands.
Bram fell in beside her, leading a lathered Merlin to the stalls. ‘I believe the rule was first one back to the stables wins, not who accrues the most points.’
‘Then why jump anything at all?’ Phaedra retorted.
‘Yes, why indeed?’ Bram’s white-toothed grin was insufferable in its arrogance and twice as enticing. It was almost impossible to be angry at a smile like that.
‘Next you’ll be telling me you only jumped a few things to humour me.’
‘No, I jumped a few things so you wouldn’t suspect anything. Once you told me Merlin wasn’t keen on longer distances, I knew I didn’t have a chance unless Isolde tired herself out.’ Bram called for a stable boy to take the horses. ‘Give them both a good rub down. They’re sweaty and could take a chill. Put on their blankets and turn them out to their paddocks.’ Then he gave her all his attention. ‘Now it’s time to claim my forfeit.’
‘You can’t be serious. You cheated. You deliberately implied certain things,’ Phaedra argued.
‘I’m always serious about winning. I didn’t peg you for a sore loser, Phaedra. Are you refusing to pay up?’
That stung. ‘Of course not.’ But it took all her bravado to admit it. The way he was looking at her right now made her wonder exactly what kind of forfeit he wanted to claim. She probably should have defined those terms as well. She gave it a belated try. ‘I won’t kiss you for it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Bram stepped closer, making her aware of the sheer maleness of him, a potent combination of muscle, leather and horse, all the things a man should be. ‘Why not? I am of the opinion you need kissing.’
‘I’ve been kissed before, if you must know,’ Phaedra said in low tones. Good heavens, she hoped they weren’t overheard. This was the most unseemly conversation. She tried to end it by walking to her office.
Bram gave a chuckle that sent butterflies to her stomach in warm flutters and followed her. ‘I’m sure you have if you count parlour games and mistletoe.’
They’d reached her office door. He should take the hint it was time to part. But he didn’t. Instead he rested his arm on the door frame over her head and leaned towards her, his arm, his body, effectively trapping her against the wall before she could go in and escape behind the security of her desk. ‘That’s not the kind of kissing I’m talking about, Phaedra.’ There was a wealth of innuendo and invitation in that short phrase and it sent a jolt of warm heat straight to her belly.
She should tell him to stop using her name. He was hired help. He should know better. She should be outraged at his bold behaviour, maybe even frightened. Aunt Wilhelmina would be. But all Phaedra could conjure up in response was excitement.
‘What kind of kissing are you talking about?’ Phaedra bit her lip wincing at her words. Had she actually said that? ‘Never mind, I don’t want to know.’
‘Of course you want to know.’ His blue eyes dropped to her lips, his mouth a teasing half-smile full of knowledge.
‘I think you’re the most outrageous man I’ve ever met.’ It was the most sophisticated set-down she could manage under the circumstances and the most true. None of the young bucks she’d encountered could match him in his relentless pursuit of … of what? Of her?
Bram stepped back, releasing her from his intimate cage, that ever-present smile on his face when he looked at her as if he could read her every thought. ‘Good, that gives us something in common. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to see to.’
A little flame of temper flared. How dare he imply she’d been the one keeping him when he’d been the one to follow her to the office and … and what? Phaedra went inside and shut her door, craving solitude.
He really was most the unnerving man she’d ever encountered. It wasn’t because she hadn’t met an arrogant man before. She’d met a few, Sir Nathan Samuelson notwithstanding, and she’d routinely found the arrogance completely unattractive. But on Bram Basingstoke, that was not the case. He wore arrogance infuriatingly well. He was confident, sure of himself, and sure of her as if he knew all along what she’d do next before she knew it herself.