Unbefitting a Lady

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘It’s the most prestigious. It secures a horse’s reputation for stud.’ She looked at him as if he were an idiot. Any horseman worth his salt would know that. Bram had met women who were patronesses of the sport but they were not duke’s daughters. They were women of a middling rank or less who had made a hobby-cum-livelihood out of it. They dabbled in breeding and racing. Phaedra didn’t need a livelihood. It begged the question, what did she need?

  ‘Why is it so important to you though?’ he pressed, knowing full well he was treading on unexamined territory. Bram could not recall the last time he’d had a real conversation with a woman, where he’d actually listened, where it actually mattered what she said next. Maybe he’d never had one. But he was having one tonight, and he was beyond curious about her answer. For whatever reason, her answer mattered. He wanted to know what drove this neck-or-nothing beauty. This was unexplored territory indeed. ‘Well, Phaedra, why?’ He repeated softly.

  Whatever her ambitions, she’d not had practice in articulating them. He could see her mind debating if she should tell him, if she could trust him. She shot him a hard look, her defences up in the tilt of her chin, apparently unaware what a watershed event this was for him. Lord, that look of hers made him hard. Phaedra in full defiance made him want to haul her up against the wall.

  ‘I need something of my own. This isn’t just about the Derby. That’s only the beginning. I want to create a grand stud, a breeding and training facility that rivals any in England, north or south.’

  Bram let out a low whistle. That was an enormous ambition and an exciting one; it was something he’d like to do if he could ever raise enough funds or settle down long enough. ‘Does your brother know?’

  ‘He knows. He doesn’t understand, not really. It’s different for a woman.’ Phaedra played idly with a piece of straw but Bram could hear the untold story behind that sentence. A man like Giles wouldn’t fully understand. Montague had his military career. He had been in charge of his life. Now he had this property to oversee and a dukedom coming his way eventually. As a man, Phaedra’s brother took his independence for granted, a natural assumption of his life. But Phaedra could make no such assumption.

  ‘I’m not a baby any more, not a child. I can do things,’ Phaedra said with no little frustration. ‘I just have to make Giles see that.’

  She was the youngest. Bram had forgotten. When he looked at her, he didn’t see a child but a lovely young woman. Naturally, Giles would want to protect her; young and female, a man like him would see her as someone to shelter, especially after the other losses Tom Anderson had mentioned.

  ‘And Warbourne is the key to this dynastic vision of yours?’ Bram asked lightly.

  Phaedra pulled her gaze from the straw she’d been twisting. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just yes? That’s an awfully big risk to take with an untried colt.’ He remembered with clarity Giles handing over the pearl set to the auctioneer. Warbourne had cost Phaedra dearly.

  ‘Not really, not if you know what you’re doing.’ Phaedra rose and brushed off her skirts, bringing the conversation to an abrupt, regretful end. Bram could have kept talking to her all night, another revelation. Usually by now he would have...well, never mind that. He pushed his more erotic thoughts aside with a hard mental shove.

  ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this, I hardly know you and you hardly know me. You’re probably thinking I’m a spoiled little rich girl. I have all of these horses to play with and yet it isn’t enough.’ She was back to not trusting him. He wanted to change that. He wanted to tell her he had no desire to see her retreat from the stables or from her dreams but she wouldn’t believe him, not yet.

  Bram’s hot thoughts shoved back. She looked irresistible in the lantern light, the upsweep of her hair setting off the curve of her jaw to delicate perfection, the slope of her shoulder leading the eye to the low bodice of her gown and the soft swell of her breasts beneath.

  ‘I’m not thinking that at all, I’m thinking what could possibly drive this beautiful woman to such lengths? To want things it’s not usual for a woman of your background to want, especially when it means giving up something as enormous as a Season.’ He knew London and its intrigues intimately. The Season was her gateway to marriage, security and respectability, three things a woman treasured as much as her virginity. Even a duke’s daughter understood the necessity for a good Season, a good match. Finding a successful match would be easier than getting Warbourne to win the Derby.

  That got her attention. ‘You think I’m beautiful?’ she whispered in surprise.

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’ Bram rose and stepped towards her. He watched her pulse catch at the base of her throat as he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. He cradled her face between his hands, gently tipping her head back, her pink lips already parted ever so slightly, the dark pupils of her eyes wide with curious desire.

  ‘I think it’s time to claim my forfeit.’ His voice was husky as he bent to take her mouth in a slow kiss.

  * * *

  So this was what he’d meant by a real kiss. It was more than a kiss, more than lips meeting lips in a fleeting buss. Phaedra was blissfully conscious of his hand at the back of her neck, warm and caressing, guiding; of her lips opening to him; of the decadent strokes of his tongue inside her mouth; of her own tongue responding in kind until they were engaged in a seductive duel.

  Their mouths weren’t all that was engaged. She was acutely aware the kiss had aroused more than her mouth. Heat pooled in her stomach, low and hot, while the core of her burned for more, helped along by the intimate press of his body to hers. She’d seen the glorious muscle of him revealed that morning, but to feel a man, to feel him against one’s own body, was far headier than the visual.

  He was a granite wall against her, all planes and firm muscle, generating an erotic male heat. The wanton in her longed to stroke those planes, to run her hands down the contours of his torso. He danced her backwards to the wall, their duel becoming more insistent, inspiring her own boldness. Her hands were in his hair, then at his shoulders, gripping the muscled expanse of them beneath the fabric of his shirt. His mouth moved to the curve of her jaw, nipping ever so lightly at the column of her throat. She gasped at the pleasure of it.

  ‘Does that feel good, princess?’ Bram feathered a breath against her ear and she shivered delightfully for an answer. His hands were more adventurous now, casting away the coat he’d draped her in and pushing down the scooped bodice of her gown. Every last thought she possessed was centred only on the present, on the wicked caress of his thumb across her nipple, on the heat building in her body, and the hardness of him where their bodies met, that unmentionable part of a man pressed against her.

  ‘Do you feel what you do to me?’ he asked, his own breath ragged at her ear now, evidence that he was enjoying this as much as she.

  ‘Yes.’

  He kissed her hard one last time and stepped back. ‘That’s why we have to stop this right now.’ He gave her one of his teasing half-grins. ‘If we don’t, in a half minute or less, I’ll have your skirts about your ears and your legs around mine.’

  Phaedra flushed and tried to gather her hauteur as she straightened her clothing. ‘Your ears? I doubt that’s possible.’

  Bram leaned forward and adjusted the shoulder of her gown. ‘I assure you it is, princess.’

  She grimaced, doubtful. ‘Sounds uncomfortable.’

  Bram laughed. ‘Sounds like a challenge.’

  Goodness, the man was arrogant, a fact she’d conveniently forgotten when he’d kissed her. She couldn’t believe she’d let things go so far or that she’d told him so much on such short acquaintance. She must be missing Kate more than she thought, but that didn’t change the fact she’d enjoyed it—all of it, the conversation and the kiss.

  Phaedra gave a regal sweep past him with a pointed ‘Goodnight, Mr Basingstoke.’

  He gave her a short bow. ‘Goodnight, Lady Phaedra.’ She didn’t have to turn around to know he wa
s laughing again. She could hear it in his voice. She kept her shoulders squared until she was out of sight. Aunt Wilhelmina would say she’d gotten exactly what she’d deserved for sitting in the stables late at night with a man who so casually ran around shirtless. Unfortunately for Aunt Wilhelmina, her just deserts were proving to be quite delicious.

  Chapter Seven

  Kissing Phaedra Montague was not an antidote for sleeplessness. If anything, it was the cause, that and her infernal ability to talk without telling him anything at all. He was well aware she’d not fully answered his question.

  She was dead set on Epsom but she’d not given him one clue as to why. There had to be more to it than merely a consideration of Warbourne’s age. What had she said at the last? It wasn’t that hard if someone knew what they were doing? She had a secret, at least she thought she had a secret, that she knew something about Warbourne others had overlooked. A beautiful woman with a secret was a potent lure indeed and one he knew he’d take in spite of the potential risks.

  Bram pushed a hand through his hair and strode out into the courtyard of the stable quadrangle. He breathed in a healthy dose of the night air, letting the cold bathe away the heat of his body.

  In all fairness he hadn’t done this by himself. She’d been a veritable fever of passion in his arms, an untried wildfire burning out of control. And he’d stoked it, knowing full well what it was doing to him and to her. But Lord, how intoxicating it had been! Bram could not recall the last time an encounter of that nature had aroused him so completely, so beyond control.

  Bram paced the quadrangle, squaring it in long, fast strides, trying to rid himself of excess energy and other manly excesses too. Usually, he guided these encounters, took what he wanted, gave what was required, chose when it started and when it ended. That had not been the case tonight. Tonight, he’d barely been able to exert enough influence to bring it to a close before he’d taken things too far.

  This boded ill for his plans and he was only one day in. When he’d first spied her, he’d not planned on desire riding him quite this hard or so soon. Tonight, she’d been an irresistible picture of loveliness and vulnerability, mostly because she hadn’t tried to be either of those things.

  Bram laughed out loud to the sky. He suspected Phaedra would hate to be called vulnerable. It was the last thing she wanted to be. That tilt of her chin, the nonchalant shrug that masked the importance of what she felt, the haughtiness that did little to mask the passions within her, were all telling attributes attesting to her strength and the efforts she took to cultivate it.

  She was strong. Her strength was not a facade but that did not mean she was without susceptibilities. Neither was he, and that was a problem. Bram stopped his pacing and breathed easier, his body sweat-slicked from the exertion but feeling the better for it.

  This physical-mental attraction to Phaedra and her wild dream presented something of a conundrum; it required him to behave honourably, not a practice he was used to exercising. Most of his women didn’t demand it. They were women who understood the rules of their liaison—short, physical and with no future expectations. These were not rules he could apply to Phaedra.

  Bram climbed the stairs to his quarters, a dissatisfying solution having suggested itself. There was nothing for it. Until he could figure out which rules did apply, or until he could convince his body to subscribe to her charms a little less ardently, he would simply have to stay away from her. He hoped he’d come up with a better answer sooner rather than later because kisses like that were the gods’ own ambrosia and the devil’s due. It would be impossible to stay away for ever.

  * * *

  Phaedra let out the lunge line, slowly leading Warbourne through his paces, letting him learn her signals. The shorter line asked for a walk; slightly more meant a trot, and at full length a canter. In the fourteen days since she’d brought Warbourne home, he’d made remarkable progress. True, he had undergone training before but it was hard to know how much he’d been taught and where the mastery of those skills had broken down. She’d started her regimen from the beginning, wanting to assess his ability and his obedience from the start.

  Warbourne pulled on the lunge line, wanting to canter at his own behest instead of hers. Phaedra held firm, tightening her grip on the line instead of letting out the slack. He would listen to her, or rather to her signals. Above all else, a horse had to believe his master’s hands and his master’s legs.

  Warbourne returned to a collected and obedient trot. She was starting to see where the problems might have occurred. He was a wilful colt and wilful colts were easily spoiled, usually by accident. She’d seen it happen a time or two with the younger stable hands working with their first horses, their own minds not strong enough to comprehend what it took to truly master such intelligent creatures.

  Phaedra let out the lunge line, asking for a controlled canter. Not just any canter would do. Warbourne could not run around her willy-nilly in a circle. This would be a canter on the right lead and at her pace. Even well-trained horses could spoil without a strong, consistent hand. Merlin was proof enough. Without Jamie’s strong hand, Merlin had put his own strong personality into action. It had worked until Bram Basingstoke had come along and reasserted mastery.

  Of the two of them, Merlin was seeing far more of the elusive Mr Basingstoke than she was, however. Since that night in the stables, she’d caught only glimpses of him. Most of his messages to her were conveyed through Tom Anderson, whose hip kept him confined to the stable block. Tom thought the arrangement was working out admirably. Mr Basingstoke could do the heavy exercising and any business with the horses that required leaving Castonbury. These days there was plenty of business to arrange. Breeding season was beginning and there was always interest in the Castonbury broodmares.

  This morning, Tom had informed her Bram had taken one of the mares over to Gordon Weston’s to be covered by the Weston stud, a gorgeous seventeen-hand bay hunter. The match was technically very welcome, but there was resentment too. She’d tried to arrange something earlier in February but Gordon Weston had politely refused. She highly suspected he simply hadn’t wanted to do that sort of business with a woman.

  Phaedra drew the line in on Warbourne and walked towards him. She gave the horse a rub on the shoulder and slipped him a piece of apple. ‘Good boy.’ She smiled to herself. Warbourne was coming along nicely, even if she was taking it slowly. But she would show them all, from Sir Nathan Samuelson and his overt dislike of the Montagues to Mr Gordon Weston and his mannerly reserve on the subject of female abilities. Tomorrow, she would trade the lunging halter for a bridle and a bit.

  ‘Time for some grooming.’ Phaedra led him outside the riding house where they’d been working and to the stables. This had been their routine: lunging work, paces and grooming. She wanted him to be fully used to her hands and her voice before she put anything on his back. Tomorrow she would add the saddle pad too.

  The stable yard was busy with horses being brought in for the end of the day. The ‘supper feeding’ would get under way within the hour after the horses had been settled and brushed for the night. A stable boy ran up, offering warily to take Warbourne for her but she shook her head. She wasn’t ready to trust anyone with her colt yet even for a simple grooming.

  She nearly had Warbourne settled in his loose box when a light commotion in the courtyard drew her attention. A rider had arrived and the stable boys jumped to take his horse. For a moment she thought the rider must be Giles with all the fuss his appearance had commanded. But it was an assumption immediately discarded. The horse wasn’t Giles’s, but one of the geldings kept in the general string. There was no mistaking the rider for anyone other than Bram.

  He swung off the horse with the fluid ease she recognised from their ride and barked a few commands. ‘Rub him down good, boys, and give him a hot mash tonight. He’s ridden a long way today.’ He tossed the reins to one of the waiting grooms and quartered the yard, looking for someone. Her, perhaps? Her in
sides fluttered irrationally only to be disappointed. His gaze landed somewhere else. ‘It’s done, Tom. I’ll come by and tell you all about it.’

  Phaedra stepped forward. ‘You can tell me about it first. We’ll want to get everything written down in our records. Come by my office after you get cleaned up. I’ll expect you in ten minutes.’

  Bram shifted his gaze to her, his eyes narrow and cold, making her rethink the order. Perhaps her order had sounded a bit high-handed but he’d left her no choice. He’d assiduously avoided her for two weeks now. While he may have personal reasons for doing so, she did worry about the professional implications of the avoidance. If everyone thought they could simply go through Tom Anderson, she would quickly be ignored in the chain of command.

  Ten minutes later to the second, Bram presented himself at her office in a fresh shirt, his hair slick from a good dousing at the pump. ‘Lady Phaedra, I’ve come to give my report.’ His tone was stiff and slightly mocking as he stood in the doorway.

  ‘You’re prompt.’ Phaedra decided to pretend she didn’t hear his subtle scold.

  ‘You gave me an order.’ His eyes flicked to the chair in front of her desk. ‘May I sit?’ She’d forgotten how blue his eyes were.

  ‘Stop it, obeisance doesn’t suit you,’ Phaedra snapped. ‘I had to do something. You’ve been ignoring me.’

  Bram folded his arms across his chest. ‘I disagree. I’ve been busy. If you needed to see me, you know where to find me.’

  Phaedra’s temper flared at his surliness. The man was positively arrogant. She rose and leaned across the desk for emphasis, hot words tumbling out of her mouth before she could think them through. ‘You kissed me. That was all. Don’t flatter yourself that I would spend my days traipsing around the stables behind you in hopes of getting another. You report to me, not the other way around.’