Unbefitting a Lady

by Bronwyn Scott

  What had he gotten himself into? Epsom would be a challenge. For now, he had his hands full, or rather Phaedra did, and he intended to enjoy every moment of it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Phaedra raised her knuckles to knock on Bram’s door. How he’d managed a room at the crowded inn she didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to quibble. Tonight, she was going to seduce him. She was going to show him she’d meant what she’d said about their three days.

  Bram answered, dressed in shirt and breeches. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She said nothing, just reached for the pins holding her hair.

  Once the Derby was over, the future between them was once again uncertain. She’d go back to Castonbury and establish her stud. Bram would go to who knew where and do who knew what.

  His mouth found hers; his hands rested possessively at her waist, her arms about his neck, her body pressed to his. She’d asked for this and it wasn’t enough, it was nowhere near enough. She was supposed to be doing the seducing.

  Bram’s hand at her breast, palming and stroking through the fabric of her bodice, was building a whole other heat that raged low in her stomach. The fabric that had seemed so thin when she’d bought the gown now seemed too heavy, too confining.

  ‘Take it off,’ she breathed, her own hands pushing at the small sleeves. But Bram stilled her impatient movements.

  ‘Easy, you’ll rip this and not have anything to wear.’

  ‘And if you rip it?’ Her voice was hoarse with excitement and need. These were heady paths she travelled on tonight.

  ‘You still won’t have anything to wear.’ Bram laughed. ‘But I’ll be careful, I promise. I like undressing you.’ Bram trailed a line of kisses down her neck, his own hands taking over, pushing the delicate sage-coloured silk-and-lace confection over her shoulders. Phaedra shivered decadently at the feel of nearly naked skin.

  ‘Ah, no silk smalls tonight. I’ve been missing them,’ Bram murmured. His hands deftly worked the lacing of the short stays over the thin linen chemise. The corset was not tight, it was only meant as support, yet Phaedra felt she’d been freed as her breasts fell into Bram’s hands.

  He pressed the fabric of her chemise taut against her breasts and knelt in front of her, taking first one and then the other in his mouth, the wet heat of his mouth and the friction of the cloth a delightful torment to her senses. Her hands clenched in his hair as the sensations he evoked threatened to swamp her.

  His hands moved to her waist, gathering up the chemise in his fingers until she was bare to him. He looked up at her from his intimate crouch, his eyes burning, his smile wicked. ‘Sit down, Phaedra, I’m going to put my mouth on you.’ She trembled at the decadent words. This was definitely no longer her seduction, and she no longer cared. Her thoughts had become nothing more than a kaleidoscope of sensation, her body searching for the satisfaction that lay beyond these pleasure-laden shores.

  Her hands found the bed behind her and she sat down hard. Bram breathed against her mound, doing those wicked things she loved so much with his tongue, his mouth, until she thought she’d scream, her mind holding on to one slim thought: release would come. When it did, she was more than ready for it, her hands anchored in the bed sheets, letting it take her in a rush of gratification.

  Phaedra fell back on the bed, a sigh of repletion escaping her lips. ‘Heavens, Bram, you’ll be the death of me.’

  The narrow bed took his weight and he stretched out beside her, his dark head propped on his hand. His other hand was warm on her midriff, an entirely possessive touch, and her body revelled in it. Phaedra covered his hand with her own where it lay on her stomach. She interlaced her fingers with his.

  ‘I’m not worried, you feel very much alive to me.’ Indeed, she felt as if she’d not been alive before Bram, that her life had been a shadow of its present self, waiting for him to release her from the chains of her upbringing.

  Phaedra rolled to her side and reached for him. ‘It’s like that for you too, isn’t it?’ It wasn’t really a question. She remembered the way he’d looked on the island when she’d taken him in her hand, the way he felt when he clenched inside of her. His release had been as great as hers.

  She stroked him through his trousers, then stopped suddenly. ‘No.’ She gave him a gentle push, enough to send him over the bed’s edge if he hadn’t put his leg down for balance. ‘Take them off.’ She would reclaim part of this seduction.

  Bram grinned. ‘I beg your pardon, my lady?’

  She grinned back. ‘You heard me. I said take them off.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Bram rose off the bed. He pulled his shirt over his head in an enviously fluid motion, his hands resting provocatively at his waistband. He was going to make her pay for her sauciness.

  He undid the fall of his breeches, strong tanned hands against the paler buckskin and brass buttons. Phaedra’s mouth went dry. She was supremely conscious that his eyes never left hers while his hands worked the fall. He was watching her watching him. Encouraging her voyeurism even with that searing gaze of his.

  He pushed his trousers down over slim hips and lean muscled legs, baring himself unabashedly before her. Phaedra wet her lips at the sight of him. She’d never get tired of seeing him naked. Her blatant perusal pleased him. A dot of moisture beaded at his tip and wicked inspiration struck Phaedra. She’d taken him in her hand before, but never this. ‘Come here, I want to taste it.’

  Her actions didn’t surprise her as much as her words. She was entirely wanton with him where she’d scarcely noticed other men before. Yet everything about Bram was captivating, addicting.

  ‘You’re a veritable hussy,’ Bram scolded, but she noticed he happily obliged, edging closer to the bed to let her tongue do its work.

  She teased him with her tongue in the manner in which he’d teased her, pleasured her. She knew full well no decently bred girl engaged in such an act—an uncivilised act, some would call it. Neither would any decent girl throw her sacred virtue away on a mad romp with a man who could give her nothing, a man who couldn’t or wouldn’t marry her. But when she looked at Bram, she didn’t see that. She saw a man who shocked her, challenged her, encouraged her passions and so much more.

  ‘Enough, or I’ll spend too soon.’

  Phaedra obeyed. This was her turn to grin. She borrowed his line. ‘You liked that.’

  ‘Damn right I liked it.’ Bram’s voice was hoarse. ‘I liked it enough to forget to play the gentleman for a moment.’ He came up over her, bracing himself above her. ‘I won’t be able to ask this again, Phaedra. Do you want me to stop all this before it goes any farther?’

  ‘Are you crazy? Whatever gave you that idea?’ Stop? With the intimate parts of his body grazing her? With the power of him rising above her? Who in her right mind would want him to stop now?

  Bram gave a slight shake of his head, his dark hair falling forward, shadowing the planes of his face. ‘You know what I mean, Phaedra.’ But she recognised he was hedging his bets. They’d not stopped before the consequences had been disastrous. If they kept this up, they might be travelling down the same road to the same unfortunate conclusion. Then again, this time it might be different. They wouldn’t know until they got there.

  He pressed a fluttering kiss against her neck. She recognised he no more wanted to stop than she did. Phaedra put her arms around his neck, drawing him into the circle of her embrace so that their bodies met, skin to skin. ‘No, Bram, I don’t want you to stop.’

  She opened to him, taking him perfectly, intimately, in the cradle between her legs. Phaedra arched against him, feeling her body stretch and be stretched to accommodate him.

  He kissed her full on the mouth and they were off again, their bodies synchronised not unlike a horse and rider.

  A smile flitted across her face at the idea but she had little time to let her thoughts wander that path. There was no time to think, only to feel, only to follow Bram where he led down this new path of pleasure.
She felt herself flow into him, unable to discern where one began and the other ended. Bram gave a final thrust and quickly withdrew with a rough, ragged sigh, casting her adrift on a sea of sensations. She had shattered and was sailing on the shards of her release, boneless and supple.

  Bram lay next to her, his head propped in his hand, his free hand tracing little patterns on her bare skin. ‘So now you’re ruined, again.’

  Phaedra gave a drowsy sigh. How could this be bad? She felt glorious. She felt absolutely alive.

  * * *

  Epsom mirrored the vibrancy she felt. When Bram escorted her to the stables to check on Warbourne, she was amazed by the racing crowds that swelled the streets to bursting. ‘Look at all these people!’ Phaedra exclaimed, keeping a close hold on Bram’s arm in an attempt not to be swept away by the sheer mass of people. Visitors came in all varieties: the wealthy gentleman come to bet on the horses, the London lady looking for diversion, the clerk and the banker, the farmer. All classes of people thronged the streets.

  ‘I’d watch your reticule, if I were you,’ Bram warned. ‘Race days draw an unruly element as well.’

  Phaedra nodded, tightening her grip on the small beaded bag she carried. She’d heard up on the Epsom Hill a pit had been set up for cockfighting and vendors had put up booths to take advantage of the crowds that would flock there for the races that afternoon. The crowds were beyond her expectations. She had some small amount of interest in seeing the displays on the hill, but they were outweighed by her gratitude for Bram’s foresight. He’d managed to get them reserved seats in the grandstand.

  At the stables, they checked on Warbourne. Matt and Bevins had so far been vigilant in their duty to watch Warbourne night and day. They’d taken turns sleeping in front of his stall, as had the other trainers with their own horses, to prevent any trickery or injury. Phaedra had not believed in such a necessity at first, but after seeing the crowds, she was glad she’d been talked into taking the precaution. With so many people swarming the streets and racetrack, it would be easy to slip into a horse’s stall.

  Warbourne was fine. Matt gave her a full report before going to weigh in for the Oaks. The horse had eaten and exercised early. Matt would be riding that afternoon in the Oaks so the day shift fell to Bevins. Phaedra nodded and listened intently to Matt’s report. Part of her wanted the Derby to be over. The suspense was deadly. But part of her recognised that other things would be over too, things she was in no hurry to rush.

  She’d awakened in Bram’s room that morning, his arm draped about her waist, her bottom nestled against his groin in a most intimate fashion. It had not taken long for things to progress from there to a most pleasurable conclusion. She could get used to waking that way every morning. The problem was, she didn’t have every morning. She had two mornings. She knew already two mornings was not going to be nearly enough. Two weeks hadn’t been enough so why ever would two days suffice? And yet it would have to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bram shook Matt’s hand and wished him luck. He’d be riding in the races that afternoon as well as tomorrow’s. It was time to go and claim their seats for the races. Bram was turned out to perfection today in a coat of bottle green that matched his eyes, immaculate tan breeches and boots that would have done any London gentleman proud. She was proud to be seen with him.

  ‘Are you sure we’re sitting here?’ Phaedra asked, scanning about, surprised. This was an elite location, set aside for the likes of Lord Grafton and Sir Charles Bunbury.

  Bram grinned. ‘I am sure, Phaedra. Have a little faith in my connections.’ They slid into their seats with prime viewing of the finish line and the second half-mile. ‘Would you like me to place a wager on your behalf?’ Bram enquired close to her ear as the first race neared. There’d be several undercard matches before the stakes.

  ‘I wouldn’t know who to bet on. It’s ironic, isn’t it? The odds mean nothing to me. If I could see the horses up close that would be a different story,’ Phaedra confessed with a laugh. ‘By the time I was old enough to go to the races in Doncaster, we weren’t going any more.’ The boys had been off to war and Father had lost interest in going very far from home.

  Bram smiled, banishing the dark memories that threatened to steal the joy from the day. ‘Good, then I’ll have something to teach you.’ He settled back in his seat and began to explain the odds system.

  Bram was a good teacher. By the second race, she’d placed a modest ‘practise’ bet on a middling horse to finish first, second or third and had won her money back. By the fifth race, she’d picked a horse to place in the top two. She’d wanted to pick him to win but Bram had argued against it. Bram had been right. The horse finished second.

  ‘Why didn’t he win? He had the best odds?’ Phaedra protested afterwards. She tossed Bram a coy look from under her wide-brimmed hat. ‘More important, how did you know he wouldn’t win?’

  ‘He was too much of a favourite. Heavy favourites don’t win as often as you think.’ Bram laughed and then lowered his voice. ‘It will be the same with the Derby tomorrow, you know.’

  She’d heard that piece of wisdom before. Rumour, legend, myth, truth, whatever one wanted to call it, held that favourites seldom won the Derby. ‘That should serve us well, then,’ she said confidently. ‘I doubt Warbourne will be the Derby favourite.’

  Betting with Bram had done the trick. Her nerves were settling and she’d been able to enjoy the day. The sun was out, the weather fine; her dream of watching her colt run in a classic thoroughbred race under her command was only a day away from coming true.

  If she could accomplish this, she could accomplish the next step: setting up a breeding operation at Castonbury to rival Lord Darlington’s at Raby Castle in Yorkshire or Lord Egremont’s stud at Petworth. Both those fine gentlemen were here today, sitting a few rows to their left. Darlington’s bay colt, Brother to Christopher, would run in the Derby tomorrow. Current odds picked the bay to be a mid-pack finisher at twelve to one. Maybe that was good news, if the legend could be believed.

  Darlington looked in their direction and tipped his hat. Bram nodded back. Phaedra smiled. There would be an assembly at the Waterloo tonight, a bit of a ball, really, to celebrate the Oaks. Darlington and others would be in attendance. It would be a prime opportunity to make advantageous connections and let others know of her plans to establish a stud. People might look down their noses at women in the horse-breeding business but no one who loved racing could ignore a winner. If Warbourne won, people wouldn’t care who owned him. They’d only care if they could get breeding rights.

  The afternoon progressed well. Matt Somerset rode two horses to third-place finishes and stayed safe doing it. She and Bram took one more trip to the stables to look in on Warbourne and young Bevins and then it was time to get ready for the celebratory assembly.

  Phaedra dressed carefully in a dark blue ball gown trimmed in startling white ribbon. The gown had a quiet loveliness to it while maintaining an understated elegance that said she hadn’t forgotten who she was—a duke’s daughter and a young woman somewhat newly come out of mourning.

  People might not want to admit a woman could train a champion, but their spirits would be high tonight, and tomorrow, they would not be able to dispute the incontrovertible proof right in front of them. Her horse, a horse that the racing world had discounted as too mercurial to win, would race to victory in front of their very eyes. Warbourne’s day was tomorrow, but tonight was hers to shine and lay the groundwork. She’d have to make a good impression. Phaedra smoothed her skirts and took a final look in the small mirror on the wall of her room. She was ready.

  In the corridor, Bram waited for her, dressed in dark evening clothes of a calibre one would find only in London. Nothing of the Castonbury groom remained about him tonight and she wondered how she could have missed such refinement before. Even that first day when she’d looked at his boots she’d had a twinge of insight. She should have paid attention to it. Aunt Wilhelmina had
been right. A gentleman could be judged by his boots.

  Bram was on display tonight as well. They were a couple and there would be no escaping the fact that people would start to ask questions. What was a duke’s daughter doing travelling to Epsom to race a horse? Was she really travelling alone with only Mr Basingstoke for company?

  ‘You’re worried about something,’ Bram divined.

  Phaedra shrugged. ‘No, just thinking.’

  Bram’s hand was warm at her back as they made their way to the infamous Waterloo staircase with its carved balustrade leading to the Assembly Room. ‘While I am flattered, you’d better keep those thoughts to yourself,’ he whispered.

  ‘What thoughts?’ Phaedra felt her cheeks heat.

  ‘The ones that have us in bed for the duration, my sweet.’ Bram’s voice was seductive and low. Heat curled in her belly as he gave words to her mental images. ‘Don’t worry, love, the night is young. We won’t be at the ball for ever.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Phaedra was doing splendidly. From the sidelines, Bram watched her dancing a country set with the Duke of Grafton’s heir. She’d already danced with Darlington and Mr Payne, both of whom had horses entered tomorrow. She’d charmed them all. People were intrigued by her. Specifically, men were intrigued by her. Lovely and knowledgeable, she was in her element tonight, surrounded by people who were just as enthralled with horses as she.

  Grafton’s heir said something that made her laugh and Bram felt the vice of envy tighten in his stomach. He should be happy for her. If she could win acceptance among the right people fast enough, perhaps scandal wouldn’t have a chance to take root.

  Winning over Grafton’s heir would be a step in that direction. Aligning herself with him, Bram Basingstoke, a man of scandal, would not protect her. Just the opposite, in fact. Such an alliance would court ruin. He was the rumour-ridden second son of the Earl of Hartvale. Association with him meant there would be no escaping scandal’s brush.