Unbefitting a Lady (4 page)

‘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

B
ram 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.