Duke of Rothermere Castonbury Park

Phaedra,

My darling and determined daughter. Your wild free spirit is infectious and I wouldn’t want to change you for the world, but I am not getting any younger and having a tomboy for a daughter is proving somewhat tiresome. On more than one occasion I have had to ask you to change out of your breeches and remove straw from your hair when I have guests visiting Castonbury, and I am sorry to say this can’t go on for ever.

I know I cannot forbid you to ride your beloved horses and seeing how much joy they give you makes me a happy man, but please—for me—try and spend a little less time in the stables and a little more time in the drawing room …!

Your weary father

About the Author

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.

Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.

Previous novels from Bronwyn Scott:

PICKPOCKET COUNTESS

NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY

THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE

THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD

UNTAMED ROGUE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS

A THOROUGHLY COMPROMISED LADY

SECRET LIFE OF A SCANDALOUS DEBUTANTE

UNBEFITTING A LADY + HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY*

* Rakes Beyond Redemption trilogy + Castonbury Park Regency mini-series

And in Mills & Boon® Historical eBooks:

LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS

PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY

WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW

ARABIAN NIGHTS WITH A RAKE

AN ILLICIT INDISCRETION

PRINCE CHARMING IN DISGUISE

Unbefitting
a Lady
Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Catie and Lady, and all your horses that have come before

and the ones that will come after. Keep your heels down,

always sight your next jump, get deep in the corners and,

above all, don’t squeeze that horse unless you want the

big girl to run. Love, Mom.

Chapter One

Buxton, Derbyshire, March 1817

He was magnificent. Lean-flanked through the hips, well-muscled through the thighs of his long legs, his face framed aristocratically with the darkest, glossiest of hair that was perhaps a bit too long for convention, giving way to the strength of his broad chest. There was no doubt he was a male specimen beyond compare. Only the fire in his dark eyes belied his perfection. But Phaedra Montague liked a little temper.

She could ride that body all day long. Already her own body was anticipating the feel of him between her legs, her thighs tightening around him, urging him on. He turned her direction, eyes locking on her in the crowd. His infamous temper was rising. She could see it in the way he held himself, tense and alert as if his strength might be required of him at any moment. That temper had led him to the auction block and it would lead him to her. Today, she would bid on him and she would win.

She already thought of him as hers.

Her colt. Warbourne. She would have him and no other.

Impatiently, Phaedra shifted on her feet beside her brother Giles in the auction tent, the smells of beasts and men evidence to the mounting excitement as the horses were led in. Warbourne was fourth. He stamped and snorted from his place in line, tossing his glossy black mane as if in protest of being made to suffer the indignities of an auction.

The first three horses went quietly and respectably at middling prices. Then it was Warbourne’s turn. He pranced elegantly on the end of his handler’s lead rope, preening for the excited crowd. Phaedra tensed and nudged Giles. ‘Are you ready?’

Giles laughed gently at her nerves. ‘Yes, my dear.’ She elbowed him harder this time in sisterly frustration and affection. He knew very well it was killing her to stand there and let him handle the business when she wanted to bid for herself.

‘I see no reason why a woman can’t raise a paddle as well as a man.’ Phaedra fumed. But she knew very well even if women could bid, Giles wouldn’t allow it on her behalf. She was the daughter of the Duke of Rothermere and it simply wasn’t comme il faut. The family dignity must be preserved, especially since that dignity had been somewhat under attack recently.

Giles chuckled at her pique. ‘Women are too emotional.’

‘Kate would lay you out for that,’ Phaedra scolded good-naturedly. ‘So would Lily for that matter.’ Their sister, Kate, was an avid activist for equal rights and Giles’s betrothed, Lily, considered herself the match of any man.

‘Yes, my dear, but they’re not here.’ He gave her a wide grin but they both sobered immediately when the auctioneer introduced the next horse.

Warbourne.

Phaedra hardly needed to listen. She knew his pedigree by heart: sired by Noble Bourne, who’d won several races at Newmarket in his day and distinguished himself at stud since, his foals going on to prodigious careers, and Warrioress, the dam, equally famous for her ability to produce plate winners. But Warbourne had broken the mould. He’d not gone on to success like the others. He’d thrown every rider at the start and then some. That was why he was here so close to racing season, unrideable, untrainable, an outcast. Of course, the auctioneer didn’t mention that. But Phaedra knew. She knew every inch of his three-year history and that of his line. It gave her reason to hope where others had despaired.

‘We will start the bidding at one hundred pounds!’ the auctioneer cried. Half a room of paddles went up. Phaedra counselled herself to remain calm. At one hundred pounds, Warbourne was a bargain. It was natural anyone who could would bid on him, she reasoned to keep her nerves in check.

By the time the price hit two hundred fifty, the bidders had thinned out. Phaedra tried to look calm. After all, he was an excellent horse and she’d known they’d have to do more than simply raise their paddle and claim him.

The bid hit three hundred. Giles reluctantly raised his paddle. Phaedra scanned the room. At this price, the field had been narrowed to three bidders. She would have thought the battle for Warbourne nearly over at that point if one of the remaining bidders hadn’t been Sir Nathan Samuelson, a neighbour but no friend of the Montagues. He’d outbid Giles just for spite if he could.

‘Three hundred and fifty!’ the auctioneer called with vigour, well aware he had a bidding war on his hands. The third bidder dropped out. Now it was a duel between Giles and Samuelson. Phaedra sucked in her breath. Giles’s paddle went up slowly one more time. That it had gone up at all was a testament of brotherly love. Finances were finally stabilising for the Rothermere coffers thanks to Giles’s efforts over the past year but that didn’t mean there was money to burn on an untried colt with temper issues, no matter how much her brother loved her.

There was hope still. If Rothermere had been hit by post-war economic issues, Sir Nathan Samuelson had been hit too, and he’d not had the advantage of a ducal coffer to start with. Five hundred pounds would finish him, close him out of the bidding. What had Giles said just yesterday? That Samuelson had been forced to sell off his bottom land to pay the bills? Nonetheless, bottom land notwithstanding, Samuelson’s paddle went up. He glared across the room at Giles. The man was bidding on malice now.

‘Do I hear four hundred?’ The room held its collective breath. Phaedra fingered the pearl pendant at her throat.

Both paddles went up rapidly.

‘Four-fifty.’

Samuelson’s paddle went up.

Giles remained motionless. Phaedra stared at him in disbelief. ‘Giles!’ she whispered urgently as if he’d merely had a lapse of attention and needed to be jarred back to reality. But Giles remained stoically impassive.

‘Giles!’ Phaedra whispered louder, really it qualified as a low hiss. People were starting to look.

‘Going once!’

‘Giles, please!’ Panic edged her voice. Her dream was slipping away.

‘Phae, I can’t.’ Giles shook his head ever so slightly.

‘Going twice!’

Across the room Samuelson was gloating in pre-victory triumph.

‘Since when have Montagues given way to the likes of Samuelson?’ Phaedra argued hotly.

‘Things are different now, Phae. I’m sorry. I gave it my best shot. It has to be enough.’

The past three years of struggle and loss flashed through her mind: her brother Edward dead at Waterloo, her father retreating from the world and a host of other calamities that had plagued them.

‘No,’ Phaedra said in not so quiet tones, startling Giles.

‘Phae?’

‘No. No, it’s not enough.’ Phaedra flashed Giles a smile. There would be hell to pay for this. She might as well start buttering him up for forgiveness now.

‘Going three times!’

Phaedra seized the paddle from Giles’s lax grip and raised it high. ‘Five hundred!’ she called out, effectively drawing all eyes her direction. A stunned silence claimed the tent. She lifted her chin in a defiant tilt, daring Samuelson, knowing full well to go higher would beggar him.

The silence seemed to last an eternity. She saw and felt everything in those moments. Giles drew himself up beside her, widening his stance, feet shoulder-width apart, his military training conspicuously evident. Only a fool would gainsay him. It would almost be worth it for Samuelson to try, Phaedra thought, just to see Giles plant the man a well-deserved facer.

‘Sir?’ The auctioneer turned to Samuelson. ‘The bid is at five hundred. Will you raise?’

Samuelson shook his head in slow defeat. The battle was over. The auctioneer pointed the gavel at Giles. ‘Five hundred, sir, is that correct?’

‘Five hundred, it is,’ Giles affirmed unflinchingly, letting the whole tent hear his confirmation of her bid and subsequently of her. She understood. He was publicly supporting her. He would scold her in private for this latest wilful act but in public he would not tolerate anyone’s disparagement of his sister or the family.

‘Sold! For five hundred pounds.’ The gavel banged. Congratulatory applause broke out. The colt was hers! A rush of joy swept through her but Phaedra tamped it down. She could not celebrate yet.

Giles led her aside away from the eyes of the crowd. ‘You’ve got your colt, Phae. How do you propose we pay for him? I thought we’d agreed only three hundred or three-fifty at the very most.’

‘With these.’ Phaedra tugged without hesitation at her earbobs. ‘They will bring the difference.’ She lifted her hair from the back of her neck and turned. ‘Help me with the clasp.’ She didn’t want to think too hard about what she was doing, what she was offering. She couldn’t lose her courage now.

‘These were Mother’s.’ Giles offered a modest protest, working the clasp of her pendant.

‘And Warbourne’s my dream.’ A dream she believed in so thoroughly she would trade her mother’s legacy for it. Phaedra turned back to face him, meeting his grey eyes while her fingers nimbly worked the clasp of her bracelet. ‘I know what I am doing.’ She knew in her bones Warbourne was made for her. She could save him and, in turn, he could save her.

She dropped the bracelet in Giles’s hand. Giles favoured her with a half-smile. ‘Your colt had better be the most plated horse in racing history.’

Phaedra smiled and closed his fingers over the jewellery. ‘He will be. Now, go settle the account like a good brother. I’ll wait outside. Considering the circumstances, I think that would be best.’ Besides, she didn’t want to lose her nerve, didn’t want to watch Giles hand over the pearls, one of the only tangible reminders she had of a mother she could barely remember.

She was magnificent! Bram Basingstoke followed the honey-haired woman with his eyes, watching her exit the auction pavilion and, in his opinion, taking most of the excitement with her. How anyone could bid on the remaining horses after her claiming of Warbourne was beyond him.

Of course it was a fool’s claiming. Anyone who knew anything about Warbourne knew the colt was a failure. Nonetheless, her bravado in the face of certain defeat was to be admired along with much else about her person. It would be an understatement to say she was pretty. She was a beauty of rare comparison, all honey and cream with her dark gold hair, rich and thick where it brushed her shoulders beneath her hat, and the ivory of her skin. Truth be told, he’d been watching her from the start long before the bidding war had begun.

He’d been drawn by her poise, the elegant set of her head and the intensity of her gaze when she looked at that horse. Men would slay armies to garner such a look. There was no question she was a lady. It was there in her stance, her well-tailored clothes, her very attitude, even in her chagrin that someone would challenge her over the horse. She expected to win, as if it were her right. She wasn’t spoiled. She was confident. There was a difference.

The larger question was whether or not he could expect to admire her at closer range. That depended on who the woman’s escort was. Brother? Husband? Betrothed? Bram hoped not the latter. It boded ill for the marriage if fiancés allowed their intendeds to yank auction paddles out of their hands. Husbands too, because then it was too late to rethink one’s matrimonial position. Bram pitied the poor bastard if he’d married such a haughty virago. But Bram didn’t think that was the case. The image of being a henpecked husband didn’t fit with the man’s commanding, military presence. Not a husband, Bram decided, or a fiancé.

He could admire her up close, then, not that husbands had ever stopped him before, at least not until recently. Mrs Fenton’s husband hadn’t taken kindly to Bram’s expression of ‘admiration’ for his wife. Now, Bram was here in the middle of Derbyshire on a repairing lease for the lengthy duration of the Season—a Season, which he was none too pleased to note, hadn’t even started and wouldn’t start for another two months. That meant six months of exile in Derbyshire.

What did one do in Derbyshire for a week, let alone six months? He would be bored to tears, bored unto death; it was to be a miserable existence. Which was precisely what his father had intended. But his father hadn’t counted on her. Bram grinned to no one in particular; a madcap scheme was starting to shape. If she wanted to tame the colt, she was going to need help. Fortunately he knew just the man for the job.

Bram whistled a little tune as he removed his jacket of blue superfine, his waistcoat of paisley silk and rolled up his shirtsleeves, cuff links deposited ignominiously in a pocket. He’d go find her chaperone and get his plan under way. He felt better than he had all week.

Things were improving in Derbyshire.

Chapter Two

Coming outside was not much of an improvement. It meant waiting in a closed carriage. Waiting was not something Phaedra did well even though she knew Giles would be as quick about business as he could. The drive between Buxton and home would take the better part of their afternoon and Giles would want to be back in time for supper. They’d spent the night at an inn last evening but Giles would not tolerate another night on the road especially with Warbourne in tow and Lily waiting for him at journey’s end.

A loud whinny drew her attention outside the carriage window. A handsome chestnut stallion was giving trouble, rearing up and jerking on the handler’s rope. No wonder. There was motion all around him, horses and people and loud voices. Quite a cacophony for the senses if one wasn’t used to it.

Phaedra recognised the handler as Captain Hugh Webster, one of Samuelson’s cronies. Webster tugged hard on the lead rope but that only served to make the stallion angrier. He reared higher, his hooves now a dangerous weapon, his eyes rolling.

Phaedra’s anger rose. Couldn’t Webster see his methods only infuriated the horse? The rope slipped from his hands and for a moment Phaedra thought the animal would succeed in breaking free. She held her breath. That would be calamitous for both the crowd and the horse. A high-strung stallion could step on a dragging lead rope and trip, doing permanent damage to his legs, to say nothing of the hazards associated with a panicked horse running through a panicked crowd. Webster regained the rope and struck the horse with the knotted end which only served to infuriate the horse more.

That did it.

Phaedra threw open the carriage door and jumped down, striding towards the scene of the melee purposefully. ‘Lady Phaedra!’ John Coachman called out from atop the box, but she didn’t stop. She would put an end to this barbarism.

Before the horse could rear again, she stepped in front of the rough handler and seized the rope, effectively shoving him out of the way. ‘Easy now,’ she said in firm tones loud enough to be heard. Slowly, she gathered in the rope, making it more difficult for the horse to rise up, talking to him all the while, looking him in the eye. When she was close enough, Phaedra drew an apple slice from the pocket of her jacket and held it out to the horse. He was quivering, still unsure, but definitely quieter than he’d been minutes before. He took the apple and Phaedra reached up to pat his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

‘Good boy, you’re a good boy,’ she crooned, feeling him settle beneath her hand. He was a good boy too; he’d merely been startled by something in his surroundings and Webster’s response had only aggravated him more. She’d have a few words for the captain in a moment.

‘Well, if it isn’t Lady Phaedra Montague.’ She didn’t have to look up from the stallion. The snide voice was all too familiar. ‘I should have known if there was any commotion you’d be at the heart of it.’

Sir Nathan Samuelson strode forward, a sneer of contempt on his face.

Phaedra kept her hand on the horse’s neck, her gaze meeting Sir Nathan’s unwaveringly. She would not be cowed by him. ‘And I should have known if a horse was being mistreated, it would have been yours. The captain is doing a poor job of introducing this animal to his new life.’ Might made right in Sir Nathan’s view of the world, a philosophy he exercised quite regularly in his stables and Phaedra suspected in his personal life as well. He was unmarried, but not for a lack of trying. Last year he’d tried a suit with her sister, Kate, and even more recently with Aunt Claire. Both had refused him on grounds of moral and philosophical differences, to put it politely.

‘Step away, Lady Phaedra. I have miles to go and an order to pick up from my tailor in town before I can be under way.’ He made an impatient gesture with his hand and then paused with a smirk. ‘That is, unless you have more pearls to sell?’ He made the remark sound nasty and a few of the men gathered around to watch the scene laughed. He came towards her, intentionally dwarfing her, crowding her with his size and breadth. She had a little height of her own but Sir Nathan was of hearty country stock. ‘All your pearls are gone except one.’ His voice was a low sneer. ‘The one right between your legs. Who knows, for a good rub, I might give you the horse, show all of you Montagues you’re not too good for the likes of me. We’re fellow peers of realm, after all.’

Phaedra stiffened, wanting to get away but having no exit. She was trapped between Sir Nathan and the horse. ‘Having a title doesn’t make you a peer of the Montagues. You aren’t fit to wipe our boots.’

‘You little bitch.’

Sir Nathan lunged but his body never reached her. A strong hand at his neck dragged him backwards and spun him around. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you how to talk to a lady?’

No sooner had Sir Nathan faced the newcomer, than the newcomer’s fist landed squarely against Sir Nathan’s jaw, sending him staggering into the assembled crowd. Phaedra had only a quick glimpse of her sudden protector in the intervening moments, a dark-haired devil in a billowing white shirt and the face of an avenging angel, handsome and yet raw with power. She would not soon forget that face.

Her avenger turned towards her, a gallant cavalier from a storybook, his eyes alight with blue fire when he looked at her. ‘Are you all right, miss?’

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ Phaedra managed to find her voice, a most unusual occurrence to have lost it in the first place. But it wasn’t every day a handsome stranger leapt to her defence.

‘Shall I punch him again for you?’ the stranger drawled, watching Sir Nathan right himself with the help of friends.

There was no chance to answer. Giles materialised, parting the crowd with his broad shoulders. ‘That will do, I think. Get along with all of you. There’s nothing more to see here.’ The crowd began to dissolve at the voice of authority. One didn’t have to know he was the son of a duke to decide obedience was the best option. Giles motioned for someone to take the chestnut stallion and the throng around them thinned. But her hero remained.

‘This wasn’t the introduction I’d planned,’ Giles began. ‘But I see the two of you have already met. Bram, this is my sister, Lady Phaedra Montague. She’s the one I was telling you about. She’s been overseeing the stables since old Anderson got hurt. Phaedra, this is Bram Basingstoke. He’ll take over Tom Anderson’s duties until the man recovers.’

Her hero was the new head groom? Phaedra mentally revoked his hero status and squelched her disappointment. She’d hoped Giles had forgotten all about the need to hire a replacement. She’d been having far too much fun taking care of the stables over the winter. ‘I’m sure that’s not necessary,’ she said in her best haughty but polite tones. ‘The poor man will hardly get settled, Giles, and Anderson will be up and about. Until then, I can manage. I don’t mind.’ She did not want any help, no matter how handsome the face that came with it. The stables were her domain, the one place where she had some autonomy. She wasn’t about to let a stranger take that away.

Giles gave her a thin warning smile that said he was not to be crossed on this. ‘Phaedra, you’ll be busy with the colt now.’ What he really meant was that she owed him. He’d backed her on her ridiculous bid, now it was time to do things his way.

Phaedra swallowed. ‘You’re right, of course. Warbourne will take much of my time if he’s to be ready to race in May.’ It was a gutsy gambit, based on the hope that Giles would not contradict her in front of the newcomer. They’d not discussed racing Warbourne this year with any specificity and certainly not in May. But only three-year-olds could race the Epsom Derby. This was his year if she meant to do it.

Giles looked at her sharply. ‘That remains for another discussion.’ He flipped open his pocket watch, an effective conversation closer, and checked the time. ‘Let’s get home and get Warbourne settled before we plan his racing career.’

The ride was accomplished without mishap. Their home, Castonbury, was two hours from Buxton, and Warbourne travelled the distance well with a few rests. Phaedra travelled the distance well too. She was thankful Giles didn’t take advantage of the carriage’s privacy to berate her for her behaviour at the fair. She was thankful, too, for the myriad thoughts crowding her mind, all of which made the time pass quickly. There was Warbourne to consider, which stall he should have, how she should begin his training, and then there was the stranger riding up on the box next to John Coachman. He took up a fair share of those thoughts.

Only he wasn’t really a stranger now that Giles had hired him on. He had a name and a position and he posed a threat to her autonomy. She would need to get the rules of their association established early. They were her stables and they were going to stay that way from now on. She was twenty and plenty old enough for some responsibility of her own.

The carriage turned into the Castonbury parklands, passing through the wrought-iron gates of the entrance, and began the slow, grand, winding drive to the house. They travelled past the boathouses and over the bridge that spanned the river and up to the mansion. Phaedra smiled quietly to herself as she looked out of the window. Castonbury’s majesty never failed to impress even her and she’d grown up here her whole life. Bram Basingstoke was probably sitting atop the carriage, his mouth agape at the wonders of Castonbury Park and thanking his lucky stars her brother had hired him on. It wasn’t every day a man got to be head groom at a ducal estate, even temporarily.

The big house came into view but they passed by and headed west where the stable block lay behind the main house. Phaedra looked across at Giles, whose eyes had opened when the carriage halted. ‘We’re home.’ She placed a hand over his. ‘Thank you for everything.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Giles hesitated before asking, ‘Could I leave you to give our new head groom a tour?’

He wanted to ride down to the vicarage and see Lily, Phaedra guessed. She smiled. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ A tour would be just the thing to set the right tone, just the right way to assert herself.

But Bram had other ideas. The moment the carriage halted, he’d jumped down and taken charge of getting Warbourne untied before Phaedra had barely set her feet on the ground. Warbourne responded to him without any fuss and she had to admit that on first impression he had a good way with horses and with men. The other stable hands leapt to do his bidding. She hastened her pace to catch up and walk beside him, wanting at least to give the impression he needed her.

His sense of authority was unnerving, actually. It was almost lordly in its demeanour, not a quality one found in the average groom or stable master. And then there was the issue of his boots. She noticed they were awfully fine. Aunt Wilhelmina was fond of saying a girl could always tell a gentleman by his shoes. Based on those polished, high boots he wore with only a touch of the day’s dust about them, one might almost mistake him for a gentleman—except that he wasn’t.

His dark hair was too long to be fashionably tolerated and his wardrobe lacked certain necessities. A gentleman wore a waistcoat and a coat in the presence of a lady. A gentleman didn’t walk around with his shirtsleeves rolled up and a gentleman most certainly didn’t engage in fisticuffs at a horse fair. No, Bram Basingstoke was clearly not a gentleman no matter how fine his boots or lordly his demeanour. Some men were just born to command. He was one of them, something she’d do well to remember when dealing with him.

Phaedra pointed out the stall she’d decided on for Warbourne. She slipped a slice of apple to the colt for good behaviour while fresh straw was laid down. Satisfied the colt was well settled, she turned to Bram. ‘Warbourne has had his tour, now it’s time for yours. I’m sure you’re anxious to get your bearings.’

The hint of a smile played about his lips. ‘I have my bearings quite well, but I’ll accept your offer of a tour.’ Humour danced in his eyes.

Phaedra’s mouth went dry. Giles’s new groom was a flirt. Her stomach fluttered a bit as it had at the fair. He was the handsome man again, the daring hero. But that would not do for a Montague servant. In the stables or in the house, the Montague staff were impeccably trained and impeccably mannered, except maybe the errand boy, Charlie. The staff certainly did not flirt with the ducal family. Except for Monsieur André, the head chef. He’d wooed and won Aunt Claire. All right, there were apparently some exceptions. But that did not excuse him.

Bram allowed Phaedra to sweep ahead of him. ‘The stable block is divided up into sections,’ she explained, pride evident as she continued. ‘This section is dedicated to the saddle horses. We keep twenty horses for riding purposes. This is Giles’s favourite hunter, Genghis, rescued him off the battlefield.’ She kept up the introductions, stroking the muzzle of each horse they passed until she’d shown him all of the animals and given him an overwhelming history of each.

It was clear she wanted him overwhelmed. She wanted him to be in awe of his surroundings and he was. Castonbury had one of the finest stables in the north. Bram had seen several stables owned by men who considered themselves fine breeders of the thoroughbred, and Castonbury was impressive. He’d noted the elevated iron hay racks in each of the stalls, eliminating the need to keep a large feed trough running the length of the aisles and taking up space. He’d noted, too, that Castonbury had converted the traditional three-sided stall to the modern-styled loose box stall. The horses looked healthy and strong, no doubt a result of their excellent housing.

Phaedra finished with the riding wing and moved to the centre section. ‘This is the carriage house. We have six carriage bays. As you can see, most of the bays are currently occupied. There’s the ducal travelling coach, there’s the landau for spring outings, the gig for trips to the village and so on. It will be important to familiarise yourself with them. On occasion they will need some light maintenance.’ She seemed willing to move through this section far more quickly than she had the prior. He saw why and it more than provoked his curiosity.

Bram put a light hand on her arm. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed towards what appeared to be a large full-sided wagon complete with windows and a roof in the last bay.

‘It’s a horse trailer,’ Phaedra said tersely, determined to move on with her tour. But Bram was intrigued. He strolled over to the contraption, compelling Phaedra to follow him. He circled the perimeter, bending low to take in the undercarriage.

‘It’s for horses,’ Phaedra said finally, giving him the distinct impression she didn’t want to talk about it.

Bram stood back from the vehicle and gave her an encouraging look. ‘Transporting horses when they could just as easily walk?’ That loosened her tongue a bit. It appeared Phaedra Montague couldn’t stand stupidity in any form.

‘It’s for racehorses, so they don’t have to walk,’ she replied sharply. The offering was enough. The pieces fell into place rapidly after that.

Bram nodded with approval, studying Phaedra with a new excitement that had a little less to do with the sway of her skirt. ‘To take a northern horse south, perhaps?’

He could see the ingenuity of this. Most racing was regional, confined to a district because of issues with distance.

In the north, racing was done in Yorkshire and at Doncaster, while in the south of England, the great tracks were at Newmarket and Epsom. Racehorses couldn’t walk to far locales and be in top shape for racing after a lengthy journey. It was one of the reasons racing magnates congregated in Newmarket with their strings—to avoid the travel and risk of injury to the horse.

‘Precisely.’ Phaedra smiled a bit in reply, starting to warm to the subject.

‘It’s ingenious.’ Bram took another tour around the wagon. He didn’t have to ask for whom the wagon was intended. It was for Warbourne and wherever she meant to take him. ‘You were pretty certain you’d win the bid today.’ Lady Phaedra had invested quite a lot in that horse before he’d even been bought. The wagon couldn’t have been cheap. In itself, the purchase had been a risk. ‘What if you had lost?’ Bram held her eyes, watching her expression carefully.

‘I am not accustomed to losing, Mr Basingstoke. Shall we continue the tour?’

After that, she showed him the last bay where the carriage horses were kept—matched greys for the ducal coach and a set of Cleveland bays for the landau. Then they were off outdoors to see the facilities—the oval training track put in by her great-grandfather at the height of the racing craze in the previous century, and the riding house, also a legacy of her great-grandfather.

‘It’s an amazing facility,’ Bram said at last when they finished walking through the indoor riding house with its viewing gallery of the arena below.

She fixed him with a stern stare. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘That’s what you wanted me to say, isn’t it?’ He grinned. ‘You’ve been trying to overwhelm me since we started.’ Bram held out his hands, palms up in surrender. ‘You have succeeded admirably.’ He was impressed with the facility and with her. Warbourne had not been a spontaneous purchase driven by the whims of a pretty, impetuous young lady.

‘Yes,’ Phaedra admitted. ‘You’ve landed yourself a plum. You should be thankful for a job when so many people are out of work. This is more than simply a job. It’s a very good job at a very fine stable. It’s not quite on par with Chatsworth just yet, but any horseman would be grateful for it.’

Bram chuckled outright at the mention of the great northern stable. To compare one’s self to Chatsworth was brave indeed for fear of coming off wanting. But Castonbury was in no risk of that. ‘We’re not too proud are we, princess?’

‘Not proud. Honest,’ Phaedra countered with a confident tilt of her head. ‘Let me show you your quarters and introduce you to Anderson.’

‘I’ll want to talk about an exercise schedule for Warbourne too, so I can get started with the horses right away,’ Bram asserted as they began the walk back to the stable block. The assignment he’d taken on was becoming more intriguing by the moment, largely due to the woman beside him. She had wanted Warbourne. She saw something in him others had not. After seeing the stables, Bram was starting to think there might be something to that. He was itching to get his hands on that colt.

Phaedra faced him squarely. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Mr Basingstoke. You’re here to help Anderson. Warbourne is mine. I don’t need your help.’

Bram tossed her a smile. ‘Of course you don’t.’ He’d not expected her to say otherwise. But that didn’t mean it was true. She would need him before they were through in one way or another.

Chapter Three

Lady Phaedra Montague was a haughty minx, but that was part of her charm. His intuition about women was seldom wrong and his first impressions from the auction had been correct. Bram was still chuckling as he stowed his things in the small room he’d been given over the stable block. Regardless of the hauteur she cultivated so successfully, she was all fire. He must tread carefully.

Bram folded a shirt and put it in the three-drawer chest in the corner. She was a duke’s daughter. He hadn’t expected that. He had expected her to be nicely situated country gentry and gently born, but not quite so highborn. One simply didn’t open affairs with such lofty creatures. The penalties were too high. One might tolerate facing pistols at dawn over the Mrs Fentons of the world but there would be no scandalous pistols over Phaedra Montague. There would only be a ring and marriage, two very permanent reminders of one’s momentary lapse in judgement. It was probably for the best. Giles Montague was no doubt a deadly shot when it came to his sister’s honour.

It was too late to back out now. He’d taken this gamble on scant knowledge, lured to it by Phaedra’s spirit and the challenge of the colt to offset the looming boredom of six months in Derbyshire. He’d never imagined she’d be Rothermere’s daughter. He didn’t know the duke personally, but the peerage was not so large that a duke could escape notice. Bram knew of Rothermere but no more.

Still, he could leave whenever he chose if he didn’t like how things progressed. He wasn’t reliant on the position for a wage or a reference. He could vanish in the night and no one would be the wiser. As long as he dressed the part …

Bram studied the items in the drawer—three linen shirts and two waistcoats from London’s finest tailors. They simply wouldn’t do for stable work. He’d have to go down to the village and look for ready-made work clothes. He’d also have to see about making arrangements to discreetly retrieve his trunk from the inn in Buxton too. It was unmistakably a gentleman’s travelling trunk and would have raised too many questions. There’d been only time to stop by the inn on the way out of town and pack a quick valise. Even that had been tricky since the inn had been in close proximity to the luxurious Crescent area of Buxton, expensive quarters for a man looking for work.

Bram shut the drawer. What did he care if he was caught? The scandal would serve his father right. There was an irony to it. He’d been sent away to avoid further scandal, not to foment it. His father would die a thousand social deaths if it became known his son had taken employment as a groom in a duke’s household and lived above the stables with the other grooms and male workers. He didn’t want to get caught too soon though, not before he had a chance to see if the colt could be tamed—or Phaedra Montague for that matter.

A heavy footfall at the door caused him to straighten. He had company. He half expected it to be Phaedra. ‘So, you’re the one who has come to replace me.’ The voice was thick with the broad sounds of Derbyshire, the sounds of a man who’d grown up here all his life and wandered very little, a man who would see assistance as an intrusion.

‘Not to replace you, to help you. For a while,’ Bram said in friendly tones. He strode forward, his hand outstretched. ‘You must be Anderson.’ The man looked sixty at least, with a shock of white hair and weathered face. But he was sturdy in build with the stocky frame of a Yorkshire man.

He shifted his cane to his left side and shook hands. ‘Tom Anderson I am.’

‘I’m Bram Basingstoke. Have a seat. I’d like to talk to you about the horses.’ Bram belatedly glanced around the tiny room to realise the only place to sit was the bed.

‘Why don’t you come down to my rooms once you’re settled. We’ll talk more comfortably there.’

‘I’m ready now. I didn’t have much to unpack.’ Bram gestured towards the door. ‘I am hoping you can recommend a place in the village I can get work clothes,’ he said as they made the short trip towards Anderson’s rooms on the first floor.

Anderson waved his cane. ‘Don’t bother. I’ve got a trunk of shirts and trousers left over from the last fellow who was here. He was tall like you, they should fit well enough.’

Anderson’s rooms were slightly larger as befitted his status as the stable manager, and furnished comfortably with well-worn pieces. A fire was going in the hearth, a definite improvement over Bram’s cold chamber.

‘The last fellow?’ Bram enquired, taking a seat near the fire.

Anderson chuckled. ‘You don’t think you’re the first man Lord Giles has hired to help out, do you?’ He pulled out a jug of whisky and poured two pewter cups.

‘I hadn’t thought either way on it,’ Bram said honestly. He’d been too busy thinking about Phaedra and the colt to contemplate the nuances of his position.

‘You’re about the fourth in as many months.’ Anderson passed him a cup. ‘Winter hasn’t been kind to this old man. I’ve been down with one thing or another since November and now my hip is giving me trouble. I can’t work the horses with a bad hip.’ Anderson paused and raised his cup in a toast. ‘Here’s hoping you’ll last longer than the rest.’

Bram studied Anderson over the rim of his cup. Bram could see the age around Anderson’s eyes, his face tanned and wrinkled from a life lived outdoors. Anderson reminded him of the old groom at his family home. His father still hadn’t found a way to pension him off without hurting his pride. ‘The stables are well-kept and the quarters are decent. What drove them off?’

It was Anderson’s turn to eye him over a swallow of whiskey. ‘It wasn’t a “what”. It was a “who”. Some men don’t like taking orders from a lady.’

Ah. Phaedra Montague. He should have guessed. She’d been far from pleased with her brother’s announcement at the fair. ‘She makes life difficult?’ Bram asked. Did she plant frogs in their beds? He couldn’t envisage her stooping to such juvenile levels.

Anderson wiped his mouth with his hand. ‘Nah. She doesn’t do it on purpose. It’s not her fault she knows more about horses than they do. She doesn’t mean to drive them away.’

The first thing that struck Bram was that he doubted it. She probably did hope they would move along. She had not hidden her disapproval at the horse fair. The second was that she had the old groom wrapped around her finger. He was clearly defending her.

‘She’s that good?’ Bram took another swallow, trying to cultivate an attitude of nonchalance while he probed for information. It was always best to know one’s quarry before one began the hunt.

‘She’s that good. Lord Giles is a bruising rider but she holds equal to him. It’s not just the riding though. It’s everything else. It’s like she can look in their souls, that she can reach them on a level no one else can.’ Anderson poured himself a second drink. ‘I’ll tell you something crazy if you want to hear it and if it won’t send you packing.’

Bram was all ears. This part of the country was known for its superstitions and ghost tales and Anderson had the makings of a fine storyteller.

‘Two years ago last June we had a white stallion named Troubadour. He belonged to her brother Edward. Edward was off fighting Napoleon but Troubadour had been left home. One night around the fourteenth, he started acting all crazy-like in his stall, kicking, stomping. He wouldn’t eat. No one could get near him except Miss Phaedra. She sat with him for hours getting him to calm down. Mind you, there was no one here. All four of the boys were at war. It was just Lady Phaedra and Lady Kate and the duke, of course. When Lady Kate came out to see her, Lady Phaedra was crying something fierce. She told Lady Kate Troubadour was dying and that she feared young Lord Edward was dead. Before sunrise, Troubadour lay down in his stall and refused to get up. A month later, word reached us that Lord Edward had fallen at Waterloo, the very night Troubadour died.’ Anderson tapped his head with his finger. ‘She knows them, knows what’s in their heads.’

Bram nodded. He’d heard stories about horses that could sense their masters’ distress. He’d never heard of anything quite as drastic as Anderson’s tale. So, Lady Phaedra talked to horses and read their minds. Well, he’d see about that for himself, but it was clear Tom Anderson believed it in full.

They passed a companionable evening discussing the horses and their workout needs. There was the spirited mare the eldest daughter, Kate, had left behind when she’d gone to America not long ago. There were the general horses kept for guests, not that there’d been many guests outside of family in recent months. There was Giles Montague’s black beast of a stallion, Genghis, nearly as dark as Warbourne. And there was the elegant chestnut thoroughbred, Merlin, Lord Jamie’s horse.

‘Lord Jamie?’ He quirked his eyebrow in question. Yet another younger brother, perhaps? How big was this family? Bram was beginning to wonder.

‘Lord Jamie is the eldest. But he went to war too, and didn’t come home. Only Lord Giles and Lord Harry returned.’ Anderson shook his head. ‘It’s been a bad business all around for the family. Lord Giles wanted to be a career military man. He never wanted to be the heir, never was jealous of Lord Jamie. But it wasn’t to be.’

‘He died too?’ Bram asked quietly. He knew several families in London who’d lost loved ones thanks to Napoleon. Families both rich and poor alike had lost sons.

Anderson shrugged, a light twinkling in his old blue eyes. ‘Don’t know. That’s a whole other kettle of fish brewing up at the house these days. Lord Giles is pretty closemouthed about it, as he should be. But there was no body ever recovered and then last fall this woman shows up with a little ‘un just about the right age claiming she’s Lord Jamie’s wife. She’s living at the Dower House. The family is trying to do right by her, although the whole thing seems off to me.’

‘Why?’

Anderson jerked his head the general direction of the horse stalls. ‘Merlin’s still alive. He and Lord Jamie were as close as a horse and human can be, just like Edward and Troubadour,’ Tom Anderson answered matter-of-factly, as if everyone bought into folklore without question.

Bram refrained from comment. He supposed stranger things had happened. When he’d driven through the gates of Castonbury today, it had looked normal enough—the manicured grounds, the outbuildings in decent repair, the stables immaculate. It had looked better than normal. From the outside, one would never guess the turmoil that simmered beneath the surface. What exactly had he let himself in for? Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t ‘boring.’ All fears of ennui had been effectively banished.

Phaedra rose early and dressed quickly in breeches and a loose shirt. Rising early was imperative if she wanted to escape the eagle eye of Aunt Wilhelmina. She did not approve of Phaedra roaming the estate in breeches nor did the redoubtable lady approve of rising before ten in the morning. Neither of which was surprising. Aunt Wilhelmina spent most of her life disapproving. Still, Phaedra preferred not to be on the receiving end of her aunt’s disapproval and there seemed to be a lot more of it headed her direction since Kate had left after Christmas with her new husband.

In the breakfast room, Giles was already present with his coffee and newspapers. He looked up as she entered and uttered a brief good-morning. She nodded. This had become their ritual. Both of them enjoyed rising early but early rising was not synonymous with a desire to engage in conversation. They wanted to eat first, let their minds sift through the agenda of their days.

Phaedra piled her plate with eggs and hot toast. Chances were she wouldn’t be back to the house for luncheon. Her mind was already sorting through the things that needed doing at the stables: check on the gelding with the sore leg, make sure the hay delivery had arrived from the home farm, do a general walk-through to check on the stalls and horses. There was Warbourne to see to and horses to exercise.

The activity would fill her day until sunset. The busyness was a blessed relief from the empty house. She’d grown up in a large family, used to being surrounded by brothers and a sister, but war and the passing of years had brought an end to that. The boys had gone to battle. Only Giles had come home and then only because duty demanded it. Harry had come home and left again. Kate had married. Really, Kate’s marriage was the last blow, the last desertion. The two of them had lived here together during the years the boys were at war. It had brought them close in spite of the difference in their ages. Now Kate was gone, choosing Virgil and a new life in Boston over Castonbury and the familiar. And her.

Now it was just her and Giles, the oldest and the youngest, nine years separating them. She hoped it wasn’t disloyal to Jamie to think of Giles as the oldest. But Jamie was dead now, whether there was a body or not, and Giles had done his best to pick up the reins of duty in the wake of great tragedy.

Phaedra sighed and bit into her toast. Since Kate had left, mornings were hardest of all, the time when she was most acutely aware she’d been left behind. The once merry and heavily populated breakfast room was empty. Giles was here but he had Lily and in the summer they would marry. They would fill Castonbury with a new generation of Montagues. Time would move on. Would she? What would happen to her? What would become of her? Anything could happen. She told herself she had Warbourne now. He was her chance.

Phaedra pushed back from the table, her appetite overruled by the need to see Warbourne, to get to the stables where worries and thoughts wouldn’t plague her.

‘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.

Phaedra slumped in her chair, getting her racing pulse under control. Admittedly, she had little practice with this sort of man, with any man. He’d had it aright when he’d guessed her kissing had been limited to party games and holiday traditions. He’d been right, too, when he’d suggested she wanted to know about his kind of kissing. Just because she hadn’t been kissed, didn’t mean she didn’t want to be. There just hadn’t been the right opportunity, or maybe there just hadn’t been the right man. She was twenty, after all, and girls younger than she were married with families.

Phaedra fiddled idly with the paperweight on her desk. Bram Basingstoke thought he could be the right man. Was he crazy? She was a duke’s daughter. It raised the question of whether or not he knew better. He acted like no servant she’d ever met. There was a bit of irony to the idea that a lady took a groom out riding with her as protection, as a chaperone, but who protected her from the groom when he came in the form of Bram Basingstoke? In no way did he meet Aunt Wilhelmina’s terms of an ideal chaperone. He was far too handsome, and far too exciting with his brash brand of conversation.

Phaedra gave a heavy sigh. If the truth be told, she was disappointed he hadn’t kissed her in spite of her scold. It might have been nice to know once and for all what the mystique was all about. She was tired of being twenty and having never been kissed, at least not really kissed by a real man. Perhaps there was still hope. Bram had left without claiming his forfeit. Until then, she had Warbourne to think about. Phaedra grabbed a lunge line from a hook on the wall. It was time to see what her colt could do.

Phaedra looked up at the clock on her wall and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Quarter past six already! The afternoon had sped by in an enjoyable flurry of activity. Warbourne had not disappointed. She’d worked with him until late afternoon and then buried herself in her office writing copious notes about the day’s training. It was all very promising and she was tempted to send to the house for supper instead of going back. But that was the coward’s way. It would accomplish nothing. If she didn’t show up for supper, Giles would seek her out down here. If he meant to have a talk, nothing would stop him.

Phaedra rose and stretched, her stomach rumbled. She’d worked through lunch and tea. Supper sounded nice but she’d have to hurry if she was to be on time and dressed to meet Aunt Wilhelmina’s exacting standards. Even though no guests were present, Aunt Wilhelmina expected the family to dress for dinner. One never knew who might arrive at the last minute and while they could have bad form in showing up unexpectedly, the Montagues could not. A duke and his family must always be prepared to look the part.

Phaedra arrived in the drawing room promptly at seven o’clock dressed in a cream dinner gown of Spitalfields silk woven with blue and red flowers, her hair put up in a twist with a few tendrils left down to frame her face. Her maid, Henny, had been prepared, a gown laid out and a pitcher of warm water already waiting in anticipation.

Lumsden summoned them for dinner with a properness not to be outdone by any London household. Phaedra thought it was all a bit silly since everyone was gone but Lumsden had been with the family for years and, like Aunt Wilhelmina, he had his own ideas about the importance of standing on ceremony even if it was just the three of them.

That importance extended to where they dined. The long, stately dining table dominated the centre of the room; eight-armed candelabra of heavy silver graced the table length atop a snowy white cloth. Lights from the candles played across the delicate Staffordshire china and crystal wine glasses. Every night, the room was turned out to perfection, much like its three guests, and every night, the room remained mainly empty with only a few to enjoy its beauty.

It had been different in the fall. Kate had been home and Cousin Ross had come to visit with his sister, Araminta. Phaedra had enjoyed their company.

Ross had made dinners lively, discussing local news with Giles and Kate. Even Aunt Wilhelmina had been charmed by him right up until he’d been discovered having a little romance with the maid, Lisette. Aunt Wilhelmina hadn’t minded the romance—’it was what men of his station did’—but she had minded greatly that he hadn’t wanted to end it. Now Ross was gone and Araminta had married and gone to live in Cambridgeshire.

‘Perhaps we could invite Alicia to dine with us again some evening,’ Phaedra suggested, taking in the empty expanse of table. Alicia must hate dining alone.

Aunt Wilhelmina, her iron-grey hair pulled back into a tight bun, shot her a quelling look as if she’d spoken blasphemy. ‘That woman has not yet earned a regular place at the table with the Montagues, no matter what name she calls herself.’

That woman, Alicia Montague, had been relegated to the Dower House with her little son and stuck in limbo since autumn waiting to prove to them all she was truly Jamie’s widow, waiting for acceptance. Phaedra felt sorry for her. Alicia had been up to the house a few times. Phaedra knew her father liked seeing the little toddler when he was well enough. But for the most part, the family liked to pretend she didn’t exist whenever they could. Alicia Montague was awkward to say the least, a reminder that not all was settled.

Phaedra opened her mouth to respond but Giles cut in. ‘Phae, let’s not bring any unpleasantness to the table. The kitchen has prepared roast pheasant tonight. We should enjoy it. Why don’t you tell us about the colt? Did you take him out today?’

‘Giles, he’s splendid. You should come down and watch him tomorrow.’ Phaedra managed to keep up a steady stream of chatter about Warbourne and the stables for most of dinner. She began to hope Giles would forget the talk he wanted to have. But by the time the raspberry crème was set in front of them for the last course, Giles brought the conversation to his subject.

He fixed her with a friendly, brotherly smile. She was not fooled. ‘Phae, I mentioned at breakfast that I wanted to talk with you about this spring.’ He nodded in Aunt Wilhelmina’s direction. ‘We would like to give you a Season. It’s long overdue and you deserve it. Tucked up here in Derbyshire, you’ve had very little chance to meet anyone your own age or station.’

Phaedra put down her spoon. She hated when he did that. It was a nasty strategy, making the command seem like a gift. He wanted to give her a Season. ‘That’s very generous of you both.’ Phaedra returned Giles’s smile with one of her own, picking her words carefully. Aunt Wilhelmina was a grand proponent of the Season. She and Kate had gone around about it when it had been Kate’s turn to come out.

‘I think it would be a burden and an expense.’ Aunt Wilhelmina might like the Season but she liked to save a pound whenever she could. Phaedra hoped the money argument would appeal to her. ‘We’re just getting the money back in line, Giles, after father’s bad investments. I don’t want to undo your hard work by straining the coffers over something as unnecessary as a wardrobe and opening up the town house.’ To say nothing of the cost of keeping the horses and the carriage in town and all the other expenses of simply being in London.

It was Aunt Wilhelmina who answered. She sharply dismissed Phaedra’s concern. ‘If we’re worried about cost, we can stay at Lady Grace Mannering’s, Araminta’s aunt. Not much to be done about the wardrobe though. We can’t have you go looking like a pauper. People will talk. There’s frugality and then there’s stupidity. The money has to be spent in the right places.’

Giles covered Phaedra’s hand with his own. ‘Don’t worry your head about money.’ There was a glint in his eye that warned her not to press the argument further. He knew very well she hadn’t been worried about money in Buxton when it came to Warbourne. He understood her argument now was just a polite subterfuge to avoid the real issue. If she was going to get out of a Season, she’d have to tell the truth, the real reason she didn’t want to go.

‘I can’t leave the stables,’ Phaedra said bluntly. ‘When I left in January to visit the new stables at Chatsworth everything fell apart while I was gone.’ She’d come home to find the stables in disarray, hay orders not placed and horses not shoed.

‘We have a reliable man in place now. Bram Basingstoke is quite accomplished, Tom Anderson said as much today when I spoke with him,’ Giles answered her evenly.

Giles had come to the stables? ‘You came down and didn’t come to see me?’

‘I came this morning. I was told you were out riding,’ Giles said firmly. ‘Now, don’t change the subject. You know I’m right. You rode with Basingstoke this morning and you know he’s capable if he handled Merlin. Besides, Tom Anderson is on the mend. He’s able to keep a better eye on things than he was in January.’

‘It’s not just the stables,’ Phaedra hedged. ‘I can’t leave Warbourne. I won’t.’

Aunt Wilhelmina exploded. She pointed her spoon at Phaedra. ‘That is enough, young lady. You’re twenty and you’ve never come out properly. You’ll never catch a husband, you’ll be nothing but a burden on this family.’ She paused to draw a breath before continuing.

‘I promised my sister on her deathbed I’d look after you girls and see you settled. Your mother worried about what would become of her precious girls. It’s so much harder to raise daughters. The world takes care of its men but it doesn’t take care of its women. That’s a family’s job and one I accepted willingly. Out of love for my sister, I’ve devoted my life to seeing the six of you raised. You will not fail me at the last, Phaedra.’

Phaedra rose and shoved back her chair, tears of anger and guilt burning in her eyes. She had to get out of the room before she embarrassed herself. ‘No, I won’t go. Not this year. I most respectfully refuse.’

She shot her brother one last look. ‘I’m sorry, Giles. I can’t do it. I simply can’t.’

Phaedra didn’t stop to change her dress or to grab a shawl. She headed out into the night, to the stables. Where there would be peace and there would be no more talk of Seasons and husbands and promises to keep to mothers she didn’t remember.

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