Unbefitting a Lady (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phaedra shrugged. ‘No, just thinking.’

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

‘What thoughts?’ Phaedra felt her cheeks heat.

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

Chapter Twenty-Three

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

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

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

But that didn’t stop the wanting. Phaedra was fresh, and
dazzling, beautiful, intelligent, and most of all forthright in her opinions and
her passion. She’d put to shame his usual strategy of ‘once is enough.’ Once had
only whet his appetite for more and now he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He had told Giles to trust him, to trust them. Now he had
Phaedra in his bed, promising him nights together at Epsom without consequence.
That was naivety talking. There would be consequences. Maybe not a pregnancy or
a forced wedding, but there would be consequences. There already were, the
biggest one being he didn’t want to let her go after the Derby. He knew what it
meant. He’d probably known it for a while. There was only one way to keep a
woman like Phaedra and that was to marry her, the one thing he couldn’t do.

How could he propose with any credibility? He’d already looked
that gift horse in the mouth and refused when Giles had put the question to
him.

If Warbourne actually won, she’d think he was caught up in the
moment. Even without a victory queering his pitch, she’d think he felt motivated
by honour. He’d deflowered a virgin and he knew his duty. Worse, she’d think he
was proposing because of some threat from Giles.

The set ended and Phaedra’s escort returned her to his side.
Grafton’s heir bowed to Phaedra and thanked her for the dance. ‘I will be in
touch,’ he said with a warm look in his eyes Bram didn’t care one iota for. ‘I
would be delighted to count you among my correspondents, Lady Phaedra.’

Phaedra smiled graciously and effused her own delight over the
sentiment. Bram felt the vice tighten once more. ‘What was that all about?’ he
growled once the young man was out of earshot.

Phaedra shot him a quizzical look that said he was
overreacting. ‘I feel the need for some air, why don’t you take me outside?’

Later, he would find some humour in the way she all but dragged
him from the ballroom.
He
had not taken
her
from the ballroom. They found an empty room down a
dark hallway and Phaedra turned up the lamp. ‘You’ve been glowering from the
sidelines nearly the whole night. What is going on?’

How the hell did a man answer that question? Bram pushed a hand
through his hair. ‘I thought the duke’s son was ogling your bosom too much.’

Phaedra raised her eyebrow. ‘And Mr Harris?’

‘He danced like a clod. I thought you might turn an ankle.’
Bram began to pace the room.

‘I see.’ Phaedra crossed her arms over her breasts, a knowing
smile on her lips. ‘You’re jealous. I suspect there was something wrong with
each of my dance partners.’

‘Damn right there was something wrong with them. They weren’t
me
.’ She was
his
,
damn it. The realization was fierce and visceral as was the solution. If he
wanted her, he should claim her. ‘You are mine, Phaedra, and no one else’s.’

* * *

Phaedra swallowed hard against the desire rising, hot
and fast, invoked by his words. The gentleman’s clothing could not hide the
primitive man prowling inside them. She backed up, letting him stalk her until
her back met the hard surface of the wall. She was not afraid, she welcomed
this, welcomed Bram and the mad release he’d bring. This is what their nights in
Epsom were meant to be about, storing up memories against farewell.

He bracketed her with his hands, his mouth claiming hers in a
hard kiss, making sure of his welcome. Then his hands were at her skirts,
rucking up the delicate material. This would not be about seduction and its
subtle nuances. This would be about claiming and it would be rough.

‘Wrap your legs around me, Phaedra.’ Bram didn’t wait for
compliance. He lifted her and she clung to him, braced between the wall and his
strength, her legs finding their natural way about his waist.

Bram moved a hand to the flap of his trousers, freeing himself
to press against her bare skin. There was to be no foreplay, no readying games,
and she was glad for it. At the feel of him, her body had begun to cry out. Bram
positioned himself at once and entered. She squeezed hard, clutching him to her
in the most intimate of manners, her head thrown back, her neck arched, as she
savoured the presence of him. How could anything match this?

Then Bram began to move and not only matched it but exceeded
it, the strength of his legs flexing with the rhythm of their mating. She held
on to him, letting the power of their release wash over them both, leaving them
panting and sated. This was decadence at its finest.

Bram moved them carefully to the long divan, his shaft still
seated deep within her. ‘It doesn’t feel like a sin,’ Phaedra murmured, relaxing
her grip on his waist as he laid her down. It didn’t occur to her until he moved
out of her that he hadn’t withdrawn this time. How could he have? They’d been
lost in their pleasure, overwhelmed with it, beyond thought.

Bram laughed at her comment. ‘Good things never do.’ His voice
shook though, a testament to how thoroughly the experience had overcome them.
‘Phaedra, I’m sorry. I couldn’t—’

Phaedra placed a finger on his lips. She didn’t want reality to
intrude quite so immediately. ‘Let’s not borrow trouble without cause, Bram.’
She’d been around horses all her life. She knew well the risks of what they’d
done. But for now they were risks only. She smiled up at him, trying to dispel
the resigned worry that lingered in his eyes. ‘What now, Mr Basingstoke?’

A ghost of a smile took Bram’s mouth. ‘We go back to the
ballroom and dance. Then, we go and win the Derby.’

Phaedra kissed him one last time. ‘I like the sound of that.’
It was the ‘we’ part she liked most. She said nothing to correct him.

Bram claimed the next dance, a waltz. He’d just swept her into
the turn when there was a clamour at the Assembly Room entrance. Bram brought
her to a stumbling halt, his grip on her waist tight as he craned his neck to
see the commotion. ‘Oh, my God, Phaedra. It’s Bevins.’ On the strength of Bram’s
shoulders, they pushed their way to the front. Bevins stood there, pale and
shaking.

‘Lady Phaedra, Mr Basingstoke, you’ve got to come quick. It’s
Warbourne. He’s taken powerfully ill.’

* * *

Phaedra sank to her knees beside Warbourne, heedless of
the rough straw raking against the delicate silk of her gown. The colt was on
his side, his breathing ragged and his eyes rolling. She laid a soothing hand
along his neck to check his pulse. It was fast, probably from anxiety over being
sick and panic at not being able to help himself.

Behind her, she was vaguely aware of Bram talking with Bevins
and others. There was a sense of relief in knowing Bram would handle everything.
He would gather information, he would learn what he could and he would be her
gatekeeper. He would provide a buffer between her and any prying eyes.

Phaedra reached for a handful of hay and sniffed, searching for
signs of cyanide or arsenic. There was no telltale scent of almond. That was a
blessing. Little could be done about cyanide poisoning other than letting it run
its course and hope the horse was strong enough to survive.

She rose and went to the water bucket, dismayed to find it
still half full. ‘Bevins,’ she called out. ‘Have you refilled this bucket
today?’ Horses needed ten gallons of water daily to stay hydrated. If the bucket
hadn’t been refilled, Warbourne had only drunk half of his daily ration.

Bevins hurried over, his cap in his hand. He was clearly
worried he’d done something wrong. ‘No, Lady Phaedra.’

Dehyradration, then, Phaedra thought. What would cause
Warbourne to stop drinking? She scooped up a handful of water, the droplets
staining the skirt of her dress. She sniffed. Detecting nothing, she cupped her
hands to her mouth and took a cautious sip. Salt!

Bram hurried over. ‘What is it? Have we determined a
cause?’

‘He’s dehydrated. Someone put salt in his water.’ Salt water
created a double bind for Warbourne. Either he kept drinking to appease his
growing thirst or he stopped because he sensed something was wrong with the
water.

Phaedra drew a deep breath. ‘The good news is we can remedy
this. I can take care of Warbourne if you can figure out how this happened.
Bevins, you stay with me. I’ll need help.’

Bram reached for her hand and squeezed. From the look in his
eyes, he wanted to do more but didn’t dare with the little crowd standing at the
entrance to Warbourne’s stall. ‘I’m glad he’ll be all right.’ Warbourne would be
fine. The bigger question was whether or not he’d be well enough to race in
fourteen hours.

‘Come on,’ She motioned to Bevins, ‘We’ve got work to do.’ Now
that things had settled, she wondered where Matt Somerset was.

When asked, Bevins merely shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen him since
suppertime.’

Phaedra nodded. ‘Tell Mr Basingstoke. Maybe he knows. Then you
and I need to get Warbourne up and on his feet.’

Getting a horse on his feet was the single most important thing
for curing most horse ailments and wasn’t easy. She and Bevins tugged, pushed
and cajoled a thousand pounds of thoroughbred to his feet. Phaedra walked him up
and down the aisle, crooning soft words to him while Bevins washed out the water
bucket and refilled it.

Now it was time to drink. Clean water was the best medicine she
could offer Warbourne. The cure was alarmingly simple but getting him to take it
was not. Back in his stall, Warbourne showed only the most sceptical of
interests in the water bucket. It confirmed for her what she’d suspected. He’d
stopped drinking after finding the water a bit off.

‘Good boy.’ She patted his big shoulder. To Bevins, she said,
‘Our boy was smart. He sensed something was wrong and he stopped drinking. That
means there’s less salt water in his system to contend with.’ Her hopes started
to rise. Warbourne only needed to start drinking. He didn’t have to flush
anything out of his system. Recovery in time for the race was possible.

Phaedra tugged the lead rope, urging Warbourne towards his
bucket but he was far too skittish. Just because she’d solved the mystery didn’t
mean his symptoms had faded. His pulse was still fast and he was weak on his
legs. The danger had not passed yet.

‘Bevins, in the tack trunk there’s a small vial marked
peppermint.’ Peppermint extract in the water often enticed dehydrated horses to
drink. But Bevins just stood there.

‘Well, go on, fetch it,’ Phaedra urged crossly. ‘Every minute
counts tonight.’

Bevins looked down at his hands. ‘I can’t read, Lady
Phaedra.’

She regretted her impatient tone immediately. ‘I’ll get it if
you can hold Warbourne.’

Out in the aisle she ran into Bram holding up a sagging Matt
Somerset. ‘I found him, Phaedra,’ Bram said grimly. ‘Whoever went after
Warbourne did a number on Matt too. He was in the back of the tack room.’

Matt favoured her with a smile through cracked lips. ‘Don’t
worry, I can still ride. They didn’t break my ribs, just bruised me up a bit.
How’s the colt?’

‘He will be fine. I’m off to get some peppermint from the tack
trunk.’

‘I’ll get it,’ Bram said tersely, helping Matt to sit on the
wooden crate outside the stall. ‘I don’t want you down there alone, Phaedra, in
case the culprits are hanging around to savor their handiwork.’

‘He likes you,’ Matt said, watching Bram head down the aisle.
‘In the three years I’ve known him, he’s never shown this kind of interest in a
woman. They’re always one-night stands.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, that’s not polite
talk.’

Phaedra glanced down at her hands. ‘I don’t mind, truly.’

‘Most of it is his father’s doing, if you ask me. His father is
a stickler for honour and duty. Bram’s a bit more about living, about the
adventure of life. It’s not a good fit.’

‘We’re an awful a lot like them,’ Phaedra offered softly. ‘I
have a good family, but lately I just haven’t fit in. I can’t be what they
want.’ She missed Giles, missed Castonbury. She’d been gone from home long
enough to know that she wasn’t ready to leave it. Her life to date had been
there and she wanted her future to be there too. But Giles would have to accept
that her future would be different from the one he had planned for her.

Bram came back with the vial. ‘You two look cosy.’

‘I’ve been telling tales on you, Bram old boy.’ Matt gave a
hoarse laugh.

Bram grinned. ‘Then you must be feeling better.’

The peppermint worked. Lured by its scent, Warbourne took a
tentative drink. Convinced the water was safe, he began to drink in earnest,
although Phaedra was careful to moderate his sips. She didn’t want to risk him
bloating.

Bram came up behind her and wrapped his arms about her, drawing
her close against him. He was warm and smelled of the barns. ‘It’s going to be a
long night. Why don’t you go and get some sleep and I’ll keep watch? I’ve got
Matt on a cot in the tack room and Bevins will keep me company.’ Bevins was
currently out running an errand to the inn.