Bronwyn Scott - Unbefitting a Lady

‘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.