Bronwyn Scott - Unbefitting a Lady

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.

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.