Bronwyn Scott - Unbefitting a Lady

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.’