Unbefitting a Lady
Read Unbefitting a Lady Online
Authors: Bronwyn Scott
‘I would appreciate it if you could just try to stay out of
the stables…’
As the Duke of Rothermere’s youngest daughter, Phaedra
Montague is expected to be the dutiful darling of elegant society. Too bad,
then, that this feisty Lady has swapped her dance cards and silk gowns for
racing tips and breeches!
With the arrival of gorgeous groom Bram Basingstoke, Phaedra
can’t help but be distracted. He’s as wild and untamed as the stallion he’s
training. But Phaedra is
supposed
to act properly at
all times. Even if this dark-haired devil in a billowing white shirt is tempting
her to a very
im
proper roll in the hay…
Survival of the fittest is fine, so long as you’re the one
on top…but the family that has everything is about to lose it all…
The Montagues have found themselves at the centre of the
ton
’s rumour mill, with lords and ladies alike
claiming the family is not what it used to be.
The mysterious death of the heir to the Dukedom, and the
arrival of an unknown woman claiming he fathered her son, is only the tip of the
iceberg in a family where scandal upstairs
and
downstairs threatens the very foundations of their once powerful and revered
dynasty...
August 2012
THE WICKED LORD
MONTAGUE
– Carole Mortimer
September 2012
THE HOUSEMAID’S
SCANDALOUS SECRET
– Helen Dickson
October 2012
THE LADY WHO BROKE THE
RULES
– Marguerite Kaye
November 2012
LADY OF SHAME
–
Ann Lethbridge
December 2012
THE ILLEGITIMATE
MONTAGUE
– Sarah Mallory
January 2013
UNBEFITTING A LADY
– Bronwyn Scott
February 2013
REDEMPTION OF A FALLEN
WOMAN
– Joanna Fulford
March 2013
A STRANGER AT
CASTONBURY
– Amanda McCabe
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
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.
Contents
Chapter One
Buxton, Derbyshire, March 1817
H
e 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.