Unbefitting a Lady. Bronwyn Scott

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.

       Chapter Two

      Coming outside was not much of an improvement. It meant waiting in a closed carriage. Waiting was not something Phaedra did well even though she knew Giles would be as quick about business as he could. The drive between Buxton and home would take the better part of their afternoon and Giles would want to be back in time for supper. They’d spent the night at an inn last evening but Giles would not tolerate another night on the road especially with Warbourne in tow and Lily waiting for him at journey’s end.

      A loud whinny drew her attention outside the carriage window. A handsome chestnut stallion was giving trouble, rearing up and jerking on the handler’s rope. No wonder. There was motion all around him, horses and people and loud voices. Quite a cacophony for the senses if one wasn’t used to it.

      Phaedra recognised the handler as Captain Hugh Webster, one of Samuelson’s cronies. Webster tugged hard on the lead rope but that only served to make the stallion angrier. He reared higher, his hooves now a dangerous weapon, his eyes rolling.

      Phaedra’s anger rose. Couldn’t Webster see his methods only infuriated the horse? The rope slipped from his hands and for a moment Phaedra thought the animal would succeed in breaking free. She held her breath. That would be calamitous for both the crowd and the horse. A high-strung stallion could step on a dragging lead rope and trip, doing permanent damage to his legs, to say nothing of the hazards associated with a panicked horse running through a panicked crowd. Webster regained the rope and struck the horse with the knotted end which only served to infuriate the horse more.

      That did it.

      Phaedra threw open the carriage door and jumped down, striding towards the scene of the melee purposefully. ‘Lady Phaedra!’ John Coachman called out from atop the box, but she didn’t stop. She would put an end to this barbarism.

      Before the horse could rear again, she stepped in front of the rough handler and seized the rope, effectively shoving him out of the way. ‘Easy now,’ she said in firm tones loud enough to be heard. Slowly, she gathered in the rope, making it more difficult for the horse to rise up, talking to him all the while, looking him in the eye. When she was close enough, Phaedra drew an apple slice from the pocket of her jacket and held it out to the horse. He was quivering, still unsure, but definitely quieter than he’d been minutes before. He took the apple and Phaedra reached up to pat his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

      ‘Good boy, you’re a good boy,’ she crooned, feeling him settle beneath her hand. He was a good boy too; he’d merely been startled by something in his surroundings and Webster’s response had only aggravated him more. She’d have a few words for the captain in a moment.

      ‘Well, if it isn’t Lady Phaedra Montague.’ She didn’t have to look up from the stallion. The snide voice was all too familiar. ‘I should have known if there was any commotion you’d be at the heart of it.’

      Sir Nathan Samuelson strode forward, a sneer of contempt on his face.

      Phaedra kept her hand on the horse’s neck, her gaze meeting Sir Nathan’s unwaveringly. She would not be cowed by him. ‘And I should have known if a horse was being mistreated, it would have been yours. The captain is doing a poor job of introducing this animal to his new life.’ Might made right in Sir Nathan’s view of the world, a philosophy he exercised quite regularly in his stables and Phaedra suspected in his personal life as well. He was unmarried, but not for a lack of trying. Last year he’d tried a suit with her sister, Kate, and even more recently with Aunt Claire. Both had refused him on grounds of moral and philosophical differences, to put it politely.

      ‘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