‘He needs a strong hand or he’ll forget you’re the master.’ Bram reached out a hand to stroke Merlin’s long face.
‘Are you going to put on your shirt?’ Phaedra’s eyes flicked to the post where his shirt hung.
‘Did you want me to?’ It was an audacious thing to say to a lady but he wanted her to be honest with herself. He’d never held with the notion of missishness when it came to the opposite sex. He liked a woman who knew her own appetites.
She blushed but didn’t look away. ‘And you thought Sir Nathan didn’t know how to talk to a lady.’ Her eyes flashed with something Bram couldn’t pinpoint—disapproval, or maybe something more electric. Bram’s temper rose at the comparison.
‘I will not be confused with the likes of him. He called you a bitch, I only called you out.’
‘That is a most indecent suggestion!’
They were nearly nose to nose now, the breasts beneath her white shirt almost brushing his chest. He could see the flecks of blue in her grey eyes, could smell the sweet tang of apple about her—a horsey smell and a womanly smell all at once. ‘Be honest, Phaedra, you were watching me. There’s no sin in admitting it.’ He smiled and released her, reaching for his shirt. ‘There’s no sin in liking it either, only in lying.’
Phaedra’s chin tilted in defiance. ‘I think—’
Bram cut her off with a chuckle. ‘Oh, I know what you think, Phaedra Montague.’ He pulled his shirt over his head, remembering at the last it was a work shirt and lacked front fastenings, not his usual Bond Street affair. He shoved his arms through and tucked it into his waistband. ‘Now that’s settled. This old boy could use a ride.’ Lady Phaedra could take the last remark any way she liked.
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