Unbefitting a Lady. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
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
About the Author
BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.
Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.
Previous novels from Bronwyn Scott:
PICKPOCKET COUNTESS
NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY
THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE
THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD
UNTAMED ROGUE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS
A THOROUGHLY COMPROMISED LADY
SECRET LIFE OF A SCANDALOUS DEBUTANTE
UNBEFITTING A LADY + HOW TO DISGRACE A LADY*
* Rakes Beyond Redemption trilogy + Castonbury Park Regency mini-series
And in Mills & Boon® Historical eBooks:
LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS
PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY
WICKED EARL, WANTON WIDOW
ARABIAN NIGHTS WITH A RAKE
AN ILLICIT INDISCRETION
PRINCE CHARMING IN DISGUISE
Unbefitting
a Lady
Bronwyn Scott
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.
Chapter One
Buxton, Derbyshire, March 1817
He 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