Unbefitting a Lady. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
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