Unbefitting a Lady Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Bronwyn Scott
right then.
Unlike the quiet house, the stables were a hive of activity.
Horses and grooms rose early. Phaedra went straight to an old, unused tack room
she’d converted into an office during the winter and began going through
paperwork that had arrived while she was gone. There wasn’t much of it, but the
ritual was soothing and it centred her thoughts. Here, sitting at the scarred
desk she’d found in the stable storage loft, she felt at home. This was her
place. A rough desk, a rough chair, the worn breeding ledgers lined on a shelf
that detailed every foal born at Castonbury—all of it defined her world.
Phaedra pulled down a book that catalogued the horses at
Castonbury. She flipped through until she found a blank page towards the back.
She reached for the quill and inkstand on her desk and carefully wrote Warbourne , followed by his lineage, the price paid and
date of purchase. She blew on the ink to dry it and surveyed the entry with a
deep sense of pride. It was time to see the colt.
Phaedra strode through the stable, stopping every so often to
stroke a head poking out of its stall. She was nearly to Warbourne’s stall when
she sensed it. Something was wrong. No, not wrong, merely different, out of the
usual. Phaedra backtracked two stalls and halted. Merlin’s stall was empty.
Jamie! Phaedra tamped down a wave of uncertain emotion, part
fear and part wild hope tinged by memories of Troubadour and Edward, who had not
been parted, not even in death. Phaedra strode through the stables at a half-run
looking for Tom Anderson. ‘Tom!’ she called out, finding him cleaning a saddle.
‘Tom, where’s Merlin?’
‘Now settle yourself, missy. There’s nothing wrong,’ Tom said
in calm tones. ‘Bram’s got him out in the round pen for a little work. You know
how he’s been giving the boys trouble. No one’s been on him for quite a while
and the longer he goes without discipline, the harder it will be to instil any
in him.’
Phaedra’s emotions settled into neutral agitation. A stranger
had taken out Jamie’s horse. It was true, Merlin needed work. But it still felt
odd. ‘The round pen, you said?’ She would go and have a look, and if anything
was amiss, it would be the last time Bram Basingstoke helped himself to Jamie’s
horse.
Phaedra pulled her hacking jacket closer against the cold as
she made her way towards the round pen. The day was overcast and grey, the sky
full of clouds. In short, a typical Derbyshire March day. There would be
twenty-seven more of them, probably all of them save the variance in rainfall.
Derbyshire wasn’t known for ‘early springs.’
In the offing, she could see the chestnut blur of Merlin as he
cantered the perimeter of the pen. Cantered? That
was promising. Phaedra quickened her pace. Lately, Merlin usually galloped heedlessly in the round pen, not minding any
of the commands from the exercise boys. This morning, he was collected, running
in a circle at a controlled pace.
As she neared, Phaedra made out the dark form of a man in the
centre, long whip raised for instruction in one arm, the other arm stretched out
in front of him holding the lunge line. But that wasn’t what held her attention.
It was the fact that the man in question was doing all this shirtless. This
time, Phaedra’s shiver had nothing at all to do with the weather.
Chapter Four
B ram Basingstoke stood in the round pen
stripped to the waist and gleaming indecently with sweat. Phaedra was torn
between continuing forward—which would result in him putting his shirt on, or
standing back to discreetly watch him work, which would result in the shirt
staying off a bit longer—a very enticing proposition, especially when one was as
well made as he and she’d had very few opportunities to see such a finely honed
man. It wasn’t nearly the same as seeing one’s brother en
déshabillé .
Phaedra opted for the latter and stayed back by the hay shed.
No girl with an iota of curiosity about the male
Unlike the quiet house, the stables were a hive of activity.
Horses and grooms rose early. Phaedra went straight to an old, unused tack room
she’d converted into an office during the winter and began going through
paperwork that had arrived while she was gone. There wasn’t much of it, but the
ritual was soothing and it centred her thoughts. Here, sitting at the scarred
desk she’d found in the stable storage loft, she felt at home. This was her
place. A rough desk, a rough chair, the worn breeding ledgers lined on a shelf
that detailed every foal born at Castonbury—all of it defined her world.
Phaedra pulled down a book that catalogued the horses at
Castonbury. She flipped through until she found a blank page towards the back.
She reached for the quill and inkstand on her desk and carefully wrote Warbourne , followed by his lineage, the price paid and
date of purchase. She blew on the ink to dry it and surveyed the entry with a
deep sense of pride. It was time to see the colt.
Phaedra strode through the stable, stopping every so often to
stroke a head poking out of its stall. She was nearly to Warbourne’s stall when
she sensed it. Something was wrong. No, not wrong, merely different, out of the
usual. Phaedra backtracked two stalls and halted. Merlin’s stall was empty.
Jamie! Phaedra tamped down a wave of uncertain emotion, part
fear and part wild hope tinged by memories of Troubadour and Edward, who had not
been parted, not even in death. Phaedra strode through the stables at a half-run
looking for Tom Anderson. ‘Tom!’ she called out, finding him cleaning a saddle.
‘Tom, where’s Merlin?’
‘Now settle yourself, missy. There’s nothing wrong,’ Tom said
in calm tones. ‘Bram’s got him out in the round pen for a little work. You know
how he’s been giving the boys trouble. No one’s been on him for quite a while
and the longer he goes without discipline, the harder it will be to instil any
in him.’
Phaedra’s emotions settled into neutral agitation. A stranger
had taken out Jamie’s horse. It was true, Merlin needed work. But it still felt
odd. ‘The round pen, you said?’ She would go and have a look, and if anything
was amiss, it would be the last time Bram Basingstoke helped himself to Jamie’s
horse.
Phaedra pulled her hacking jacket closer against the cold as
she made her way towards the round pen. The day was overcast and grey, the sky
full of clouds. In short, a typical Derbyshire March day. There would be
twenty-seven more of them, probably all of them save the variance in rainfall.
Derbyshire wasn’t known for ‘early springs.’
In the offing, she could see the chestnut blur of Merlin as he
cantered the perimeter of the pen. Cantered? That
was promising. Phaedra quickened her pace. Lately, Merlin usually galloped heedlessly in the round pen, not minding any
of the commands from the exercise boys. This morning, he was collected, running
in a circle at a controlled pace.
As she neared, Phaedra made out the dark form of a man in the
centre, long whip raised for instruction in one arm, the other arm stretched out
in front of him holding the lunge line. But that wasn’t what held her attention.
It was the fact that the man in question was doing all this shirtless. This
time, Phaedra’s shiver had nothing at all to do with the weather.
Chapter Four
B ram Basingstoke stood in the round pen
stripped to the waist and gleaming indecently with sweat. Phaedra was torn
between continuing forward—which would result in him putting his shirt on, or
standing back to discreetly watch him work, which would result in the shirt
staying off a bit longer—a very enticing proposition, especially when one was as
well made as he and she’d had very few opportunities to see such a finely honed
man. It wasn’t nearly the same as seeing one’s brother en
déshabillé .
Phaedra opted for the latter and stayed back by the hay shed.
No girl with an iota of curiosity about the male