Free Unbefitting a Lady by Bronwyn Scott

was dead set on Epsom but she’d not given him one clue as
to why. There had to be more to it than merely a consideration of Warbourne’s
age. What had she said at the last? It wasn’t that hard if
someone knew what they were doing? She had a secret, at least she
thought she had a secret, that she knew something about Warbourne others had
overlooked. A beautiful woman with a secret was a potent lure indeed and one he
knew he’d take in spite of the potential risks.
    Bram pushed a hand through his hair and strode out into the
courtyard of the stable quadrangle. He breathed in a healthy dose of the night
air, letting the cold bathe away the heat of his body.
    In all fairness he hadn’t done this by himself. She’d been a
veritable fever of passion in his arms, an untried wildfire burning out of
control. And he’d stoked it, knowing full well what it was doing to him and to
her. But Lord, how intoxicating it had been! Bram could not recall the last time
an encounter of that nature had aroused him so completely, so beyond
control.
    Bram paced the quadrangle, squaring it in long, fast strides,
trying to rid himself of excess energy and other manly excesses too. Usually, he
guided these encounters, took what he wanted, gave what was required, chose when
it started and when it ended. That had not been the case tonight. Tonight, he’d
barely been able to exert enough influence to bring it to a close before he’d
taken things too far.
    This boded ill for his plans and he was only one day in. When
he’d first spied her, he’d not planned on desire riding him quite this hard or
so soon. Tonight, she’d been an irresistible picture of loveliness and
vulnerability, mostly because she hadn’t tried to be either of those things.
    Bram laughed out loud to the sky. He suspected Phaedra would
hate to be called vulnerable. It was the last thing she wanted to be. That tilt
of her chin, the nonchalant shrug that masked the importance of what she felt,
the haughtiness that did little to mask the passions within her, were all
telling attributes attesting to her strength and the efforts she took to
cultivate it.
    She was strong. Her strength was
not a facade but that did not mean she was without susceptibilities. Neither was
he, and that was a problem. Bram stopped his pacing and breathed easier, his
body sweat-slicked from the exertion but feeling the better for it.
    This physical-mental attraction to Phaedra and her wild dream
presented something of a conundrum; it required him to behave honourably, not a
practice he was used to exercising. Most of his women didn’t demand it. They
were women who understood the rules of their liaison—short, physical and with no
future expectations. These were not rules he could apply to Phaedra.
    Bram climbed the stairs to his quarters, a dissatisfying
solution having suggested itself. There was nothing for it. Until he could
figure out which rules did apply, or until he could
convince his body to subscribe to her charms a little less ardently, he would
simply have to stay away from her. He hoped he’d come up with a better answer
sooner rather than later because kisses like that were the gods’ own ambrosia
and the devil’s due. It would be impossible to stay away for ever.
    * * *
    Phaedra let out the lunge line, slowly leading Warbourne through his paces, letting him learn her signals.
The shorter line asked for a walk; slightly more meant a trot, and at full
length a canter. In the fourteen days since she’d brought Warbourne home, he’d
made remarkable progress. True, he had undergone training before but it was hard
to know how much he’d been taught and where the mastery of those skills had
broken down. She’d started her regimen from the beginning, wanting to assess his
ability and his obedience from the start.
    Warbourne pulled on the lunge line,
wanting to canter at his own behest instead of hers. Phaedra held firm,
tightening her grip on the line instead of letting out the slack. He