She was liquid in his arms, her pulse starting to race at her throat, her pupils dark with desire. Her body knew what this was even if her mind didn’t. Dancing was sex. Public sex, the kind of intercourse Society permitted on the dance floor.
Bram brought them to a halt, brushing her lips in a slow kiss, desire heating him as thoroughly as the fire. ‘I want nothing more than to lay you down right here on the quilts.’ His voice was raw with want, his body driven past the point of control.
‘Alicia warned me about men like you. You make promises you can’t keep,’ Phaedra protested in a hoarse whisper, but her breath was coming fast and hard, evidence that she’d been as affected by their dance as he had, that desire was riding her as well. He was not alone in this.
Bram nipped hard at her ear, his hands moving to take her breasts in his palms, his thumbs stroking the nipples erect. ‘She’s vastly underestimated me. I never make promises about pleasure I can’t keep.’
Phaedra’s hands were at his waist, fumbling with the blanket, her voice a mixture of sultry seduction and trembling need and in her eyes there was wildness. ‘Then do it, Bram. Make me a promise.’
He had to make himself some promises as well, starting with a promise not to take this too far. There was pleasure they could have and then there was the pleasure they couldn’t. Bram lowered her down, spreading his quilt on the ground for a makeshift mattress, conscious only of the moment, her mouth on his, her hands in his hair and the pleasure that would follow.
Chapter Eleven
She was being reckless. She’d been reckless the moment she’d stepped into the water. She should have stopped long before this. She should have stopped before they’d built a fire. Even before that. She should have stopped before he’d stepped out of the lake, glistening and naked, a woman’s most carnal fantasy. The point was, there’d been several opportunities to stop and she’d heedlessly ploughed past them, her curiosity getting the better of her by far.
Now her hands were tugging his quilt loose, her curiosity a step closer to being satisfied. He’d pegged her aright the other day. She’d watched too many stallions cover mares not to wonder about her own sexuality. Why not solve that wonder with a man like Bram who knew what he was about?
The quilt slipped from his hips and he knelt down on the blanket, gesturing for her to join him. ‘It’s time for those undergarments to come off, Phaedra. Wherever did you find such things?’ His eyes roved her body as she sat beside him.
‘I made them. Actually, my maid, Henny, and I did them.’ Suddenly self-conscious, Phaedra fingered the lace trim at the hem of the chemise. ‘I needed something I could wear under breeches and shirts. The usual chemise was too long. I took a pair of Edward’s old smalls, cut them down and used them for a pattern and we bought more suitable fabric. It was Henny’s idea to trim them.’ She was rambling. She couldn’t help it. Bram was tracing the tiny lace on the smalls with his index finger, sending a delicious shot of heat to her belly.
‘Silk is more suitable for stable work or for the wearer?’ Bram laughed and stretched out beside her, propping himself on an elbow. He resumed his intimate tracing, knowing full well what he was doing to her. ‘I will like thinking of you roaming the stables in your breeches and silk smalls.’ His voice was husky, his eyes dark with desire.
‘You most certainly will not!’ Phaedra protested in embarrassed alarm.
Bram laughed down at her softly. ‘I most certainly will and while I am thinking of that, you can be thinking of this.’
His hand slipped beneath the undergarment. Phaedra gasped against the thrill and the shock of his hand against her most private parts. He stroked her and all shock was forgotten in the wake of the sensations his touch roused. Phaedra arched up against his hand, her body seeking more. As wondrous as they were, the sensations were incomplete.
He sought her core with a finger and she shut her eyes against the wave of pleasure sweeping over her like a tide, crashing and building against the shores of her sensibilities until she could not bear the exquisite pain of near-fulfilment any longer. She arched against his hand one final time, Bram’s voice soft at her ear at the crucial moment. ‘Open your eyes, Phaedra. Let me see your pleasure.’
She managed to oblige as the tide took her, gathering her up in a whirlpool before she crashed, her eyes locked with Bram’s, his blue gaze her only anchor in the sea of passion. She was breathing hard when she had enough sense to take stock of such things. Bram’s hand was in her hair, pushing it out of her face.
‘No wonder Aunt Wilhelmina says it’s a sin.’ She sighed. ‘No one would get anything done if they thought they could do that all day. Kate hinted at it, but...’ Phaedra shook her head. This was what Kate had tried to tell her. No wonder words had failed her usually erudite sister. Words were failing her now.
‘Amen.’ Bram smiled.
Phaedra glanced down the length of his body. His member jutted hard and thick against his stomach. Inspiration struck. ‘Can I do that for you?’ She reached down to take him in her hand.
Bram sucked in his breath. She’d take that as a ‘yes.’ Phaedra slid her hand the length of him in exploration, noting the heat, the long ridge, the soft tip. She paused in wonderment at the new sensations.
‘Don’t stop, don’t stop now,’ Bram said through gritted teeth, obviously frustrated by her distraction. Each word came out with great effort, his mind and body engaged elsewhere. Then came the wonderful moment when she felt him tense beneath her hand, his body gathering itself right before he released.
A smug smile split her face. She’d done this to him, the master of pleasure.
‘You seem mighty pleased with yourself.’ Bram chuckled.
‘As do you.’ Phaedra nestled closer, her head on his chest, her hand tracing light patterns on his torso. ‘So,’ she began, wondering if her next words would spoil the mood or enhance it. ‘If you don’t want to talk about your family, perhaps you’ll tell me about yourself. Where do you come from, how is it that you know horses so well?’
‘You’re not going to give up, are you, minx?’ Bram sighed reluctantly into her hair. She could feel his hesitation in the altered rhythm of his breathing.
‘It’s only fair,’ she said gently. ‘You know a lot about me but I know hardly anything about you.’ Except that you give pleasure beyond compare. Maybe that was enough to know. Maybe she didn’t need to know any more. It would make letting him go easier when the time came. ‘Where did you work before you came to Castonbury? Surely that can’t be an enormous secret. I’m starting to think you have something to hide.’
‘Most women like a little mystery in a man,’ Bram teased, but Phaedra would not be dissuaded. She sat up and faced him.
‘I’m not most women,’ she said baldly. ‘You have nothing to hide from me, nothing to be ashamed of.’
A shadow passed across his eyes ever so briefly Phaedra thought she might have imagined it. ‘All right, I used to work at Nannerings, it’s a riding school in London. My students were young dandies who fancied themselves candidates of the haute école and young ladies who thought it romantic to learn to ride there.’
‘I’m sure you had something to do with the last,’ Phaedra said wryly. Every young lady in London would want to ride if he was their instructor.
‘I was heavily sought after,’ Bram admitted obliquely, but it told Phaedra enough. He was more than a groom, more than a stable hand with good looks and rakish charm. She knew how Society worked. Nannerings would have been a meeting place where the ton would encounter those less tonnish, perhaps the sons of gentry who’d come to make their fortunes in the big city.
There would have been invitations, a chance to briefly elevate one’s social standing, especially if one was as charming as Bram. Hostesses would find him quite the handsome novelty to parade around their musicales and soirées. It explained why he danced so well even in a quilt and several other things about him that didn’t fit, like his expensive boots, why he’d not been afraid
to take a swing at Sir Nathan Samuelson, why he’d not been afraid to pursue a duke’s daughter. He didn’t see himself as their inferior. He saw himself as a man who might claim to be their equal in some ways.
‘You’re staring,’ Bram broke in.
‘I’m thinking,’ Phaedra corrected. ‘It all makes sense now.’
‘What does?’ His eyes began to crinkle into the lines of smile.
‘You do.’ She could be as oblique as him. Let him be tortured by his own device for a bit.
Bram shook his head, grinning. ‘Minx. I won’t even ask because you’re not going to tell me.’
‘Why tell you?’ Phaedra tossed her hair over one shoulder. ‘You already know who you are.’ A man between, neither highborn nor low. She envied him that limbo. It enabled him to craft his own life.
‘I’m the man whose going to have to swim back to shore.’ Bram groaned. The fire had effectively died. It was their cue to end the interlude. ‘I don’t suppose you have a row boat stashed on the island?’
‘What would you do if I said yes?’ Phaedra rose, gripping her blanket tight about her. There was a boat on the other side if the weather and rot hadn’t gotten to it.
‘Why, honey, I’d love you for ever.’ He was only joking, of course, and they both knew it. But still, the sentiment was nice. To be loved by a man like Bram Basingstoke would be a worthy prize indeed. But a difficult one to claim.
It would be folly to speak out loud the question looming in her mind. They had done a most intimate act together. Did it mean anything to him or was she just another of his Nannerings students? Was this nothing more to him than an exercise in physical release, not all that different than his cold water swim?
For her, it was impossible to walk away from this encounter, or swim away as the case may be, and not be honest about the fact that he was laying siege to her finer feelings whether he wanted to or not. Those were questions she didn’t have the courage to ask, not now, for fear that she was not ready for the answers.
The boat was where it was supposed to be and Bram rowed them back to shore wrapped in a quilt. Phaedra hoped there was no one on shore to mark their progress—two quilt-clad refugees from the island in an old wooden row boat.
‘You know,’ Bram said, pulling the boat up to the shore. ‘We’ll have to take everything back out there.’
‘When the weather’s warmer. Don’t forget, we’ll have to swim back,’ Phaedra countered coolly, trying to pretend she wasn’t already thinking of the next time they could be together.
‘Only if you want to wait that long.’ Bram gave her a naughty wink. The dratted man had read her mind yet again. If today had decided anything, it was that she was going to take Bram’s offer. How could she not when it had only heightened her desire. There was more pleasure to be had and she would have it with him.
Phaedra gathered up her clothes and began to dress, watching Bram saunter over to his pile on the west side. Even at a distance, she enjoyed watching him bend and flex his way into his breeches. But then suddenly the bending and flexing stopped.
Bram dove into the tall reeds, parting them like Moses, beating at them as if he were flushing out prey. Something, no, someone, emerged and ran, fleeing to a horse tethered in the distance with Bram giving naked chase after him. Whoever it was had enough lead on Bram to get away with a vault into the saddle and a vicious kick. The intruder had fled.
Phaedra covered the distance to Bram at a run. ‘Are you all right? What happened?’
Residual anger rolled off Bram in sheets while he dressed. ‘He was here while we were out on the island. In short, the stranger saw us,’ Bram said grimly, squatting once more. His hand traced a heavy boot print in the sticky mud, perfect for holding an impression. ‘I suspect our visitor was waiting for our return.’
Phaedra shaded her eyes and looked out to the island, a clearly visible landmark in the not so far-off distance. It would not have been difficult to see them if one really looked. This was bad news indeed. If the stranger went to Giles with what he’d seen, it would be devastating. ‘Did you get a look at him at all?’
Bram shook his head. ‘The horse was nondescript, brown with a black mane.’ A bay, then. There were countless bays in Derbyshire. That was of no help.
‘Hair colour?’ Phaedra quizzed. It would be a long shot. Most riders would be wearing a hat.
‘Maybe red? I wasn’t paying attention.’
Phaedra froze.
‘You think you know who it was,’ Bram said grimly.
‘Hugh Webster.’ Phaedra sighed. The only redhead she knew of was Captain Hugh Webster, the very worst person to be seen by, in her estimation. ‘He’s been paying visits to Alicia.’ If he went to Giles with this... The thought didn’t bear completing.
Bram read her mind. ‘I think he’ll come to us with an offer of blackmail first once he regroups. It gets him nothing if he tells Giles except a duel and that can hardly be what he wants. If he comes to us, he might think he’ll make some money.’
‘I have nothing of value.’ Phaedra shrugged.
‘You have Warbourne,’ Bram said succinctly, ‘and you have yourself.’ Then he paused, debating what to say next.
A cold pit was growing in Phaedra’s stomach. She wouldn’t give up Warbourne. She’d rather have the whole world know she’d been alone with Bram than give up the colt. ‘Go ahead, say it.’ If there was worse, she wanted to know.
‘This piece of information might gain him more if he sold it to someone else instead of coming back to us. Who is he friends with?’
Phaedra swallowed hard, the bigger risk becoming self-evident. ‘Sir Nathan Samuelson. Webster was with him in Buxton, if you recall.’
‘I don’t, I was busy elsewhere, punching his friend.’ Bram offered her a mischievous grin that made current circumstances seem less serious. ‘Perhaps the best option is to sit tight. We’ll see what he does and not worry about it until then. There’s no sense jousting with ghosts.’
‘I think you mean windmills.’ Phaedra smiled in spite of her misgivings.
Bram grinned. ‘Well, of course not windmills. They would hurt. Those blades are fairly sharp, you know.’
* * *
Sir Nathan Samuelson was tired of being the Montagues’ doormat to rejection. It was about time the tides turned in his favour and it seemed they had. The promise of a juicy titbit of news from Webster was welcome indeed. He needed a wife, a rich one, and fast. He poured a drink for himself and for Captain Webster. Webster sprawled in a chair near the fire.
‘That Basingstoke has overstepped himself this time.’ Webster took the glass and gulped a healthy swallow.
‘Really? Do tell,’ Nathan replied. ‘There’s a man who needs to come down a notch or two in the world. He doesn’t understand his place. He’s a groom, a horse handler. I am a peer of the realm and you’re a captain. We’re both far above him in station.’
Sir Nathan loved nothing so much as knowing his place in the world was loftier than someone else’s. However, status only meant something if everyone agreed to the rules. He didn’t care much for equality. It was a value he had little use for. What was the point of it? If everyone had status, then no one had status. Equality ruined everything.
‘For starters, are you sure he’s just a groom?’ Webster shifted his position in the chair and sipped from his glass. ‘Something doesn’t strike me right about that. What do you know about him?’
Sir Nathan shrugged. ‘He was in Buxton at the horse auction along with everyone else. But he’s not from around here. That’s not a Derbyshire accent he’s carrying.’
Webster shook his head. ‘How many grooms do you know with such high-class tones?’
Sir Nathan warmed to the idea. Not only would it be revenge against the Montagues but it would satisfy his personal need to bring Basingstoke down a peg. ‘Do you think we have an impostor in our midst?’ Webster could always ferret out a fraud. It was one of the traits Sir Nathan admired about him.
‘Couldn’t hurt to make an enquiry or two,’ Webster mused. ‘We’ll rough him up regardless. But it would be nice if we knew who we were beating up.’
Sir Nathan gave a harsh laugh. ‘Damn, but you’re a cold fellow, Hugh.’
Webster raised his glass in response.
Sir Nathan took a hearty swallow of brandy, one of the few pleasures he could still afford. If he didn’t resolve his finances quickly, his French brandy drinking days would soon be over. He broached the second item he wanted to discuss with Webster.
‘I’ve been thinking I have picked the wrong Montague in the past.’ Sir Nathan clasped his hands over his beefy stomach where it was starting to strain against his waistcoat. Too much ale, his housekeeper told him, but the welcoming ladies at Mrs Taylor’s Gentlemen’s Parlour in Buxton assured him they preferred a heartily built man.
They both knew Sir Nathan had tried unsuccessfully to interest Lady Claire, Rothermere’s young half-sister, in a proposal last autumn. She’d gone as far as inviting him to dinner and he’d invited her to the assembly at Buxton, but ultimately, she’d preferred the company of Rothermere’s French chef. Then there’d been the debacle with the duke’s shrewish daughter Katherine. That chit had had no excuse to refuse him. She was ruined and everyone knew it. She’d been lucky to receive his attentions. But she, too, had snubbed him, opting to marry a black man. An ex-slave at that! Her rejection still stung particularly.
‘You can’t mean to marry Giles.’ Webster laughed at his crude joke, his eyes gleaming with evil excitement. ‘And you know Alicia is mine.’
‘Yes, you’ve made that clear.’ Nathan dismissed the notion hastily. ‘I’m not interested in her anyway, a widow with a brat clinging to her. She’s not my taste, too delicate by far. She’d probably break after a good ploughing. I don’t know what you see in her.’ Webster had visited her twice in as many days this week.
Webster smiled faintly. ‘The keys to the kingdom, my friend.’
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