Aunt Wilhelmina assembled the family in the little-used music room at the front of the main house. The Montague children, one and all, had preferred outdoor pursuits to the elegant, polished harpsichord Aunt Wilhelmina had imported from Italy years ago for the ‘betterment of their musical instruction.’ Lumsden was on hand with flutes of iced champagne. ‘Lady Phaedra, would you care for a glass?’ He offered her the tray. ‘Your aunt wants a toast.’
Phaedra dutifully took a cut-crystal flute. She understood. This was her penance, the price of her indiscretion. She’d ventured outside the prescribed behaviors for a girl of her rank and birth. Now the family was united in its attempt to salvage her virtue.
What there was of it. By that she meant the immediate family, not her virtue. The family assembled was made up these days of Aunt Wilhelmina, a frail duke, one older brother and another brother’s widow. Out of a family of eight, only four of them were gathered. She felt the absence of the other four keenly, even more so when she saw her father in the big green armchair by the fire. He was thin and pale, a shadow of the man who had gamboled on the Castonbury lawns with his children in the long summers of her youth.
‘Come here, Phaedra.’ Her father held out a papery hand to her. ‘Come let me look at you.’ His grey eyes were bright and alert, unclouded by medications. He stared hard at her as if he had never seen her before. Then he smiled. ‘You look like your mother. You’ve got her hair and her face. You and Edward got the best of her.’ His eyes misted for a moment and then he was off on another tangent. ‘I hear you have a new colt in the stables.’
They talked a few minutes about Warbourne. She told him about the colt’s speed and the ebony sheen of his coat but nothing that would upset him. There was no mention of Bram, no mention of Epsom. Since Jamie’s death, the implicit rule had been ‘say nothing to upset father.’ Their father had done a good enough job of that on his own, retreating into a world of memories where his two dead sons were still alive.
Alicia touched her lightly on the arm, looking pretty in a plain ball gown of pale blue. ‘Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt but Aunt Wilhelmina wants to toast now and then you’ll need to go with Giles and greet the guests.’
None of which would be Bram.
* * *
Bram put the finishing touches on his cravat and thrust an emerald stick pin through its snowy folds for decoration. He consulted the small round mirror in his room at the Rothermere Arms for any errors in his toilette. It felt odd to be wearing his usual clothes after so many weeks without them. The dark evening trousers and the layers of coat and waistcoat over his shirt felt constraining. But the days of Bram Basingstoke the head groom at Castonbury were behind him now, or almost behind him.
He was going to the party. He owed Phaedra that much. He’d left things awkwardly with her the night previous regardless of Giles’s intrusion. He’d not offered her reassurance when she’d sought it. She’d been devastated to hear he was leaving and he’d said nothing to assure her he was just as disappointed. Instead he’d acted nonchalant, as if he were ambivalent to the situation when he wasn’t ambivalent in the least. Then he flirted with her, promising to make the last two days count. He meant to keep that promise by showing up tonight.
That was a piece of chivalry he didn’t want to take out and examine too closely for fear of what he’d find. He wasn’t used to women who brought out his finer qualities. But Phaedra had and she deserved to know he hadn’t simply walked away from her at her brother’s decree.
Beyond that, he wasn’t sure what else he could offer her, what else he should offer her. He was a rogue and a rake with little to bring with him aside from scandal. His reputation hadn’t bothered him before but it was bothering him now that he’d dusted off his little-used conscience.
Bram gathered up a walking stick from the bed. It would be easy enough to infiltrate the party. No one turned a well-heeled gentleman away. No one would be looking for Bram Basingstoke the earl’s son, and no one would take this fashionable gentleman for Bram Basingstoke the groom. People saw what they expected to see.
Whistling, Bram headed downstairs to the public room. It was quite convenient to be persona non grata for the evening. He would dance with Phaedra and kiss her goodbye and Giles Montague—and everyone else—would be none the wiser.
* * *
Giles Montague needed to be more careful about who he hired to work in his stables. Sir Nathan patted the inner pocket of his evening coat, a fine swallow-tailed affair in black wool that had just arrived from Buxton along with this most important letter. Phaedra Montague was about to be up to her pretty neck in scandal unless she saw her way to obliging him.
Sir Nathan chuckled, stepping down from his carriage and looking up at the impressive facade of Castonbury Hall, light and music spilling from its windows. He’d have to play his cards diplomatically though. He didn’t want to advertise this scandal to the general populace. That would only serve to chase Phaedra into Basingstoke’s arms—society would require it. He wanted Phaedra in his arms. He’d paint himself the rescuing hero, the supportive neighbour willing to take tainted goods off Giles Montague’s hands, horse and all. By the time the night was over, Giles Montague would appreciate him as a man of great refinement and discretion.
Chapter Sixteen
The Grand Saloon stood at the south end of the Marble Hall, a testament to refinement and Rome. Lights blazed from sconces of Venetian glass placed strategically around the enormous circular chamber. The room was turned out in its best form tonight. Even in her cynical frame of mind, Phaedra could appreciate the beauty of the room.
Designed originally to reflect the best forms of Roman architecture, the room was round and columned; the walls held niches to act as a sculpture gallery when the room wasn’t being used as a ballroom. But obviously, her ancestors had known it would be a ballroom and had had the wooden floor ‘sprung’ especially for dancing.
For the occasion, the columns were wreathed in garlands of evergreens and tea roses as were the arches over the four double doors set at various intervals leading into the room. The only space not bearing the stamp of Aunt Wilhelmina’s decorating was the soaring skylight sixty-two feet above the whirling dancers. Like the massive Marble Hall leading to the chamber, the saloon, too, rose the full height of the house, making the room seem even larger.
It was a fairytale setting and Phaedra tried to make the best of it, truly she did. She danced with each of her partners, none of who grimaced when she stepped on their toes. She rather wished they had. After an hour and a half of what passed for chivalry among ‘nice suitable gentlemen,’ Phaedra had had enough.
Where were they, all those nice young men Henny had been so hopeful about? Phaedra’s borrowed optimism had faded considerably. Not one of the young men listed on her card had sparked her attention. In short, not one of them was Bram Basingstoke. Not one of them showed a proclivity for taking off his shirt or swimming naked with her in the Castonbury lakes.
Not that she wanted them to, Phaedra hastily amended her thoughts. She had no desire to see Mr Chesterton the poet without his shirt. It wasn’t just Bram’s penchant for the daring and indecent that drew her. It was him, the devil-may-care grin, the deep blue eyes that looked straight through her, the shockingly honest truths he was wont to exhort. Oh, she knew where those nice young men were, they were right here in the Castonbury saloon and she didn’t want any part of them.
Phaedra didn’t want to look into one more pair of placid eyes that revealed no flicker of inner fire. She didn’t want to engage in polite conversation that gave no hint of a person’s true feelings. Would anyone miss her if she slipped away?
A quick survey of the room suggested she might manage it. Aunt Wilhelmina was talking with Reverend Seagrove and her father on the sidelines. Giles was with Lily, getting ready to take their places in the next set starting to form on the dance floor. Her own partner would be coming to claim her any moment. If she meant to disappear, she needed to go
quickly.
Framed by four sets of double doors that allowed guests to enter the room at various points of the circular chamber, the Castonbury saloon was relatively easy to slip out of unobtrusively. And that’s precisely what she did.
She was in the library, a semi-private location tonight and it had been prepared as such. Low light lit the room enough to keep it from being dark and a fire had been laid for those who might wish a place for quieter conversation. But music from the saloon could be heard through the door, a constant reminder that the occupants were not truly alone. Anyone could burst in at any moment, a potent deterrent for guests seeking a rendezvous of a more clandestine nature. For now, it was empty and that suited her fine. Phaedra breathed a little sigh of relief. Alone at last.
Except for the man rising from the sofa. Oh, dear, she wasn’t alone, after all.
‘Hello, Phaedra.’
Phaedra stifled an undignified yelp. She’d know that sexy drawl anywhere, but it took a moment to recognise him in the dim light and fine clothes. ‘Bram?’ It was unmistakably him once her eyes adjusted. He was the last person she’d thought she’d see tonight but not for lack of wishing. ‘I—I thought you’d left.’
‘I thought you’d be dancing.’
Phaedra shook her head, smiling. Bram was here. He’d come back. He did care, after all. ‘I’ve had enough of dancing for the evening. No one seems to measure up to my latest dancing instructor.’ She wanted to do more than stand there and trade banter with him. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and confess how much she’d missed him in just one day. But he wasn’t the sort of man who appreciated a clingy woman and they’d made each other no promises. It would have to be enough that he was here.
Bram stepped towards her. ‘Perhaps you haven’t found the right partner.’
‘That’s what my instructor tells me.’ Phaedra laughed, thinking of the island.
Bram held out his hand. ‘Will you dance with me, Phaedra?’ His eyes glowed like cobalt flame and he was in deadly earnest. The very propriety of his request made it seem all the more provocative.
‘Here?’ Phaedra moved into his arms. His hand closed around hers, warm and firm, fitting her to him, his other hand at her back. Phaedra smiled up at him, savouring the clean-shaven jaw, the handsome planes of his face with their high cheekbones and razor-straight nose, the way his eyes looked just before he kissed her.
‘Yes, here.’ Bram moved her in a slow circle to the strains of the music outside the door. He whispered against her ear. ‘If we dance here, no one can count this as one of our dances. We can still have two dances out there.’
Not like this we won’t. The ballroom would not tolerate the closeness with which he held her, the intimate way his hips pressed against her, his hand at her back helping her find the gentle rhythm of the dance.
Phaedra knew this dance; it was one of the scandalous waltz-style dances Prinny had introduced in London last summer. One didn’t have to be in the capital last Season to know the outrage the prince’s choice had spawned. The outrage had drifted up north to Derbyshire with shocking haste.
‘We’re waltzing. Aunt Wilhelmina would be scandalised.’ Phaedra locked eyes with her bold partner.
Bram gave a wicked smile, his eyes laughing. ‘Rightly so if one truly understands the dance.’
‘And I suppose you do?’ Phaedra teased. Her body was finding it easy to follow the movements of his, easy to answer the desire rising in his eyes.
‘I do. Are you ready? We’re going to turn, this is the top of our ballroom.’ He swept through a turn that brought her up against the hard planes of him. ‘Does that give you a clue as to the real source of scandal?’ He leaned close to her ear. ‘It’s a metaphor for lovemaking, Phaedra, for courtship. The man is in pursuit and the woman is a coy mistress leading him a merry chase.’
His words, low at her ear, conjured hot images. ‘Are you certain?’ Put that way, the scandal was understandable.
‘I am very certain.’ Bram gave a deep, sonorous chuckle rife with wicked mischief. ‘Have I succeeded in shocking you?’
He’d like that, the idea that he’d finally shocked her after weeks of trying. Phaedra tipped her head to the side with a considering gaze. ‘No, you’ve merely intrigued me.’
The music came to a halt, he nipped at her ear. ‘Good. I’m going to get us champagne. When I come back, let me intrigue you some more.’
‘Use the far door so you don’t have to go through the ballroom.’ Phaedra sighed, reluctant to let him go. ‘If Giles catches you...’
‘He won’t,’ Bram assured her. ‘He’s not expecting me.’ With a wink, Bram slipped through the door at the far end leading into the drawing room.
Phaedra sat down on the long sofa, a little smile dancing on her lips. He’d come back. At risk to himself. She wasn’t sure what that meant exactly but for the moment, it was enough. Perhaps it would be easier to let him go if she knew he cared too. It was as she suspected. Somewhere between railing against his arrogance and dancing in quilts, she’d fallen in love with a most unsuitable man and the best she could do now was mitigate a broken heart. But that would come later. For now, she still had tonight.
* * *
The little minx was up to something. Sir Nathan Samuelson skirted his way along the perimeter of the ballroom making his way to the last place he’d seen Phaedra Montague. He was going to make it very clear to her that she couldn’t avoid him all night. Her aunt might have succeeded in keeping him off Phaedra’s dance card, but Sir Nathan thought he might have a brand of persuasion that would change Phaedra’s mind. It would do his reputation wonders if he was seen dancing with a Montague. It wouldn’t hurt his more private agenda either. He could hardly court her if he couldn’t even dance with her.
Sir Nathan scanned the ballroom, catching sight of the side doors. With the crowds, he hadn’t noticed the doors earlier. He’d already checked the exits leading out to the wide veranda overlooking the south lawn. Many couples strolled out there, taking advantage of the mild evening but Phaedra had not been among them. He’d also checked the Marble Hall where others were admiring the artwork on display in the long foyer. She’d not been among the groups there or in the drawing room where the refreshments were being served.
Sir Nathan approached the doors. He was running out of options which meant the chances were good these doors held the answer. There weren’t many more places she could be. Sir Nathan turned the handle and it gave.
* * *
Someone was coming, someone who wasn’t Bram. Phaedra watched in morbid fascination as the handle on the door from the ballroom turned. Bram would have used the other door. Sir Nathan Samuelson stepped into the room. Phaedra rose quickly from the sofa, eager to keep the furniture and as much distance between them as possible. It boded poorly that he was here at all. How could he have known she’d left the dancing unless he’d been watching her? The thought that he’d made her the focus of his attentions sent an unpleasant chill down her spine. Bram would be back soon.
‘My dear, we’re alone at last. I thought I’d never find you. You’ve given your own fete the slip,’ Sir Nathan drawled, shutting the door firmly behind him. ‘These parties make it difficult to have a decent conversation.’
‘There is nothing I wish to say to you,’ Phaedra replied coldly, standing her ground. She didn’t want to be afraid of him, but he made her so very uncomfortable with his leering eyes, the way they would move up and down her body, so different from Bram’s appreciative gaze.
‘Splendid, my dear.’ Sir Nathan rambled about the room, looking behind curtains for hidden strangers. ‘What I really want you to do is listen. I have recently come across some information I think you’ll find highly interesting and perhaps even motivating.’
Phaedra crossed her arms defiantly. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Well, my dear, I don’t.’ He rubbed his hands together with a hearty chortle.
Chapter Seventeen
Phaedra stepped backwar
ds in answer to his advance, putting the long sofa between them. She wished she were at the stables where there were pitchforks aplenty for makeshift weapons. Libraries were a bit lacking in impromptu weaponry.
‘What’s this, Phaedra?’ Sir Nathan continued to move towards her, hands outstretched in a gesture that supposedly meant he came in peace but his gaze told another story. ‘I think you and I got off on the wrong foot in Buxton, and really it wasn’t my fault. It was Webster’s. He was the one mishandling the horse.’ Sir Nathan tsked with fond disapproval. ‘Such a wastrel he is. It just proves we’re right about outsiders in our part of the world. Like should stick to like, and we are alike, Phaedra, you and I.’
Phaedra swallowed hard, looking about for some tool of defence. In the semi-darkness her hand groped about the table behind her, closing around a porcelain vase. ‘You’re nothing like me.’
He smiled, a condescending grin. ‘Allow me to argue the point, my dear. We both enjoy the turf, we’ve both spent our lives in Derbyshire, we’re both used to the finer things in life. I would deny you nothing my worldly gains could afford.’
‘Which isn’t very much from what I hear,’ Phaedra interrupted. ‘You couldn’t even afford Warbourne.’
His eyes narrowed, the silken persuasion gone, replaced by something more predatory. ‘You couldn’t either as I recall. You sold family jewellery for that colt. Now you listen here, you come on out and dance with me, show the world the Montagues and I are friends, more than friends, and I won’t tell your brother what I know.’
‘And what is that?’ She would not dance with this man, would not tolerate even the most civil of touches from him. Her grip on the vase tightened. A nice cosh on the head would do him an immense amount of good.
‘That you and I have something else in common. We both like to go slumming on occasion. In short, I know what you did and who you did it with the day you went swimming in the lake.’ He held out his hands expansively, examining his nails. ‘I don’t mind really. Slumming can be a bit of fun. Your sister Kate knows all about it. Apparently it runs in your fine Montague blood.’
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