How to Tame a Scandalous Lady (Once Upon a Scandal) Read online

  “Have there been others?” he asked, indicating the two men with his chin.

  Baniti shielded his eyes from the sun—and succeeded in blocking his expression as well. “I’m not keeping a tally. I have other things to occupy my thoughts.”

  So there had been. “Who?” He would sack the lot of them. He didn’t care if the Guineas was tomorrow; he wouldn’t stand for his employees disrespecting their superior. If they were contemptuous to Baniti, it meant they had no respect for him and his vision for Amstead Gardens.

  He’d be damned if he employed such men.

  “It is of no concern, my lord.” Avoiding Christian’s gaze, Baniti continued to watch the men as they scrambled to complete their task. “I’ve dealt with unruly employees before, and I’m certain I will deal with them again.”

  “That may be the case, but you shouldn’t have to deal with prejudice as well.”

  The older man didn’t look at him, but his shoulders relaxed. Christian hated that Baniti had encountered such attitudes on his farm, but he was not surprised. He was, however, frustrated with himself for not anticipating it and doing more to stop it.

  Shaking his head, he looked about. “Where’s Asad?”

  “He was agitated, so William took him back to the warm-up track to relax.”

  “You let the boy handle him on his own?”

  Baniti swung his black-eyed gaze to meet his. “Why wouldn’t I?

  Christian snorted. “The lad seems entirely too young—and scrawny—to handle a powerful creature like Asad.”

  “William has been handling the beast’s warmups and cooldowns since he arrived at the Gardens,” Baniti said with his head cocked to the side.

  “He has?” Why the hell hadn’t Christian known that? “Good lord, why would you assign it to him?”

  “Come and see for yourself.”

  Without another word, Baniti strode toward the warm-up ring, and Christian followed behind, curiosity overpowering his annoyance. He’d check back on the men’s progress shortly.

  As they drew closer to the schooling ring, Christian heard the distinct sound of a whip swooshing against the ground. If the lad was supposed to be calming Asad, why was he riling him up?

  When they stepped around the corner of the stables, Christian stopped short. Asad was trotting along the perimeter of the ring, while William paced him from the center, a long whip in his hand. Whenever the stallion started to slow, the lad would smack the ground and walk faster behind him, ensuring the animal maintained a certain pace. Christian noticed that when Asad broke into a canter, William slowed his walk, and then so, too, did the horse.

  Draping his arms over the top rail of the pen, he called out, “If you’re tasked to settle him down, why are you running him?”

  Although the lad didn’t take his gaze from Asad, he flushed. “I’ve often found that the more I push a horse forward, the more they want to slow down.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Baniti mumbled under his breath. Christian shot him a dark look.

  The exercise continued for several more minutes, and Christian marveled at how Asad’s head dropped and his eyes softened, his gait slow but steady. He seemed perfectly at ease simply walking around the track, William watching without a word.

  “When William led him from the track, Asad was almost spinning in circles, he was so excited.” Baniti chuckled. “Look at him now.”

  “I am.” Christian’s eyes remained glued to the striking stallion in the ring. After a moment, he asked, “How long has the lad worked here?”

  “About two months. He arrived right before Asad.”

  He nodded. “No wonder I didn’t recognize him.”

  “I hope you did not scare the lad when you met him.”

  Christian snorted. “I doubt anything can ruffle him. Tell me, where did he come from?”

  “He had a letter of recommendation from some duke or lord in Yorkshire, if I recall.” Baniti’s eyes narrowed. “Before that he was in Scotland.”

  Satisfied that the lad had some appropriate experience, Christian nodded. William glanced up at him at that moment, his gaze intense but not challenging, before he directed his attention to Asad once again.

  “If the Two Thousand Guineas were tomorrow, would Asad stand a chance?” Christian asked as he studied the stallion’s movements.

  “If he doesn’t throw his rider as soon as he’s mounted, sure.” The older man crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze assessing. “But a chance is not good enough for me.”

  “It’s not for me either.” Dread curdled in Christian’s gut, but he did his best to dismiss it. He still had two months to get Asad ready for the Classics. “He needs to be challenged. His fiery temper masks a competitive spirit. His former owner said he raced duels frequently, so I think the sooner we can get him on the track for match races the better.”

  “He needs to learn to respond to the flag.” Baniti rocked back on his feet. “I feel he’s close, but he keeps allowing himself to be spooked by it.”

  Christian smacked his hands together, and from the corner of his eye he saw Asad turn his ears in his direction. “William told me you planned on practicing his breaks again today. Is that correct?”

  “I had hoped to. The tree incident has delayed us.”

  “What if, instead of just practicing with the flag, we ran him against another horse?” He considered the mounts in his stables. “Grey Belles is swift, with a competitive streak that’s sure to provoke Asad’s.”

  Baniti whistled under his breath. “That’s a good idea. His competitiveness won’t allow him to shy from the flag when she is streaking down the track.”

  “Our boy won’t allow that,” Christian laughed, hope that they’d found a solution loosening the anxiety coiled in his chest.

  Chapter Three

  Mo creach, the man made her legs weak. Curse her pathetic legs.

  Flora had come to Amstead Gardens, created a whole new identity for herself, and taken on a completely new gender so that she could learn everything she needed to learn about horse racing.

  Not to swoon at the feet of her new employer.

  If she weren’t flanked by Mr. Mubarak and Lord Amstead, she’d slap her own face for her foolishness.

  She’d seriously underestimated Lord Amstead’s appeal. Because she had turned down more marriage offers than she could count, Niall had once asked her if she was attracted to men. She’d been surprised by the question, and even more so by the curious but nonjudgmental expression on his face. Despite his political ambition, if she had indicated that she wasn’t, she was certain he would have allowed her to return to Scotland in peace.

  But meeting Lord Amstead’s deep brown eyes inside Asad’s stall had heated her blood to a rapid boil. Never had she responded to a man in quite such a way, and it disturbed her greatly. The marquess carried himself with great intensity, his gaze perceptive, as if nothing was beneath his notice. Flora would have to work hard at keeping her disguise in place.

  But lord the man made it difficult. He was tall and broad shouldered, his arms roped with cords of muscle even his casual coat could not hide. His face, with its firm, square jaw and high cheekbones, was weathered from the sun, and made him appear hard and fiercely masculine. Dark stubble covered his jaw, lending him a rakish air that was supported by the twinkle in his warm brown eyes. Eyes the color of the bulrushes that grew around the loch near her Highland home.

  He was the bonniest man she’d ever encountered, and she almost hated him for it. Why couldn’t he be like every other man she’d met during her four years in London? Boring. Self-absorbed. Condescending. She knew how to handle men like that—she’d been doing it, successfully, since her debut ball. For her entire life, really.

  But Flora could not deploy her usual arsenal of complimentary words, flirtatious looks, and caustic commentary to subdue the Marquess of Amstead. More was the pity. She would have to keep her wits about her.

  “Bring Asad over here, ya bintee,” Mr. Mubarak said, gesturing to the line he had marked in the dirt with his heel.

  Pushing aside all annoying thoughts of her handsome employer, Flora forced herself to focus on the task at hand. She was looking forward to seeing how Asad did in his first race at the Gardens. Projecting as much positive energy as she could, she brought the stallion to the line, murmuring low sounds when he flicked his tail in annoyance. Asad was as moody as the sky was blue, but Flora strongly suspected he was still very much a foal at heart. He’d taken to neighing at her whenever she was around, whinnying loudly if he thought she was ignoring him. When she did spend time with him, he was constantly searching for the apples and other snacks she kept on hand as treats for her charges, practically prancing whenever he was able to nab one from her. Even now, he pressed his big body into her side, and she fought not to lose her balance.

  “Come, let me help you up,” Mr. Mubarak said, bending over and linking his hands together.

  She blinked. “You intend for me to ride him?”

  She glanced to Lord Amstead in time to see his lip curl. She tried not to notice that the maneuver did little in the way of making him appear intimidating, as he probably hoped. Rather, it made him look rakish and appealing in a way she found aggravating.

  “I’m certain Hopner or Carson would not balk at the chance to be on his back,” he offered, on an icy thread.

  “You assume Asad would let them mount him,” she gritted out.

  Senior grooms Stanley Hopner and Terry Carson had done their best to make her life at Amstead Gardens miserable because she had been hired as the assistant trainer over either of them, and she’d be damned if she let them near Asad. She placed her foot in Mr. Mubarak’s hands and he helped hoist her up. After she adjusted her seat, he handed her the reins and then tightened the girth. The trainer stared into her eyes for a long moment, and Flora wasn’t sure what he was searching for, but he stepped back without a word.

  “Where in God’s name is Grey Belles?” the marquess demanded, looking toward the stables with a scowl.

  Mr. Mubarak lifted his palms. “Perhaps the grooms do not listen to you, either.”

  Lord Amstead smacked his thigh. “I asked Carson to have her saddled and brought around as soon as possible, and I expect to be obeyed.”

  “Ahh.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Flora looked off to the side to avoid laughing at the marquess’ dark expression.

  The trainer, however, did not appear chagrined, continuing to deepen the starting line in the dirt with his heel. “Considering the amount of incompetence I’ve encountered since I arrived, I cannot say I’m surprised we’re still waiting.”

  Flora didn’t realize she was frowning until Mr. Mubarak turned to her and smiled. “I do not include you in that comment. You have been a pleasant surprise.”

  Feeling somewhat mollified, she suppressed a smile when Lord Amstead rolled his eyes.

  “How relieved I am to learn William has been excluded from your censorious statement, but not me, your employer.”

  Mr. Mubarak turned to the taller grass that grew alongside the track and plucked a red flag from amongst it. She wasn’t certain if he had heard the marquess until he looked up and winked.

  “Let’s give our boy a chance to respond to the flag on his own.” He rubbed the side of Asad’s neck, a fond smile crinkling the seasoned planes of his brown face. “We don’t want him to embarrass himself in front a lady, now do we?”

  Terror seized her lungs and squeezed them tight. When she realized the trainer was referring to Grey Belles and not her, she gasped out a breath in relief.

  “I don’t want to be embarrassed,” Amstead mumbled.

  The marquess’s expression had not changed, and yet Flora suspected there was a great deal of emotion weighted in his words besides just potential embarrassment.

  Crunching on the gravel behind them drew Flora’s attention, and she looked over her shoulder to see Carson walking the spirited gray filly toward them. Grey Belles was a good two hands shorter than Asad, but what she lacked in size she more than made up for in speed and spirit. Flora had ridden her several times and found her to be responsive, smart, and very competitive. She would not be intimidated by the fiery stallion and would run to win. A smile contorted her face as she thought about the upcoming duel.

  “Damn, I had expected to find Belles’s tail braided.” Amstead’s voice was dry boredom. “Or her coat freshly bathed and brushed. But here she stands, just as I saw her this morning.”

  Carson darted his gaze between the marquess and Mr. Mubarak, a wrinkle in his brow. “She just had a bath yesterday, my lord.”

  Amstead rolled his eyes and Mr. Mubarak allowed amusement to stretch his mouth, but he said nothing as he collected the filly’s reins. After assisting Carson into his seat, he studied the two of them. Flora worked hard to keep Asad in place. The animal stepped to the side, nickered loudly, and tried to rub his head against Grey Belles’ flank, but she was able to pull him up.

  For her part, the filly stood still, her ears rotating back and forth the only indicator of her annoyance. Or impatience. Apparently, all females, regardless of their species, had to deal with irksome males on occasion.

  Mr. Mubarak grabbed the red flag and Flora maneuvered Asad back to the starting line. He sidestepped in anticipation, straining at his bit. Grey Belles stood silently. If it weren’t for the way she stared down the track, Flora would have thought the filly had drifted off to sleep.

  Carson smirked. He thought he had the race in the bag, and she couldn’t fault him for his confidence. Grey Belles was a serious competitor, and Flora relished working with the young filly. But, at the moment, she wasn’t concerned with Belles. She needed Asad to perform. It was essential she show Amstead she was more than capable of working with his spirited stallion. Pressing a hand to Asad’s neck, Flora hummed low in the back of her throat.

  He tossed his head in anticipation, and she bit back an internal sigh. Just another male who wouldn’t listen to her.

  Mr. Mubarak raised the flag over his head, his gaze darting between Flora and Carson. When it rested on Flora once again, his lips curved ever so slightly.

  The flag came down a moment later and Flora dug her heels into Asad’s sides. He hopped into a canter that quickly morphed into a gallop. She leaned low over his back, her hands tight upon the reins. The ground whipped by beneath her, and she resisted the urge to whoop. Surely this was what it felt like to fly?

  To her right, Grey Belles was a length ahead. Flora’s lips mashed when Carson struck the filly on the flank. Crops were appropriate for key moments in a race, but this was not one of them. An inconsequential match race was hardly the time to use a whip on a responsive, quick young horse, and Flora intended to have words with the man.

  Tearing her gaze away, she peered down the track. The maintenance men had managed to clear away the worst of the low-hanging branches on the oak tree that grew next to the track, but there were still enough to possibly spook her young charge. Clamping her teeth, she willed herself not to go stiff or in any way signal to the responsive stallion that possible danger lay ahead.

  Asad sailed past the distraction, hot on the heels of the young filly, who seemed determined to create some distance between them. But her mount was just as competitive as Grey Belles, and he tussled with her hold, determined to be given his head. Flora kept him in check. Her job was to teach him not to expend his energy too soon, and, at this point in the race, he would have nothing left for the stretch. Still, she let up a little, allowing the stubborn young horse to stay within two lengths of the swift-footed filly.

  As they came around the far turn and headed into the straight, Flora relaxed her grip on the reins and whispered, “Run, sabiy!”

  And did he run. The colt’s long strides ate up the ground, and within two great heaves of breath, Asad pulled even with Grey Belles. When they crossed the finish line, he nudged her out by a nose.

  “Excellent!” Mr. Mubarak clapped as Carson and she pulled up their mounts twenty or so yards down the track.

  Despite herself, Flora slid her gaze to Amstead. Was he pleased with Asad’s run? She hoped so. His opinion was all that mattered.

  As Asad high-stepped to the side, aggravated to have been halted in his run, the marquess’s strong hand reached out to grip his halter and make it very clear the race was over.

  “Smart of you to wait until the final curve to give him his lead,” Lord Amstead said, his gaze trained on Asad, who went still at the sound of his voice. Flora leaned into its pleasing tenor. “The lad wants to run flat out and his tongue would be lolling out of his mouth long before the last curve if he’s not brought to heel.”

  Flora dipped her head to hide the pleasure that spread across her cheeks at his praise.

  “Tell me,” the marquess continued, sliding his hand down the animal’s broad neck, “did he strain against the bit much?”

  Flora valiantly tried to ignore the tingle that slid along her spine at the gentle movements of his hand. She risked meeting his eyes. “The whole race. He wanted his lead from the moment he broke away from the starting line,” she said in a low voice.

  Lord Amstead nodded, his face revealing no surprise.

  Mr. Mubarak appeared at the marquess’s side. “His breaks still need work. That hop at the beginning is simply a forfeiture of seconds that could mean a win or loss in a close race.”

  The marquess looked up at her. “Take him back to the line and we’ll run him through a few practice breaks.”

  Dutifully, she led Asad back to the starting line, keenly aware that the marquess had made his way to Grey Belles and was speaking to Carson as his big, capable hands continued to run over the filly’s side.