Marrying the Marquis (19 page)

Jack bobbed his head again.

“Give this to your parents.” The Duke of Inverary passed him a gold sovereign. “The baron will take you home to pack your belongings. Then he will deliver you to my trainer. The baron will collect you each morning to wander Newmarket looking for the man. Once we catch him, you’ll begin training.”

“Jack is our only witness,” Alexander told the baron. “You must protect him.”

“You’re asking me to be a child minder?”

“I’m telling, not asking,” Alexander said. “Or would you prefer Constable Black investigating those parties at your London home?”

“I’ll do it,” Eddie said. “Come on, Jack. Let’s fetch your belongings.”

The baron and the boy left the duke’s office.

“The boy saw brown hair.” Alexander looked at Raven. “How can a man be blond and dark-haired?”

“Have you ever heard of wigs?” Raven countered.

Alexander smiled. “How logical of you.”

“Our problem is this,” she said. “Is the wig blond or dark?”

“What do you think, Brat?”

“The man is blond but disguised himself with the brown wig.”

“Mark my words,” Blaze said. “The bone sucker did it.”

She would never recommend motherhood to anyone. Except her worst enemy.

Feeling sorry for herself, Blaze sat on the edge of the bed and slipped into her ankle boots. Her recent morning routine—dry toast and dry gags—disgusted her. She should have known the marquis’s baby would give her problems. Like father, like son.

All her dreams and goals had evaporated like mist beneath the noonday sun. Why? The marquis had desired her in his bed. She’d gone along with the idea without realizing the high price.

Blaze slid her hand to her belly. Destiny demanded payment, her cost seeming larger than his.

And then Blaze smiled. What she wanted was still within her grasp. She held the ace card, the marquis’s heir growing inside her.

They would be signing the betrothal contract that night. She would suggest—no, insist—on revisions. No revisions, no marriage, no legal heir.

Blaze felt much better. She grabbed a shawl and draped it around her shoulders. Humming a spritely tune, she crossed the chamber and opened the door.

Raven stood there, her fist in the air.

“Are you going to hit me?” Blaze asked her.

“I want to watch Pegasus and you practice.”

“Come along, then.”

Raven fell into step beside Blaze. They walked down the servants’ stairs to the garden door.

Nature had come alive on that first day of May. Yellow daffodils and forsythia bowed to pink azaleas. Lilac bushes were laden with perfumed purple blossoms, and pesky yellow dandelions dotted the grass carpet beyond the formal garden.

“I’m sorry for causing you and Alex trouble,” Blaze said, starting down the path to the practice field.

Raven touched her shoulder. “The blame lies with Alex, not you.”

“He is refusing to plan another wedding.”

Raven waved her hand, dismissing that with confidence. “Alexander will see the situation my way eventually.”

“What if—?”

“If he walks away from our betrothal,” Raven said, “Alexander will crawl back on his belly and grovel for my forgiveness.”

Blaze smiled at that. “Somehow, I cannot see Alex crawling and groveling.”

“No crawling or groveling means no wedding,” Raven said. “There are other men in the world.”

The sisters reached the end of the path. The usual morning fog covering the track had evaporated hours earlier.

Standing with Bender and Rooney, Ross smiled at Blaze. The three men watched them approach.

Greeting the men with a nod, Blaze headed straight for Pegasus. She stroked the filly’s face.
Love Peg
.

Me love
.

When she returned to the others, Ross touched her cheek. “The later hour suits ye?”

“I feel well.” Blaze blushed at the reference to her condition, wondering if the trainer and the jockey had heard the news. “Raven wants to watch us practice.”

Ross gave Rooney a leg up on Pegasus. Then he and Bender mounted their horses.

“Give us a five length lead down track,” Ross told Rooney. “We’ll keep a hole between us.”

The jockey nodded.

“Rooney.” Blaze held her hand out, and he passed her the whip.

At the start line, Ross called, “One, two, three—
go
.”

Bender and Ross spurred their horses into action, galloping down track. Rooney and Pegasus gave chase.

Blaze began her silent chant.
Peg through hole. Peg through hole. Peg
—

Pegasus shot through the hole between Ross and Bender.

Blaze relaxed, confident of their success. Rooney would ride her filly to victory. Pegasus would become legend, Rooney would permanently quit drinking spirits, and she would build her animal sanctuary. The future was sunshine and blue skies, no clouds on the horizon.

Pegasus would never see the inside of the breeding barn, though. She would never put her filly through that humiliating experience. Sadly, the magic and legend would die with the filly.

“Touch Peg,” Blaze said to her sister. “Let me know if she’ll win the Second Spring.”

“I cannot see into the future,” Raven said.

“Touch her,” Blaze persisted, “and tell me your impression.”

“I can’t promise anything.”

Blaze led Raven to the white Arabian and stroked the filly’s face. “Peg, my sister wants to touch you.”

Pegasus stood perfectly still, as if she understood. Raven closed her eyes and placed the palms of her hands on the filly’s face.

Blaze watched her sister’s placid expression become a frown that disappeared as quickly as it had come. Raven dropped her hands and opened her eyes.

“What is it?” Blaze asked her. “You sensed something.”

“Pegasus will win the Second Spring,” Raven said, patting her shoulder.

The touch felt more like consolation than congratulation. Her sister wasn’t telling her everything.

“What about the Triple Crown?” Blaze asked her.

“I did not sense her winning,” Raven said, “but I did not sense her losing, either.”

“How puzzling.” Blaze recalled Ross’s words. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes your horse gets scratched. Why would Pegasus be scratched from a race?

“Only God knows all things in advance,” Raven said. “Perhaps Pegasus needs to win the Second Spring before I can sense her luck in the next race.”

“That could be it,” Blaze said, expression clearing. “You’ll need to travel with us to Epsom Derby and the St. Leger in September.”

“Jeez, she’ll be worryin’ from now until September,” Ross said, “and worryin’ isna good for the babe.” He smiled at her reddening complexion. “I knew I could make ye blush.”

“Company has come calling,” Bender said, drawing their attention.

Blaze turned around. Dirk Stanley, the Earl of Boston, and his half-brother, Squire Simmons, sauntered toward them. Both men were green-eyed and blond, but the squire was taller and more muscular.

“Good to see ye, Chad.” Ross shook the squire’s hand.

Blaze looked from Dirk to Chadwick. They could have been twins except for the squire’s height and more masculine physique.

She thought the resemblance uncanny but supposed Celeste’s children looked like her. Both of her own parents had dark hair, but she had inherited Aunt Bedelia’s red.

“That is the near-legendary Pegasus,” Squire Simmons said, and then looked at her. “This is the filly’s notorious jockey.”

“All of Newmarket is gossiping about Pegasus,” Dirk said. “I’ve never seen this much excitement over a horse.”

“We may need to wager on Pegasus instead of Emperor,” Chad said, smiling.

“All of Newmarket will be wagerin’ on the filly,” Ross said. “Ye willna make much money.”

“Being a long-shot is more lucrative,” Blaze said.

“That’s the price of fame for ye,” Ross told her, “but ye can take heart, darlin’, the owner gets the prize money.” He looked at his stepbrothers. “If ye dinna mind, we prefer private practices.”

“We wanted to watch her run,” Dirk said, sounding disappointed.

“Come along, brother,” Chad said, turning to leave. “We can use our time putting Emperor through his paces.”

Ross watched them disappear down the path that led to Snailwell Road. Then he gestured to the trainer and jockey.

“We’ll meet tomorrow,” Ross said. “I dinna trust them not to watch.”

Bender and Rooney led the horses toward the stable path. Ross mounted his own horse, saying, “I’ll see ye tonight.” Then he turned his horse away, heading for the Snailwell Road path.

“Look,” Raven exclaimed, holding her left hand out. Her star ruby had changed colors, darkening to blood red, warning her of danger.

Blaze looked her sister in the eye. “I told you the bone sucker did it.”

Hours later, Blaze stood alone in her bedchamber and prepared herself for winning the revisions she wanted on the betrothal contract. She wore a violet whisper gown, its neckline modestly scooped, and her mother’s jeweled butterfly hair clasp. Looking good meant feeling good, giving her the confidence to demand what she wanted. Since this moment would never come again, she would haggle until the marquis surrendered.

Blaze left her bedchamber and walked down the stairs to her father’s office on the second floor. She tapped on the door and then peered inside.

“Here she is.” Sitting behind his desk, the Duke of Inverary beckoned her forward.

Ross and the Duke of Kilchurn sat in leather chairs in front of the enormous oak desk. Both father and son stood when she entered.

Three leather chairs had been set in a row. Ross assisted her into the vacant middle chair.

“Ye look lovely in purple,” he said, and sat in the chair on her right.

“I’m wearing violet whisper, not purple,” she corrected him.

“I apologize for my inaccuracy,” Ross said, smiling. “Violet whispers and purple shouts?”

“I don’t know if purple shouts,” Blaze said, “because my stepmother forbids me to wear that shade.”

“Listen, daughter,” the Duke of Inverary said, parchment and quill in hand. “We don’t need to waste time. The contract is standard with a generous monthly allowance. You sign and then Ross will sign.”

Blaze folded her hands on her lap, signaling she wasn’t ready to sign. She gave Ross a sidelong smile and then told her father, “I require revisions.”

“Revisions?” Ross echoed.

Her father smiled. The Duke of Kilchurn chuckled.

“I require certain stipulations added,” she told him.

Ross relaxed in his chair, stretching his long legs out. His expression said he found her amusing. Cute.

Blaze arched a copper brow at him. The marquis failed to realize that petite women despised cute. She would set him straight about that after she’d won her stipulations.

“Tell yer father what ye require,” Ross said, gesturing to the duke. “I’ll agree or not.”

Blaze inclined her head. “What is mine I keep,” she told her father. “Horses, money, whatever else I value.”

“Whatever else ye value is too vague,” Ross said. “Name what ye value at this moment.”

“I retain ownership and control of my horse, pets, money, and my mother’s jewels.”

Ross nodded once. “I agree.”

The Duke of Inverary lifted the quill and inserted the revision.

“I am allowed to build and control my animal refuge.”

Again, Ross nodded at her father. His easy agreement boosted her confidence.

“The financial interests shared with my sisters pass only to my daughters,” Blaze said. “If I die without daughters, my interests revert to my sisters and their daughters minus an invested amount, its capital gains sufficient to support my animal refuge.”

Ross chuckled, his expression screaming
cute
again. “What interests do ye and yer sisters share?”

His condescending tone annoyed Blaze, and she could not control the urge to best him. “We own the Seven Doves Company.”

“Seven Doves Company?” Ross echoed. “Is that the company pauperin’ Douglas Gordon in a price war?”

When she nodded, Ross shouted with laughter. Seven females were winning a price war against his friend. “I canna wait to tell Dougie he’s bein’ bested by females.”

Blaze looked at her father. “My next stipulation is Ross is forbidden to pass that information to the Marquis of Huntly.”

The Duke of Kilchurn chuckled, drawing her attention. “James MacArthur is also forbidden to tell Douglas Gordon anything.”

The Duke of Kilchurn was smiling, as was her father. Even Ross had a smile flirting with his lips. Three smiling Highlanders boded ill.

Blaze placed a finger across her lips as she considered weaknesses in her demand. Highlanders could find a loophole the size of a grain of sand.

“Both are forbidden to tell a third party who will give Douglas Gordon the information,” Blaze added.

“How can I look my friend in the face when I know the owners of the company stealin’ his money?” Ross countered.

“The Seven Doves is not stealing his money,” Blaze said, “and Bliss does not twist his arm to learn his secrets. If the Marquis of Huntly cannot keep his own counsel, then he deserves to lose his money.”

“The lass is correct,” the Duke of Kilchurn agreed with her. “Dougie wouldna be losin’ the price war if he wasna tryin’ to impress her sister with his financial prowess.”

Ross gestured to the Duke of Inverary. “Give her what she wants.” He looked at her. “Tell me the reason only daughters can inherit yer Seven Doves interests.”

“Women need their own money,” Blaze told him. “No daughter of mine will depend upon a man for food, clothing, and shelter.”

“What’s wrong with us men?” he asked.

“How many days can you spare to listen?” she answered, making all three men smile.

“Ye’ve met yer match,” the Duke of Kilchurn told his son. “I can hear the crockery crashing.”

“Papa, what is my pin money?”

“Ross gives you one thousand pounds per month.”

Blaze smiled, pleased with the amount. One thousand pounds was nine hundred more than she received now.

“Why should I share?” Ross asked, smiling. “She isna sharin’ with me.”

“Nobody is forcing you to share with me.” Blaze stood, ready to leave, and looked him in the eye. “No monthly pin money, no marriage, no legitimate heir.”

The Duke of Inverary and the Duke of Kilchurn hooted with laughter. “She’s got ye there,” Kilchurn told his son.

“I’m teasin’ ye,” Ross said, grabbing her hand. “What’s mine is yers, unlike a certain selfish individual who will remain nameless.”

“I will take the quill now.” Blaze sat in her chair again and signed her name. Then she passed the quill to Ross.

“If Peg loses the Second Spring or the Epsom Derby,” Ross said, “we’ll leave early for the Highlands instead of waitin’ for August.”

“Why are we going to the Highlands?” Blaze asked.

“Newly-married couples need time away from others,” Ross answered.

“What if Hercules wins the Derby?” Blaze asked. “You’ll miss the 2000 Guineas Race.”

“My father was racin’ thoroughbreds before I was born,” Ross said. “He knows what to do.”

Ross reached in his pocket and produced a small velvet-covered box. Opening its lid, he took the ring and slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand. A solitaire diamond topped a channel-set platinum band of diamonds.