Marrying the Marquis (3 page)

“Allow me to refresh yer memory,” he said. “I am Ross MacArthur, the Marquis of Awe.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Again, I mean.” Blaze waved her hand in a shooing gesture. “Run along, my lord. I am in the middle of a funeral.”

The marquis chuckled. His response did not sit well with her.

“Yer father sent me to stop the burial.” Ross lifted the fur out of her hand. “Her Grace caught yer act and swooned.”

Blaze looked at Puddles.
Scare man
.

The mastiff stood, hackles raised, baring its fangs and growling. Drool dripped from its muzzle.

Keeping his gaze on the dog, Ross reached into his pocket and produced a cinnamon cookie. He held it in the palm of his hand, offering it to the dog.

Puddles whined and wagged his tail, inching closer and closer to the treat. Gently, the mastiff took the cookie.
Man good
.

That surprised Blaze. She would have called the mastiff a traitor, but he did not know the word.

“What’s yer dog’s name?” Ross asked, folding the fur and placing it into the sack.

“I named him Puddles, for the usual reason.”

Ross smiled at that and retrieved the other furs from their grave. After shaking them out, he returned them to the sack.

“You take the duchess her dead animal skins,” Blaze said, grabbing the shovel. “I will fill the hole.”

“I dinna take orders from ye or anyone else.” Ross lifted the shovel out of her hand and tossed it aside. “The gardener will do it.” He gestured to the gazebo, saying, “Sit there. I want to speak with ye aboot the racin’ season.”

Blaze would have mentioned that she did not take orders either, but curiosity stifled the urge to walk away. Without argument, she climbed the gazebo stairs and sat on a bench.

After tossing the mastiff a couple of cookies, the marquis followed and dropped beside her on the bench. Her gaze downcast, Blaze noted his thigh flirting with her skirt and inched away, which gave him the space for a relaxed sprawl. She shied away when his thigh touched her skirt again.

“Ye’ll fall off the edge if ye keep movin’.”

Blaze heard the smile in his voice and looked up. His black gaze disturbed her as did his amusement at her expense.

“I race thoroughbreds so I know somethin’ aboot the business,” the marquis said. “Yer father tells me he gave ye a horse.”

Pegasus
. Blaze smiled, thinking of her Arabian.

“Yer filly finished last in her only two races,” Ross told her.

“Pegasus runs faster than any of my father’s horses,” Blaze said, dismissing his statement. “We will qualify and take the Classic Three to win the Triple Crown.”

“I admire yer confidence,” he said, “but speed doesna matter if yer horse balks at goin’ through holes.”

Holes? Blaze had no idea to what he was referring and too proud to ask. Pegasus loved running and had even beaten her father’s Thor in trial matches as well as the previous year’s champion, Zeus.

“I’ll help ye,” the marquis said, “but I canna promise success in overcomin’ the flaw.”

“Why do you want to help me beat you?” Blaze could not mask the suspicion in her tone.

Ross gave her an easy smile. “I like red hair and freckles?”

Stiffening at the mention of her flaw, Blaze struggled against the urge to hide her freckles behind a hand. “I appreciate your offer”—she managed an insincere smile—“but I prefer to solve my own problems.”

“I’m insistin’, not offerin’.” Ross lifted a hand, but she shrank back. “Ye’ve a smudge of dirt, lass.” Holding her chin in one hand, he brushed a thumb across her cheek.

Blaze froze, torn between enjoying the warmth of his touch and fleeing. Her blue eyes widened as his face inched closer, closer, closer.

“Don’t kiss me.” Blaze bolted off the bench, needing to distance herself from the possibility of her first kiss and his mere presence.

Ross grinned. “Ye canna condemn a man for tryin’ to steal a kiss from a pretty girl.”

He thought her pretty?

Blaze knew she was behaving badly, but she had no experience with gentlemen. There must be a way to discourage a gentleman without causing a scene. She needed to speak with her stepmother as her sister had suggested.

“I will not condemn you,” Blaze said, gathering her dignity, “nor will I allow you a kiss.” She turned away, calling, “Come, Puddles.”

“Will ye sit with me at dinner?”

Damn, the Scotsman was one of the bachelors.

Blaze opened her mouth to refuse but lost her courage, his gaze stealing her words. If she couldn’t find her voice with him looking at her, how could she manage eating dinner?

Opting for an easy escape, Blaze cleared her throat. “My stepmother decides who sits where.” Then she left the gazebo, her dog trotting beside her.

Blaze walked in the direction of the stables instead of crossing the lawns to the mansion. Was the marquis watching her? She imagined his black gaze on her back.

Unable to control herself, Blaze peeked over her shoulder and then felt a heated blush rising on her cheeks. MacArthur stood near the gazebo, a smile on his face, his gaze fixed on her. And then he wiggled his fingers at her.

Blaze quickened her pace, which elicited his laughter. The sound of his amusement echoed in her ears and chased her down the path to the stables.

The Scotsman possessed an inflated opinion of his own charms. She did not like him, nor did she trust him an inch. He must have wheedled a dinner invitation from her stepmother and offered her his assistance in order to spy on Pegasus or her father’s Thor.

Could this hole be the problem Raven had sensed? If so, she would solve the problem without the marquis’s help.

Blaze walked into the stable, her dog beside her. She paused inside the door, letting her eyes become accustomed to the shadows.

The musky odor of horses mingled with the scents of hay and oiled leather. The familiar sounds of snorting horses and their hollow clumping movements calmed her.

“Rooney?”

No answer.

Blaze strolled down the stable’s straw-covered floorboards to one particular stall. Pegasus snorted a greeting, and she stroked the Arabian’s dish face.

“Hello, my beauty,” Blaze whispered, her tone a loving caress. And then faint mumbling drew her attention. “Rooney, are you here?”

The mumbling grew into grumbling.

Leaving her horse, Blaze peered into the last stall. With a bottle in his hand, her jockey was rising from the straw.

“I heard you,” Rooney said, swaying on his feet. “You don’t need to shout.”

The jockey was short and slight, his shocking red hair surpassing hers in brilliance. Her own freckles seemed minuscule when compared with his.

Without a word, Blaze lifted the bottle out of his hand and sniffed its contents. Spirits.

Her anger rising, Blaze suffered the urge to smash the bottle of swill into pieces. Her mother’s image rose in her mind’s eye, taking her to another place and time. She could not repeat the worst day of her life.

Holding his glazed eyes captive, Blaze poured the bottle’s contents onto the floorboards. “You promised me no drinking during racing season.”

“Racing begins a week from today,” Rooney defended himself.

Blaze arched a copper brow at him. “Do you want to win the Triple Crown?”

“Every jockey in England wishes for that.”

“I’ll take your statement as a
yes
,” Blaze said. “Do you want to win enough to quit drinking? If not, tell me now, and I’ll find another rider.”

“Pegasus is a filly,” Rooney said, “and she will never beat your father’s Thor or MacArthur’s Hercules or even Dirk Stanley’s Emperor.”

“She
will
win.” Blaze turned to leave. “You’re fired. I’ll find another rider.”

“Wait,” Rooney stopped her. “How do you know Peg can beat those colts?”

“She told me.”

Rooney shouted with laughter. Her hands itched to slap him, a most unladylike urge.

“Pegasus deserves better than a faithless drunk,” Blaze said, her voice dripping contempt. “I’ll send a footman with another bottle of poison, and you can guzzle yourself into an early grave.”

“I’ll ride her,” Rooney said, his hand on her arm. “I won’t take another drink, not a sip.”

Blaze studied his face, trying to gauge his sincerity and, more importantly, his inner strength. Living with her mother had taught her that drink could waylay the best intentions.

“I promise,” Rooney added, “but His Grace gave you a flawed horse.”

The hole
.

“The Marquis of Awe mentioned that Pegasus balks at going through holes,” Blaze said. “Explain the hole.”

“The empty space between two horses is called a hole,” Rooney told her. “Though Peg is the fastest horse I’ve ever seen, she refuses to pass through holes to get ahead.”

“What about going around the horses?”

“That wastes time,” Rooney answered, “which is the reason Peg finished last in her only two races. Once the other jockeys discovered the flaw, they teamed up to use it against her.”

“Why do you think she refuses to go through holes?”

Rooney shrugged. “Ask her.”

That brought a smile to her lips. “Curing Pegasus will surprise those jockeys.”

“How do we cure her?”

“Bring Pegasus and two other riders to the track at first light tomorrow,” Blaze instructed him. “I will pay for their services and silence.”

Hope and uncertainty warred on the jockey’s face. “Do you really believe we can cure Peg’s problem and win the Triple Crown?”

Blaze gave him a smile meant to encourage. “I know we can.”

Dinner with the bachelors loomed before her.

Blaze wished her stepmother had started this nonsense after the racing season. She did not need any distractions stealing her focus from Pegasus and the races.

Delaying the inevitable, Blaze lingered in her bedchamber to study her reflection in the cheval mirror. She wore a pale yellow silk gown with a scalloped, lace-flounced hem and short, puffed sleeves. Thankfully, her stepmother had impeccable taste, and the pale shade complemented her red hair.

Life would have been easier if she had lived during an earlier time when ladies powdered their hair. On the other hand, she might have suffered the same fate as the other Flambeaus and lost her head to the guillotine.

Blaze recalled the stories her mother had told her and her sisters about fashionable French society. And then the Terror erupted to claim the entire Flambeau family, leaving her mother an orphaned and penniless child countess who had matured into an insecure woman.

Inspecting her complexion in the cheval mirror, Blaze decided her freckles were less noticeable if she squinted but doubted her stepmother had invited squinting bachelors. The marquis hadn’t squinted once during their conversation.

The bright side of the situation was she did not want to marry. Her unfashionable red hair and smattering of freckles would discourage suitors. She did not relish rejection, though.

The door swung open, drawing her attention. “You look lovely,” Raven said, crossing the chamber.

Blaze eyed her sister’s pink gown. “I wish I could wear that color.”

“You radiate vibrancy without bright colors,” Raven told her. “I would look sallow if I wore your gown.”

Blaze appreciated her sister’s kindness, but Raven had never looked sallow in her life. Ebony hair and ivory complexions could carry any shade.

“Where are Bliss, Serena, and Sophia?” Blaze asked her.

“Our sisters are hiding in their chambers.”

“Cowards.”

Raven smiled. “I bring you a message from the duchess.”

Blaze grimaced and rolled her eyes. Her Grace was definitely raging about the furs, but the bachelors were delaying the inevitable dressing down. The only two things her stepmother loved more than furs were expensive jewels and the duke.

“Stepmama’s message is to bury all the furs you want,” Raven said, surprising her, “because Papa promised to buy her replacements.”

Blaze frowned at the thought of more dead animals. She had not considered that alarming possibility. Her stepmother was more cunning than a fox.

“Do not fiddle with your food,” Raven added. “Whoever you marry can discover your eating habits after the vows are spoken.”

“I am no cannibal,” Blaze said, shuddering delicately to emphasize her revulsion. “Would dearest Stepmama prefer I force myself to eat meat and then regurgitate it?”

“Darling, society frowns upon public puking,” Raven drawled, imitating the duchess. “Eating meat, fish, and poultry does not constitute cannibalism.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you could communicate with animals,” Blaze said.

“I understand,” Raven said, “but most people do not converse with animals.”

“Animals do not converse,” Blaze told her. “I communicate with them, not engage in conversation.”

“You possess a rare gift.”

“One woman’s gift is another’s curse,” Blaze said. “Cutting the meat into pieces and swishing them around in my plate will make it appear as if I’d eaten my fill. Don’t you think?”

“What a sterling idea.” Raven turned toward the door.

Blaze touched her sister’s arm. “Are my freckles very noticeable?”

“You see freckles,” her sister answered, “but I see pixie dust enhancing your beauty.”

Blaze opened the door for her. “I never noticed your poetical nature before.”

“Darling, your freckles are setting a trend,” Raven drawled, stepping into the hallway. “I predict the other ladies will be painting freckles on their noses before racing season ends.”

Blaze smiled at that and fell into step beside her sister. “Tell me what you have learned about gaining the upper hand with gentlemen.”

“A positive attitude means everything,” Raven said. “Strategy is important because no man can resist a challenge, the most difficult to obtain being the most desired. A serene smile softens tart words and confounds the opposite sex.”

“How can I remember all that?”

“Be yourself,” Raven advised her, “and the gentlemen will be vying for your attention.”

If she behaved as usual, Blaze thought, no gentleman would pursue her. Which would leave her free to concentrate on the racing season.

Blaze doubted any of the gentlemen invited to dinner would court her for a connection with her father. Her stepmother would begin her matchmaking with society’s wealthiest, most sought-after eligibles.

“The gents will adore me,” Blaze said, exercising her positive attitude, “but what if I cannot like them?”

“What an excellent attitude,” Raven complimented her. “Stepmama will parade bachelors in front of you until one catches your fancy.”

The old witch must really want to get rid of me
, Blaze thought.

They descended the stairs and headed in the direction of the drawing room. “When Stepmama praises your behavior,” Raven whispered, “tell her you have been following her example.”

“Do you mean lie?” Blaze asked.

“White lies never hurt anyone,” Raven answered.

“Your feeling about Pegasus was correct,” Blaze told her, pausing outside the drawing room. “Peg balks at going through holes to get ahead. The Marquis of Awe offered to help me solve the problem. What do you think?”

“Ross MacArthur is wealthy, titled, and handsome,” Raven said, “and he loves animals.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know because I know,” Raven said, irritation tingeing her voice. “Do yourself a favor, and accept the marquis’s offer. Otherwise, Pegasus will win no races.”

“You know this?”

“I do.”

Raven stepped inside the drawing room. Blaze had no choice but walk with her.

The drawing room was invitingly comfortable, more to Blaze’s taste than the opulent formality of the duke’s London mansion. The cream-colored walls created the perfect background for portraits and matched the gold, cream, and blue Aubusson carpet. Upholstered chairs, sofas, and settees in jewel colors formed intimate groupings around the chamber.

The present duchess’s portrait hung above the white marble hearth. On a side wall in a secluded corner was the portrait of her own mother, Gabrielle Flambeau, looking achingly young and carefree as Blaze had never seen her.

Sometimes Blaze sat alone in front of her mother’s portrait and talked to her. All her one-sided conversations began with the words
I’m sorry, Mama
.

Her father and stepmother stood near the hearth and conversed with four gentlemen. Blaze recognized Alexander Blake, the Marquis of Basildon, her sister’s betrothed. The Marquis of Awe stood with his back to the door as did two other gentlemen, one dark-haired and the other blond.

“Ah, here are two of my lovely stepdaughters,” the duchess announced.

All masculine gazes shifted to watch them. Blaze wished her stepmother hadn’t done that. Accustomed to being lost in the crowd of six sisters, she disliked being the center of attention.

“Attitude,” Raven whispered.

Blaze pasted an ambiguous smile onto her face and glided across the carpet toward them. Eyeing the pianoforte, she prayed no gentleman would request a performance. Her skill offended audiences, and she preferred to do the rejecting.

“You look beautiful, Brat,” Alexander Blake was saying to her sister, before sliding his gaze to her. “How are you doing, Freckles?”

Hearing MacArthur’s deep chuckle, Blaze managed not to blush through sheer force of will. Her sister’s fiancé was expecting a tart response, but she refused to accommodate his teasing.

“Alex, what a kidder you are,” Blaze said, her smile serene, enjoying his expression of surprise at the gentleness of her rebuke. “I believe you envy my unique beauty.”

“I agree with your self-assessment, my lady,” another voice spoke. “Yours is a rare beauty.”

“Your Highness,” Blaze said, turning to Prince Lykos Kazanov, “I did not realize you were joining us tonight.”

“I have told you several times to use my given name,” Lykos said, bowing over her hand. “I command you to do so.”

“Lykos,” Blaze murmured, willing herself to blush.

The prince’s presence surprised her. She should have known her stepmother would seek a match with royalty, even if it was foreign.

With black hair and blue eyes and strong, angular features, Prince Lykos Kazanov would be a jewel of a catch. His title and vast wealth made him her stepmother’s choice. A third prince marrying into the family would be an astounding feat, much envied for decades.

Blaze suspected that MacArthur, a Scotsman, was her father’s preference. She had learned during the previous year that her father viewed the Highlands in a romantic light while her stepmother was always pragmatic. The blond gentleman, of course, was a weak offering designed to fool her.

“Too many months have passed since I have seen you,” the prince was saying, still holding her hand. “Do you recall our dance at your sister’s wedding?”

“I could never forget our waltz, Lykos.” Blaze flicked a glance at the marquis’s tight-lipped expression. “Your feet must carry the scars from my missteps.”

Everyone, including the marquis, smiled at that.

“You danced like a dream,” the prince said.

“What an interesting ring,” Blaze said, her gaze dropping to the prince’s hand.

Lykos held his hand up, freeing her hand. On the third finger of his right hand was a gold ring shaped like a wolf’s head, two rubies its glittering eyes. “My parents gave me this when I graduated university.”