Marrying the Marquis (6 page)

“I’ll do it,” Bender agreed, and then walked away grumbling to himself.

“Crush a large stash of Stinkin’ Billy,” Ross said, turning to the jockey. “Ye must carry some in yer pockets day and night. Smudge a bit of dirt on yer face each mornin’, and carry an empty flask of gin at all times.”

“I know what you’re planning.” Rooney laughed, grasped Peg’s reins, and led the filly toward the stables.

“What is this Billy?” Blaze asked him.

“Stinkin’ Billy is the most foul smellin’ weed on earth,” Ross answered. “The stink keeps people away better than dung. Ye’ll need to carry it on race day.”

“Why is it called Stinking Billy?”

“We Highlanders named the weed after the Duke of Cumberland.”

“Who is he?” Blaze looked confused. “Does my father know him?”

“I keep forgettin’ how young and English ye are,” Ross said, touching her cheek. “I’ll tell ye the tale of Cumberland one day, but trust me on this. Dinna ask yer father aboot Cumberland lest ye arouse his suspicions.”

“Why does Rooney need to carry a flask and smudge his face with dirt?” she asked him.

“We want the whole of Newmarket to believe Rooney is drinkin’ again,” Ross answered. “Drinkin’ and stinkin’.”

“You
are
sneaky.”

“Thank ye for the high praise, darlin’.” Ross grabbed his horse’s reins. “Come on, and I’ll walk ye home.”

“No, thank you.” Blaze gestured to her garb. “I need to sneak inside via the back door.”

“Ye’ve a ways to go before ye reach my level of sneakiness,” Ross said. “I’ll see ye at two o’clock for our tour.”

“I will count the minutes.”

He winked at her. “See that ye do.”

Why is the marquis courting me?
Blaze wondered, inspecting herself in the cheval mirror.

She doubted he was spying on Thor or Pegasus. Hercules, his own colt, was a formidable competitor. That left her father’s influence and fortune, neither of which he needed.

With a critical eye, Blaze stared at her reflection. She wore a pale peach gown topped with a white cashmere shawl, its bottom edge embroidered with dainty peach blossoms.

Turning around, Blaze glanced over her shoulder to see her backside. All seemed in order. Then she turned sideways and, not for the first time in her life, wished her bosom were more developed.

Would the marquis try to kiss her? That disturbing possibility leaped into her mind. She needed to speak with her stepmother before leaving.

Crossing the bedchamber, Blaze lifted the white hat with peach ribbons off the bed. She would carry her bonnet while seeking her stepmother’s advice and then ditch the hat in the foyer on the way out.

Blaze met the majordomo on the second-floor landing. “Do you know Her Grace’s whereabouts?”

“Their Graces are consulting in his office,” Tinker answered. “May I add how lovely you look, Miss Blaze.”

“Thank you, Tinker.”

Reaching her father’s office, Blaze lifted her hand to tap on the door. She hesitated, hearing her stepmother’s voice.

“Magnus, please trust my strategy.” The duchess sounded exasperated. “I promise all will end as you desire.”

Her father muttered a reply, his words inaudible. His tone did not sound especially happy.

Blaze tapped on the door and then peered into the office. In an instant, her father and stepmother pasted smiles onto their faces. Had they been discussing her?

“Come inside, darling.” Her stepmother beckoned her. “How beautiful you look for your outing.”

“Thank you for noticing.” Blaze dropped into the chair beside her stepmother’s.

Her father’s office was a bastion of masculinity. Sturdy oak furnishings and muted colors lent the room a somber atmosphere. No feminine frills distracted the eye or the mind from business dealings.

Blaze fixed her gaze on her stepmother. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I am trying to do right by you.” The duchess’s dimpled smile appeared. “Darling, marrying a wealthy gentleman means you can save more animals.”

Blaze said nothing. Wealth did afford its owner freedom, a valuable commodity to a woman. Money meant doing as one pleased. Within reason, of course.

“If you do not like the three gentlemen you met last night,” the duchess said, “I can introduce you to others.”

Uh-oh. Her strategy for the racing season required pitting the marquis, the prince, and the earl against each other.

“I am content for the moment.” Blaze practiced her serene smile on her stepmother. “Choosing a husband must be done carefully.”

The duchess gave her husband a triumphant smile. Her father looked suspicious, though.

Blaze realized the trainer had been correct. Her father was not easily fooled, but she would give him something to worry about other than her sincerity.

“What should I do if a gentleman tries to kiss me?” Blaze asked her stepmother.

“Slap his face,” her father answered.

The duchess gave her husband a pointed look. “Magnus, let me handle this.”

“She’s
my
daughter.”

“Kissing gentlemen is
my
expertise.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean,” the duchess said, and then turned to Blaze. “If you do not welcome his kiss, show him your cheek and step back a pace or two. If you do welcome it, simply allow him the kiss.”

“No tongues,” the duke added.

“Tongues?” Blaze echoed in confusion. “People kiss with their lips, don’t they?”

“Yes, dearest, people use their lips for kissing,” the duchess said. “I hope that settles the matter for you.”

“What should I do with my hands?” Blaze asked her.

“No touching,” the duke ordered.

“Ignore your father,” the duchess told her. “When you desire a gentleman’s kiss, your hands will do what comes naturally.”

“Good God, I’ve got a headache,” the Duke of Inverary muttered, both hands holding his head.

“Leave your father and his headache to me,” the duchess said, gesturing her out. “Enjoy your afternoon with the marquis.”

Wondering about her father’s hands and tongues comments, Blaze crossed the chamber and opened the door. She heard her father asking in a loud voice, “Are Alex and Raven accompanying them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the duchess said, and the door clicked shut.

Blaze struggled against laughing at the anxiety she’d heard in her father’s voice. He didn’t know he had nothing to fear. She planned never to marry, nor would pregnancy trap her into marriage.

When she reached the foyer, Tinker was opening the door for Ross MacArthur. Tall and broad-shouldered, the marquis cut an imposing figure in his perfectly tailored clothing.

Her knees weakened at the sight of him. The damn butterflies had returned, winging inside her belly.

“Ye look peachy and good enough to eat,” Ross said, his smile charming. “I bet ye taste sweet, too.”

Attitude
, Blaze reminded herself.

“I’m as sweet as lemons,” she said, making the majordomo chuckle.

Blaze passed him her bonnet. “Tinker, hide this until I return.”

“I understand, Miss Blaze.” Tinker opened the door. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

Ross escorted her to his phaeton, its hood folded down. He helped her onto the seat and climbed up beside her. “Shall I put the hood up?”

Blaze shook her head. “I love feeling breezes and the sun’s warmth.”

“In that case”—Ross plucked the pins from her hair, letting the fiery mane cascade around her—“enjoy the ride.”

Blaze felt uncomfortable sitting so close to him and wished the marquis had arrived with a coach and a driver instead of the two-seater phaeton. His thigh flirted with her skirt, and she caught his mountain heather scent.

Intelligent conversation eluded her. She had never been completely alone with any gentleman except Alexander Blake, and he was more brother than gentleman. Though born on the wrong side of the blanket, she and her sisters had been sheltered as befitted a duke’s daughters.

At the end of the private lane, Ross steered the phaeton onto Bury Road. He turned onto Fordham Road before reaching Newmarket proper.

Blaze peeked at the marquis and caught him smiling at her. She averted her gaze and concentrated on the passing scenery. Various wildflowers were blooming along the roadside, and lilacs scented the air. An occasional robin darted past, carrying grass for its nest.

“Pleasant small talk makes a coach ride more enjoyable,” Ross said, “like when yer waltzin’.”

Blaze looked at him. “I never engage in pleasant small talk.”

“Ye had plenty to say this mornin’,” he teased her.

“How far is the MacArthur estate from my father’s?” she asked. “Is that talk small enough for you?”

Ross laughed out loud, making her smile. “I do believe the only thin’ smaller would be aboot the weather. To answer yer question, MacArthur House lies two miles or so from yers, shorter as the crow flies.”

“Your house is beyond the woods on the far side of my father’s track?” Blaze asked.

“Ye’ve a keen sense of direction,” Ross said, steering the phaeton onto a private lane. “We’ll visit the stables and then stop at the house for refreshment.”

Blaze noted several enclosures. Foals frolicked beneath their mother’s supervision in the pens closest to the stables. In the distance, a lone horse grazed in its own enclosure.

“Why is that horse alone?” She pointed toward the enclosure.

“We keep the barrens separated from the others,” he told her.

“What do you mean?”

“A mare that hasna delivered a foal in three years is considered barren,” he answered. “We’ll be sellin’ her.”

His cool detachment surprised Blaze. “Who will purchase a barren mare?”

Ross shrugged. “The knackers will give us the best offer, most likely.”

“You mean to slaughter her?” Her surprise became horror. “That’s cruel and unfair.”

God’s balls
, Ross thought,
honesty is overrated
. He’d really stepped in dung this time and should have known better. A woman who held funerals for furs was bound to object to selling a horse to the knackers.

“Drive to that pasture,” Blaze said.

Was she ordering him again? Ross managed a conciliatory smile. “We’ll stop to visit her another day.”

She arched a copper brow at him. “I won’t forget.”

“I know ye willna forget.” The lass had a mind like a steel trap.

“I can never marry a man who sells a horse to the slaughterhouse.”

“I dinna recall askin’ to marry ye.”

Blaze blushed, her gaze skittering away. She’d walked into that. Would she never learn to keep her thoughts to herself? On the other hand, why would he waste his time if he wasn’t intending an offer of marriage? She resolved to keep her mouth shut until Pegasus won the Triple Crown. If the marquis sent the mare to the slaughterhouse, his offer of marriage would go the same way.

Ross halted the phaeton in the stableyard and stepped down. By the time he circled the phaeton to assist her, Blaze had already climbed down.

“Ladies always wait for a gentleman’s assistance,” Ross told her.

“A true gentleman does not send horses to the slaughter,” Blaze countered.

Ross ignored her comment and gestured to the stables. “I want to show ye Hercules, my best hope for winnin’ this year’s Crown.”

The MacArthur stables resembled her father’s stables. The lighting was dim but sufficient, and the straw-covered floorboards muffled the sounds of their boots. The scents of hay and musky horses hung in the air along with a faint dung odor.

Hercules, a powerfully-built chestnut colt, stood proudly in his stall as if he’d already won the Triple Crown. He snorted a greeting at his owner and then turned doleful eyes on his owner’s companion.

Blaze touched the colt’s face and gazed for a long moment into his eyes. “Juno is the barren mare and Hercules is her son.”

Ross stared at her in surprise. “How do ye know?”

“Banishing Juno has upset Hercules,” Blaze told him. “He worries about your selling his mother to the knackers.”

Ross smiled at that. “How can Hercules know what I plan?”

“He hears talk around the stables.”

“She’s got the gift.”

A stocky, middle-aged man stood a few feet away. His clothing and leather apron proclaimed him the farrier.

“You believe in such thin’s?” Ross asked him.

The man nodded. “I do.”

“Meet Duncan MacArthur,” Ross introduced them. “Duncan, this is Miss Blaze Flambeau, Inverary’s daughter.”

“Hercules’s left shoe is loose,” Blaze told the farrier.

“I know aboot the shoe,” Duncan said, “but the forge is already dark. I’m plannin’ to fix it in the mornin’.”

Ross could not credit what he was hearing. He watched Blaze press her hand against the colt’s cheek. Then she closed her eyes.

“What’s he tellin’ ye?” Ross asked.

“Hercules thanks me in advance for saving his mother from the knackers.” Blaze gave him a flirtatious smile. “Will you give me Juno?”

“I dinna give horses away,” Ross refused her.

“Will you sell me Juno?”

“A useless mare wastes food and stable space,” Ross said, gesturing to the door.

“I plan to mate Juno with my father’s Zeus.”

Ross laughed. “Yer father willna agree to that.”

“Apparently, you understand nothing about fathers and daughters.” Blaze lifted her nose into the air and walked out of the stable.

Tidy lawns and dark green manicured shrubs led to the MacArthur House. Its understated opulence and serene atmosphere came from decades of social and financial security.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” the MacArthur majordomo greeted them, opening the door before they reached it.

Blaze wondered if the man lived in anticipation of guests coming and going. He reminded her of Tinker, who always knew when to open the door.

“We’ll take tea in the dinin’ room,” Ross instructed his man.

“Yes, my lord.” The majordomo gave her a speculative glance and then shifted his gaze to the marquis. “Ahem.”

“Pardon my lapse in manners,” Ross said, his tone dry. “Blaze, I present Dodger. Dodger, meet Miss Flambeau, Inverary’s daughter.”