Marrying the Marquis

by Patricia Grasso

  “Juno.” Blaze lifted her skirt and dashed across the courtyard toward the mare.

  Ross smiled at her joy. She was the most amazing woman he’d ever met. He’d made her happy without squandering a fortune on diamonds and other expensive geegaws.

  “You gave her that barren mare?” Dirk sneered.

  “I gave her what she wanted.”

  Prince Lykos smiled at him. “Well done, MacArthur.”

  “Yer a good sport for a man who’s losin’,” Ross told the prince. “I couldna sell ye the horse and let ye grab my glory.”

  “I have not lost yet,” Lykos said. “A world of difference lies between a thoroughbred and a betrothal ring.”

  The three men watched Blaze stroke the mare’s neck and face, her lips moving in soothing words. She gazed into the horse’s eyes and, unexpectedly, lifted the reins out of the groom’s hands. Then she headed in the stable’s direction.

  “Where are you going?” the duchess called. “You cannot abandon our guests.”

  “A smart man would accompany the lady to the stables,” Lykos said.

  “I dinna need advice aboot wooin’ ladies.”

  Ross stepped away, his long strides easily catching Blaze. He lifted the reins out of her hands, and they walked down the path to the stables.

  “Thank you for granting my wish,” Blaze said, her blue gaze sparkling. “Pegasus and Juno will become great friends. Your impractical gesture will surprise my father.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  She nodded. “You are not beyond salvation.”

  Ross grinned at being labeled impractical. He could only gain by giving her Juno. After all, Inverary was the one housing and feeding a useless mare.

  For the moment, Ross reminded himself. With any luck, he would soon be wasting money by housing and feeding his bride’s useless mare.

  Perhaps he could give her another useless pet instead of an expensive betrothal ring. No, the duchess would never allow that. As her husband, he would save a fortune not buying her furs for every evening gown.

  “When Pegasus wins The Craven,” Blaze told him, “my father promised to mate Juno and Zeus.”

  The duke’s impracticality surprised Ross. Granted, Inverary must have thought winning beyond Pegasus, but there was always a chance.

  “What if ye lose, lass?”

  “Peg won’t lose.”

  Ross admired her confidence. “I meant, what happens in the unlikely event that ye do lose?”

  “I promised to marry the man of his choice.”

  Ross smiled at that. He loved no-lose situations.

  By fair means or foul.

  He would marry her if she won or lost. Of course, his bride’s mood would be lighter if she won.

  With Juno between them, Ross and Blaze entered the stable. The clumping of the mare’s shoes sounded hollow on the straw-covered floorboards. Musky horse, grassy hay, and oiled leather scented the air.

  “Put her in the stall beside Peg’s,” Blaze said, grabbing a woolen blanket to drape across the mare’s back.

  With that done, Blaze called to a stablehand, ordering, “Handle Juno with care. She will deliver champions for Inverary stables.”

  She stroked the mare’s face and then gave her attention to Pegasus. “You can return to the house,” she said. “I want to make mash for my horses.”

  “We’ll make mash together,” Ross said, removing his jacket and rolling his shirt sleeves up. “Fetch the bucket and a jug of water.”

  Without complaining about his issuing orders, Blaze set a bucket down and grabbed a jug. Ross watched her for a moment and wondered if she realized he was now in charge. He would not call her attention to that little fact, though. He wasn’t a fool.

  Ross poured bran and grain pellets into the bucket. Then he added molasses as well as apple and carrot chips the stablehand brought. When Blaze arrived with the water jug, he added water and stirred the concoction. Grabbing another bucket, he ladled half the mixture into it.

  “I would never have imagined a marquis performing manual labor,” Blaze said, carrying the buckets to her horses.

  “I’ve mucked plenty of stables,” Ross told her. “Workin’ with horses isna for men who dinna want to dirty their hands.”

  “I cannot imagine my father making mash for his horses,” Blaze said, leaving the stable and starting down the path.

  “Inverary is an old man now.” Ross shrugged into his jacket. “I’m certain our fathers dirtied their hands long before we were born.”

  Blaze looked at him. “I doubt my father was ever young.”

  “Come here, lass.” Ross grabbed her hand and led her behind the trees lining the path. He smiled into her questioning gaze and gently drew her closer.

  Blaze knew he was going to kiss her. And she was going to allow it.

  His head dipped lower, his mouth inched closer, his breath mingled with hers. His lips were warm and firm, his kiss gently persuasive, his invitation subtle.

  Accepting his invitation, Blaze pressed herself against him. Ross wrapped his arms around her body, and her hands slid up his chest to entwine his neck.

  His mouth on hers sent delicious shivers down her spine. She sighed, surrendering to these new sensations.

  The kiss deepened, demanding her response. She met his growing passion with equal fervor. The world faded away, leaving her alone in the universe with only this man.

  Ross flicked his tongue across the crease of her lips, which parted, allowing him entrance to the sweetness of her mouth. She felt consumed but wanted more. Much more.

  Breaking their kiss, Ross lifted his head and traced a finger down her hot cheek. He smiled at her dazed expression.

  “I’ve been wantin’ to do that since yesterday,” he whispered, his voice husky.

  His smile was sensuous, seductive, smug.

  Blaze stomped on his booted foot, her slippers doing little damage. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you yelled at me this morning.”

  Ross laughed and dragged her into a sideways hug, ushering her onto the path again. “Ye’ll never bore me, lass.”

  Chapter Six

  “Are ye nervous?”

  “No.”

  “Why are yer hands shakin’?” Ross asked her.

  Blaze met his gaze, her expression deadpan. “I suffer the palsy?”

  Ross grinned. “Yer a brave lass, Miss Blaze Flambeau.”

  Sitting in the phaeton, Blaze looked over his shoulder across Newmarket Heath. The Rowley Mile Track lay beyond the field, the grandstands rose at one end of the track, and the Jockey Club flag waved above all to signify race day. Even from this distance, Blaze saw the crowds who’d assembled for the season’s opener.

  “Ye resemble Rooney in that garb,” Ross said, digging inside his leather satchel. “I wouldna recognize ye if I passed ye on the street.”

  Blaze wore the usual jockey attire. Her racing silk jacket in Campbell colors—green, black, blue—matched her cap. Her red hair was tucked inside. Breeches and lightweight riding boots completed the outfit. Goggles dangled around her neck, and fingerless leather gloves masked her feminine hands.

  The binding over her breasts was constricting her breathing. The pale yellow gown worn beneath the breeches and jacket restricted movement somewhat, but the padding offered no protection in the event of a fall.

  Ross produced a small packet of Stinking Billy attached to a leather cord. He placed the cord over her head.

  “Pardon my touch.” Ross slipped the packet and cord beneath her jacket.

  “That smells worse than the dead,” Blaze complained. “Peg will be sneezing instead of running.”

  Ross dipped a finger into another packet and smudged mud across her cheekbones. “Anyone seein’ the smudges will believe yer Rooney.”

  “You have considered all angles,” Blaze said. “I admire your sneakiness.”

  “Dinna forget to quicken the pace before the Devil’s Ditch,” Ross said, “and dinna walk like a
girl.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dinna wiggle yer butt.”

  Blaze blushed. “I do not wiggle.”

  “Jockeys swagger,” he told her, “and they never blush.”

  “Only jockeys swagger?”

  “Short men swagger in public to compensate for their lack of height.”

  Blaze glanced over his shoulder. “Here comes Rooney.”

  Both Ross and Blaze climbed out of the phaeton. She watched in fascination as Rooney approached. The jockey looked like her.

  “I told the guys I needed to piss,” Rooney said, passing her the whip. “Are you certain?”

  “I’ll see you on the path.” Blaze gave them a jaunty smile and walked away, her gait confident.

  “Jeez, she’s wigglin’ her butt,” Ross muttered.

  The closer Blaze walked to the spectators, the louder the cacophony of sounds assaulting her ears. She passed groups of roughly dressed men entertaining themselves with cockfights and dicing. The animals’ distressed cries made her heart ache with the unrequited need to rescue them. Maybe she couldn’t save every animal, but she could speak to her father about persuading the Jockey Club to ban all violent entertainment between races.

  “Hey, Rooney,” the Stanley jockey called. “How did the piss come out?”

  “Ye stink to high heaven,” the MacArthur jockey added. “Did ye take a bath in it?”

  “Give the drunk a break,” the Inverary jockey said, eliciting the other men’s laughter. “His Grace has him riding the balking filly.”

  Blaze kept walking, but an imp entered her soul. She lifted her arm in the air and gave them her middle finger. Behind her came the unmistakable sounds of scuffling and a voice warning, “Ye’ll get tossed if ye go after him.”

  Poor Rooney. She should warn him those three had violent intentions. They would respect Rooney when he and the balking filly won the Triple Crown.

  Blaze spied Bobby Bender and Pegasus at the far end of the paddock. She raised her hand, greeting the trainer, and then stood in front of the filly.

  Love Peg.

  Me love.

  Peg run?

  Run, run, run.

  “Are you certain you want to do this?” Bender asked, glancing around at the other trainers and jockeys. “It isn’t too late to change your mind.”

  Blaze smiled, surprisingly calm as the moment neared. “We’ll meet you in the winner’s circle.”

  “Rooney?”

  Blaze turned to see a stableboy, offering her a small glass. She lifted it out of his hand and gulped the whisky in one swig. The liquid burned a path to her stomach, making her cough and wheeze.

  “The booze went down the wrong pipe,” Bender told the boy.

  The bell rang.

  Bobby Bender gave her a leg up on Pegasus, and she passed him the whip. The trainer mounted his own horse, and together, they followed the line of jockeys and escorts riding toward the track.

  The crowd roared with anticipation as the first horses came into view. They paraded down track in pairs toward the starting line like Noah’s creatures marching toward the Ark.

  “Good luck,” Bender said, turning his horse away, leaving her and Pegasus.

  Her breath caught in momentary panic. Nerves churned her stomach, and her pulses raced.

  Blaze moved Pegasus into position at the starting line. She crouched low over her horse, her gaze on the official holding the flag. And then the flag dropped.

  Peg run.

  Run, run, run…

  What had he done? Ross worried, standing on the path beyond the finish line. He wanted Blaze to win, but he also wanted her safe. No one knew better than he that racing horses could produce unexpected and sometimes fatal results. Some jockeys were known for their unscrupulous tricks, willing to do anything in an effort to win.

  “They’re off.” Rooney sat on a thick tree limb, spyglass in hand.

  “Call the race,” Ross ordered.

  “She made a clean start,” Rooney told him. “Peg’s seventh but moving up. Sweet Jesus.”

  “What happened?”

  “Peg is flying,” the jockey said. “She’s sixth. Fifth, now. Oh, no.”

  “I’ll kill ye, man.”

  “MacArthur and Wakefield horses made a hole to block her,” Rooney called. “Aha, Peg slipped through the hole and is accelerating to catch the last two in front of her. Oh, shit.”

  “Rooney.”

  “Inverary and Stanley jockeys are blocking her,” Rooney said, and then laughed. “Our girl’s pushed through the hole, nearly toppling the two off their horses. She’s free, clear, and gaining speed. Five lengths in front. Ten lengths, fifteen, twenty…” The jockey whooped in glee and dropped from the tree limb. “Fuck me, she did it.”

  Ross heard the pounding hooves coming closer and closer. “Get ready,” he ordered the jockey.

  Blaze and Pegasus appeared on the path. “Peg won,” she cried.

  “We’ve no time for applause.” Ross pulled her off Pegasus and, yanking the goggles over her head, tossed them to Rooney before giving him a leg up.

  Rooney hooked the goggles over his head, letting them dangle from his neck. Then the jockey rode down the path to the field.

  “Yer father will be lookin’ for ye,” Ross said, helping her remove the racing garb. “Dinna forget the Stinkin’ Billy.”

  Grabbing a wet linen, Ross washed the grime from her face. He set a wide-brimmed bonnet on her head and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

  “Keep the shawl around ye cuz we dinna want anyone noticin’ yer flat titties,” Ross said, making her blush.

  After lifting her into the phaeton, Ross climbed in beside her and smiled. “Congratulations, lass. Ye’ve accomplished the impossible.”

  “We accomplished the impossible,” Blaze corrected him.

  Ross winked at her. “I like the sound of we.”

  Reaching the grandstands, Ross leaped out of the phaeton and tossed a coin to a track boy, ordering, “Take care of my horses.” He grabbed Blaze’s hand to escort her through the crowd to the winner’s circle.

  “Where’s my daughter?” the Duke of Inverary was asking. “Blaze owns the filly.”

  Her father stood on one side of Pegasus and Bobby Bender on the other. Rooney sat on top of the filly.

  “Go, lass,” Ross said.

  “You must come, too.”

  Ross smiled at that. He was definitely making progress with her, and soon the Lykos Kazanov threat would be a memory. He never doubted he could best the prince, though.

  “Here’s my daughter now,” the Duke of Inverary said, putting his arm around her shoulders. He shook Ross’s hand, saying, “You and Bender worked a miracle.”

  “Blaze deserves the honor,” Ross said.

  “The trainers and jockey get the accolades,” the duke replied, “and the owner gets the money. Your parents are dining at Inverary House tonight. Come along, and we’ll celebrate.”

  Blaze touched his hand, her smile pure sunshine. “Please, join the celebration.”

  Ross grinned at her. “I would love to celebrate with ye.”

  Was tonight’s dinner a celebration or the opening battle of a war?

  Dining with the Duchess of Kilchurn meant she needed to look her best. Emanating hostility, the MacArthur duchess hadn’t bothered to mask her disapproval. The woman possessed a basilisk’s deadly stare.

  Blaze gave herself a final inspection in the cheval mirror. She wore a blush silk gown with a modestly scooped neckline, short puffed sleeves, and a scalloped flounce hem.

  Her stepmother insisted bland colors provided the perfect background for her fiery hair. White and black provided the most striking starkness.

  She needed jewels. Crossing to the highboy, Blaze opened the drawer and lifted her mother’s jeweled butterfly hairclasp and its matching bracelet. She sensed the Kilchurn duchess had known and disliked Gabrielle Flambeau. Flaunting her mother’s jewels appealed to Blaze.

  Ce
lebration or battle? Blaze was prepared for both. Her victory in the race had vanquished her worry, making her feel invincible, and she almost welcomed a fight with the MacArthur duchess.

  Blaze would have preferred celebrating with her team, though. Ross, Rooney, Bender, and Pegasus deserved the honor and were more companionable than the witch.

  Delaying the oncoming storm, Blaze sat on the chaise in front of the hearth. She had a few minutes to practice distance communication with her horse.

  Closing her eyes, Blaze relaxed and took several deep breaths. She imagined herself staring into her filly’s eyes.

  Love Peg.

  No answer.

  Love Peg.

  No answer.

  Love Peg.

  Me love.

  Her eyes flew open. Had she imagined an answer?

  Love Peg. Love Peg. Love Peg.

  Me love. Me love. Me love.

  Blaze laughed and bolted off the chaise, calling, “Puddles, I did—” The bedchamber was empty, the mastiff preferring the kitchen during the dinner hour.

  Elated by her success, Blaze waltzed toward the door. She couldn’t wait to tell the marquis.

  Blaze paused, her hand on the doorknob, as doubts stepped from the shadows of her mind. Should she tell the marquis or remain temporarily silent?

  One communication did not guarantee success. She needed more practice, and the marquis would insist Rooney ride Pegasus in the First Spring Race three weeks hence.

  Blaze decided on silence. She would continue practicing and ride Pegasus in the next race. That would give them six weeks before the Second Spring Race.

  With her decision made, Blaze left her bedchamber and walked down the corridor to the main staircase. She met the marquis on the second floor landing.

  MacArthur appeared the image of sleek sophistication in his midnight blue, impeccably tailored trousers and jacket. He grew more appealing each time she saw him. Or was her imagination playing games because they shared the secret of Pegasus’s win?

  “Yer beauty shames those jeweled butterflies,” Ross said, bowing over her hand.

  Blaze blushed at his compliment, her smile flirtatious. “You are an outrageous flatterer, my lord.”

  “Ye mean partner in crime,” Ross said, and winked at her. “Where’s yer dog?”