Marrying the Marquis

by Patricia Grasso

  “I’ll take the fall if that happens,” Ross said.

  “Do you think Inverary cares I was following your orders?” Bender asked. “His Grace pays my salary, not you.”

  “Yer the best in the business,” Ross told him. “His Grace willna want to lose ye.”

  “Do you swear this is the last race she jockeys?” Bender asked.

  Ross smiled at the trainer and raised his right hand. “I give ye my solemn word.”

  Bender nodded, his reluctance apparent. So did Rooney.

  “Rain or shine, we’ll practice each mornin’,” Ross told them. “His Grace is hostin’ the Jockey Club Ball tonight. I dinna want any guest slippin’ into Peg’s stable.”

  Rooney led Pegasus toward the path to the stables. Bender followed with his own horse.

  “I thought ye wouldna show after last night,” Ross said. “I should’ve known ye wouldna falter.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Blaze told his chest, her complexion reddening. “I prefer not speaking about that.”

  “Look into my eyes.” When she did, Ross said, “Stop blushing. Only the guilty blush.”

  Blaze heard the smile in his voice. “Everyone blushes, but redheads are more susceptible.”

  “Men dinna blush.”

  “What hour does Juno visit the breeding barn?” Blaze asked him.

  “Trust me,” Ross said. “Even if yer father gave his permission, ye dinna want to witness this.”

  “The owner always witnesses the breeding,” she countered. “My father is old-fashioned about maidenly sensibilities.”

  “I’ll tell ye what happens,” Ross said, “and I’ll speak to yer father if ye still want to witness.”

  Blaze nodded. “Very well.”

  “Juno’s tail will be bandaged so it doesna interfere with the matin’,” Ross told her, “and she’ll be teased to get her in the mood.”

  Blaze felt her face heat with embarrassment. She didn’t stop him, though, because her duty as an owner required she know the procedure.

  “They put soft boots on her back feet and a huge leather collar around her neck to protect her from Zeus’s love bites,” Ross continued. “One man holds her left front leg up so she canna kick her back legs.”

  When he paused, she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “Please continue.” The marquis was smiling at her discomfort, which didn’t sit well with her.

  “After sniffin’ Juno, Zeus will rear up and land on her back,” Ross said. “The consummation time is short, maybe three or four thrusts to—”

  “Enough.”

  “Do ye still want to witness the act?”

  Blaze shook her head. “I trust you to represent me.”

  “Yer face is burnin’.” Lowering his head, Ross planted a chaste kiss on her lips. “We’ll leave the Ball after yer supper with the prince.”

  “I will not leave with you.”

  Ross mounted his horse. “Lyin’ is a terrible sin, darlin’.”

  “Sex without marriage is a worse sin,” Blaze countered.

  “Will ye marry me, then?”

  “If I accepted your proposal,” she said, her smile inscrutable, “you’d fall off that horse.”

  Blaze walked away, her dog at her side. He was watching her. She could feel his gaze on her backside. Losing an inner struggle, she glanced over her shoulder.

  He was smiling at her. “I’ll see ye tonight, darlin’.”

  Her beauty would never inspire love poems.

  Blaze stood in front of the cheval mirror for a final inspection before joining her sisters in the ballroom. If she wanted to hold the marquis’s attention, she needed to outshine the blond stepsister and every other maiden angling to catch a future duke.

  Her ice-blue gown had a squared neckline, fitted bodice, and off-the-shoulder sleeves. The gown’s ankle-length skirt allowed a peek at her silk stockings embroidered with butterflies.

  Blaze wore her coppery mane upswept, her mother’s jeweled butterfly hair clasp holding her hair in place. Several loose tendrils of fire accentuated her slender neck. She wore her mother’s gold choker and bracelet, both bearing jeweled butterflies, and carried a deep blue fan with a mother-of-pearl butterfly motif.

  Blaze frowned at her reflection. Outshining the other unmarried hopefuls would surely prove impossible.

  She needed blond hair.

  She needed an ivory complexion.

  She needed bigger breasts.

  Attitude means everything, Blaze recalled her sister’s advice.

  Staring at her reflection, Blaze lifted her nose into the air to practice her superior attitude. Tonight, she was the queen. Her red hair had become the latest rage, maidens secretly pined for a sprinkling of freckles across their noses, and Society’s fashionables considered big-breasted women vulgar cows.

  Blaze spied her long, white gloves on the bed. She paused for a mere second and then left her bedchamber. Tonight she was setting the trends and refused to follow any archaic rule like wearing gloves indoors.

  London’s elite filled the ballroom, only death keeping the socialites from attending an Inverary function. A four piece orchestra—cornet, piano, violin, cello—played at the top of the ballroom and served as background for cultured conversations, muted laughter, and air kisses.

  The ladies were gowned in a rainbow of colors. Priceless gems sparkled on every woman’s neck, arms, fingers, and ears. Their perfumes wafted through the ballroom, scenting the air like a lush garden.

  The gentlemen appeared more elegant by lack of color. Their black and white evening attire provided a stark background for their ladies’ flamboyant colors.

  “Shall I announce you, Miss Blaze?” asked the Inverary majordomo.

  “Only if you are contemplating leaving this life.”

  Tinker broke into a smile. “I believe your parents are standing at the far end of the ballroom.”

  “Thank you, Tinker.”

  Attitude, she reminded herself and took a deep, fortifying breath.

  Blaze joined the milling throng and skirted the dance floor. Several guests congratulated her on her thoroughbred’s victory. She acknowledged their good wishes with a smile.

  Her sisters looked beautiful, of course. Ebony-haired women could wear any color. Raven wore soft pink. Bliss, her own twin, wore celestial blue. Serena and Sophia wore gowns in jonquil and violet whisper.

  Catching the eye from a distance, the Duchess of Inverary wore a red gown and enough diamonds to blind a person. Diamond hair pins adorned her auburn hair, diamonds dangled from her earlobes, a gold and diamond collar circled her neck, and diamond rings sparkled on each finger.

  “Where are your gloves?” the duchess asked.

  “The gloves are lying across my bed,” Blaze told her, and caught her father’s smile.

  “Well-bred women wear long gloves in the evening,” her stepmother said. “You aren’t completely dressed without gloves.”

  “Who made that rule?” Blaze countered. “The glove makers?”

  Her father chuckled, earning a censorious glance from his wife. “Do not encourage her.” She looked at Blaze, saying, “I’ll send someone to fetch your gloves.”

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I intend to make bare arms the latest rage,” Blaze told her.

  “I hate these gloves,” Raven said, peeling hers off.

  “So do I.”

  “Me too.”

  “I don’t like them either.”

  In turn each of her sisters voiced their dissent and removed their gloves. Raven collected the gloves and tossed them on a nearby table.

  “Magnus, do something,” the duchess said.

  The Duke of Inverary was openly laughing at his daughters’ insurrection. “Roxie, you always say my girls should set the trends. I believe they’re learning from your example.”

  “How will they catch husbands if they don’t wear gloves?” the duchess snapped.

  “Catch
ing a husband does not depend on young ladies wearing gloves,” the duke replied, making his daughters laugh.

  The duchess’s dimpled smile appeared. “I suppose one gloveless evening will not ruin anyone’s reputation.”

  “Do you see Ross anywhere?” Blaze whispered to Raven.

  Her sister scanned the crowded ballroom and shook her head. “Here comes trouble.”

  “Good evening, Your Graces,” Celeste MacArthur greeted their group.

  Blaze watched her father shake hands with Ross’s father. Her gaze drifted to the two younger women with them, Amanda Stanley and a dark-haired beauty, Ross’s sister.

  “Good evening, Miss Blaze and Miss Raven,” Dirk Stanley greeted them. “I present my brother, Squire Chadwick Simmons.”

  Tall and well-built, Squire Simmons was easily one of the handsomest men in the ballroom. Like his siblings and mother, he had blond hair and green eyes but seemed more masculine and self-assured than his brother.

  “The Marquis of Awe,” Tinker announced, instantly claiming her attention.

  Dressed in formal attire, Ross MacArthur stood beside Tinker at the top of the stairs. His dark gaze scanned the ballroom until he found her.

  And then he smiled.

  She returned his smile.

  Holding her gaze captive, Ross descended the stairs and walked toward her. Blaze felt her heartbeat quickening and the butterflies winging in the pit of her belly.

  “Good evening, Miss Flambeau.” Ross bowed over her hand, his smile boyishly charming.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  He offered her his hand. “May I have this dance?”

  Blaze started to reach for his hand but—

  “Sorry, MacArthur.” Prince Lykos took her hand in his. “The lady promised me this dance.”

  The prince escorted her onto the dance floor, and she stepped into his arms. They swirled around and around the dance floor with the other couples, her gaze looking for the marquis each time they passed their group.

  “Your dancing is much improved since your sister’s wedding,” Lykos said.

  Blaze stepped on his foot. “Oops.”

  “I spoke too soon,” the prince said, smiling. “You could excel at the waltz if you focus on your partner instead of MacArthur.”

  “I am sorry, Your Highness.” Blaze blushed, mortified that he’d caught her interest in his rival.

  “The marquis is watching us, not dancing,” Lykos told her. “He appears unhappy about your dancing with me.”

  Prince Lykos returned her to her parents’ group when the music ended. Before Ross could reach her, Prince Gunter claimed her next.

  “I congratulate you on your horse’s success,” Gunter said, as they swirled in time with the other couples.

  “The Marquis of Awe helped train her,” Blaze told him. “Are you interested in thoroughbred racing?”

  Prince Gunter smiled. “Gambling on the races interests me.”

  Alexander insisted on the next dance. “How is your spying?” he asked, as soon as they walked onto the dance floor.

  “The marquis knows nothing,” she answered. “My sister regrets not supping with you.”

  That made him smile. Blaze had the feeling he wanted Raven to worry about his supper with the blonde.

  Squire Simmons claimed her next dance. Blaze wondered if she and the marquis would ever waltz together.

  “Congratulations on your filly’s win,” Chadwick said, stepping onto the dance floor and taking her into his arms.

  “Are you interested in thoroughbred racing,” Blaze asked, “or only gambling on the horses?”

  “Dirk and I own Emperor and several other horses together,” the squire answered.

  Blaze managed a polite smile but felt uneasy with the man. “Horse racing is an expensive hobby,” she said. “My father gifted me with Pegasus.”

  “My late wife was the only child of a wealthy merchant,” Chadwick told her, “and I inherited all that was his.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss and for prying,” Blaze said.

  “There’s no need to apologize.”

  Squire Simmons said all the right things and smiled when he should, but his green eyes were colder than his mother’s. There was a definite cruelty to his chiseled lips. The man probably envied his younger brother’s title.

  When the music ended, Blaze returned to her parents’ group. The Duke of Kilchurn claimed her before any young man.

  “I would love to dance with you,” the duke said, and escorted her onto the dance floor.

  James MacArthur waltzed with grace and confidence. Dancing with her lover’s father sapped her confidence, and she missed a step. Then she stepped on his foot.

  “I’m sorry,” the duke apologized. “I’m not very good at this.”

  Blaze gave him a rueful smile. “You aren’t a very good liar, either.”

  The Duke of Kilchurn laughed and escorted her off the dance floor, leading her to his son. “This young swain has been waiting to claim a dance.”

  Ross offered her his hand. Blaze accepted the invitation, stepping onto the dance floor and into his arms.

  The marquis moved with the ease and grace of a man who’d waltzed hundreds of times. Blaze moved with him, following his lead, focusing her attention on the man who held her in his arms.

  “Yer dancin’ has improved,” Ross teased her.

  “Prince Lykos said the same,” Blaze told him, “and then I stepped on his foot.”

  Ross drew her closer. “Perhaps the fault belongs to Kazanov’s poor lead, rather than yer dancin’.”

  “What a comforting thought,” Blaze said. “I do tend to battle for the lead.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Ross winked at her. “Have I told ye how beautiful ye look tonight?”

  Blaze blushed at his compliment. “No.”

  “For the rest of my life I’ll remember the way ye look tonight,” Ross said, his voice husky.

  “Our fathers are smiling at us,” she whispered, “but your stepmother is displeased.”

  “How can ye tell?” he asked. “Celeste wears that forbiddin’ expression more often than not.”

  “I can feel her deadly basilisk stare.”

  “Basilisk?” Ross laughed at that. The other couples cast curious looks in their direction as did the guests loitering around the dance floor.

  “Why aren’t you dancing with all the ladies?” Blaze asked him.

  “Yer the only lady I want in my arms,” Ross said. “We’ll leave after supper.”

  “I cannot leave with you,” she refused.

  “We’ll discuss yer objections after supper,” Ross said, and returned her to her parents.

  Blaze knew she was losing the battle. The marquis would never take no for an answer. She had never met a more arrogant, bossy, stubborn man.

  “We must speak privately,” Raven said, sidling up to her.

  “Shall we visit the withdrawing room?” Blaze asked.

  “Ladies may be resting there,” Raven answered. “Let’s get punch and then wander down the corridor.”

  Without a word to anyone, the sisters wended their way slowly around the perimeter of the ballroom toward the door. Refreshments were served in a room several doors down the corridor. There were tables and chairs positioned around the room and a long table laden with the crystal punch bowl, glasses, and light snacks.

  Raven ladled punch into one crystal glass and handed it to Blaze. Then she filled a glass for herself.

  Blaze sipped her punch. “Shall we sit at a table?”

  “We cannot chance eavesdroppers or interruptions,” Raven answered.

  “This sounds serious.” Blaze followed her sister out of the refreshment room, and they walked in the opposite direction from the ballroom. At the end of the hallway, they ducked into the servants’ staircase.

  “Look at my betrothal ring.” Raven held her left hand out. The star ruby had darkened to blood red, signifying the owner was endangered. “The legend has proven
true.”

  “Charlie’s murderer is standing in our ballroom,” Blaze whispered, and emptied her glass of punch. “We should tell Alex.”

  “He doesn’t believe in hocus-pocus,” Raven said. “I’ll tell him after supper, and we’ll make plans to review the guest list tomorrow.”

  “The ruby has narrowed the possible suspects,” Blaze said. “Now we have only two hundred suspects instead of everyone in Newmarket.”

  “I sense Dirk knows nothing,” Raven told her, “but Chadwick Simmons makes me uneasy. His lips are cruelly shaped.”

  “Celeste MacArthur makes me uneasy,” Blaze said. “Her look is more deadly than a basilisk.”

  Raven giggled, which made Blaze laugh. By unspoken agreement, the sisters retraced their steps down the hallway. They reached the ballroom just as the guests were beginning to go down for supper.

  Prince Lykos appeared and offered Blaze his arm. “Shall we go down, my lady?”

  “I am merely a miss,” she corrected him, slipping her arm through his.

  The long, rectangular dining table held a variety of tempting fare. The guests would serve themselves and then find a table in the dining room or one of the smaller salons on the first floor.

  “Tell me what appeals to you,” the prince said, “and I will fill a plate.”

  Blaze strolled down the length of the table, seeing few dishes to encourage her appetite. There were slices of roasted beef and chicken, baked kippers from Argyll, poached salmon, and the potted dishes—chicken, ham, shrimp. None of which she planned to sample. Ever.

  “I would like pickled gherkins, grilled mushrooms, and a scoop of potted cheese,” Blaze said, and then pointed to a greyish pate. “What is that?”

  “Beluga caviar,” Lykos answered. “Beluga is a Russian delicacy.”

  “I’ll try that, too.”

  The prince placed two small squares of black bread on her plate. Then he topped each with a dollop of caviar.

  “I would love another glass of the punch,” Blaze said.

  “Where is this punch?”

  Blaze pointed to the crystal bowl in the middle of the dining table. Lykos looked from the bowl to her and smiled. He passed her the plate and ladled the punch into a crystal glass.

  “Let us sit over there.” The prince ushered her toward a table and set the plate and the glass down. “Taste the Beluga and tell me your opinion.”