Marrying the Marquis

by Patricia Grasso

  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.

  “This was my mother’s wedding ring,” Ross told her. “I thought ye could wear this until yer betrothal ring is finished. If the notion appeals to ye, I would be pleased if we used my mother’s ring for yer wedding band.”

  “You honor me with your mother’s ring,” Blaze said, looking from the diamonds to his black eyes. “I will cherish it always.”

  Ross leaned close and planted a chaste kiss on her lips. “Yer blushin’, lass.”

  “We need a toast.” The Duke of Inverary set three crystal tumblers on his desk and poured a measure of whisky into each. “This has been aged eighteen years.”

  Ross raised his glass. “I salute my bride, only a bit older than the whisky.” He sipped the amber liquid and then set the tumbler on the desk. “I’ve another gift for ye, but we must go outside.”

  The four stood and left the office, stopping at the drawing room to show her stepmother and Celeste MacArthur the betrothal ring. “What an exquisite ring,” the Duchess of Inverary gushed. “Don’t you agree, Celeste?”

  “Yes.” Celeste MacArthur looked like she’d sucked a lemon.

  “The ring belonged to Ross’s mother,” Blaze told them. “I’m wearing it until my betrothal ring is finished, and then I’ll wear this as my wedding ring.”

  “Family heirlooms carry more meaning,” the duchess said. “I love diamonds almost as much as my husband.”

  “Thank you for that, dearest,” the Duke of Inverary said, smiling. “I’ve always wondered which of us—diamonds or me—you loved best.”

  “Magnus, you are a rare jewel among men.”

  Ross escorted Blaze out of the drawing room. They walked down the stairs to the foyer.

  “Congratulations, my lord,” Tinker said, opening the door. “Best wishes, Miss Blaze.”

  “Thank you, Tinker.”

  “Brace yerself.” Ross placed the palm of his hand on her back and ushered her outside.

  A Campbell groom held the reins of a donkey. Wearing a puzzled smile, Blaze approached the animal.

  The brown donkey had long ears and an erect mane. A dark stripe ran along its back, and another crossed over the shoulders. Dark stripes banded its legs.

  “I want ye to meet yer animal sanctuary’s first guest,” Ross said. “I caught two boys beatin’ the beast and knew ye’d want me to rescue him.”

  The donkey stood statue-still, allowing Blaze to stroke its head. “You poor, poor donkey,” she cooed.

  “I named him Beau.”

  Blaze smiled. “I like Beau.”

  “Beau is his nickname,” Ross said. “His full name is Flambeau.”

  “Flambeau?” she echoed.

  “His stubbornness reminded me of ye.” Unexpectedly, Beau erupted into braying hee-haws. “What did he say?”

  Blaze looked at him, her expression deadpan. “Beau said hee-haw.”

  Pegasus was poised to gallop into horse-racing legend, the filly that flew as fast as mythology’s winged horse. Excitement grew in Newmarket each passing day, and the Jockey Club basked in the filly’s glory.

  Blaze could not suppress her own excitement. Winning the Second Spring meant Pegasus would run in the Epsom Derby, the first of the Classic Races.

  Race day dawned sunny, nary a cloud marring a brilliant blue sky. A fast track, no rain interfering with legends.

  All classes of people crowded the grandstands and surrounding areas, maneuvering for the best place to see the race. The spectators were unusually noisy, extreme agitation raising voices.

  Blaze loved the track’s scents. Ladies’ perfumes and musky horses mingled with hay and dung.

  “Dinna fret,” Ross said, escorting her across the paddock. “Yer sister predicted Pegasus would win.”

  Blaze greeted Pegasus in the usual way. Love Peg.

  Me love.

  Peg run?

  Run, run, run.

  “I’ll connect with Peg,” Blaze told Rooney, “but if you can take the early lead, no one will catch you.”

  The bell rang, and Bender gave Rooney a leg up on Pegasus. The jockey passed her the whip, saying, “I’ll see you in the winner’s circle.”

  Ross and Blaze walked in the direction of the grandstands. Instead of going to the Duke of Inverary’s reserved area, they stood near the start line. Only a wooden fence separated them from the horses.

  The crowd cheered as the first thoroughbreds appeared on the track. Rooney and Pegasus came into view, and the grandstands reverberated with shouts, whistles, and chants.

  Blaze ignored the pandemonium. She kept her gaze on the official holding the flag. And then the flag dropped.

  Peg run.

  Run, run, run.

  Pegasus and Ro
oney bolted off the start line to take the early lead, and Blaze knew no horse could catch her. Pegasus lengthened her lead, racing against herself, galloping into legend.

  The filly led by fifteen lengths at the half-way mark. Her pace increased. The three-quarter point saw her lead at twenty-five lengths.

  And then the filly connected with Blaze, slamming into her consciousness.

  Run, run, run. Hurt, hurt, hurt. Run—

  “Stop the race,” Blaze shouted, already moving to enter the track. “Rooney, stop running.”

  Ross looked at her. She was yanking her hand out of his grasp, but he pulled her back. “What’re ye doin’?”

  Desperate to reach her horse, Blaze smashed her fist into his cheek. Striking hard. Hard enough to snap his head to the side. Hard enough to loosen his hold.

  Blaze slipped through the track gate. She ran down the Rowley Mile after the thoroughbreds.

  Wrapping his mind around what was happening wasted several seconds. Screaming like a madwoman, his bride-to-be was chasing the thoroughbreds down the Rowley Mile.

  And then he understood.

  Ross leaped over the fence and chased her. Reaching her side, he grabbed her hand and ran with her.

  The last judge raised the Campbell colors, signifying the filly’s win. The crowd in the grandstands cheered and then gradually quieted. Seeing the Marquis of Awe and the Duke of Inverary’s daughter running down the track shocked them into silence.

  Ross was almost dragging Blaze by the time they reached the Devil’s Ditch. The two raced down the incline and struggled up the other side.

  Pegasus lay on her side. With tears streaming down his face, Rooney knelt beside the fallen horse.

  “No!” Blaze fell to her knees beside the struggling filly.

  “Tell Peg to lie still.” Ross watched Blaze lean closer, her lips moving silently, and the filly calmed.

  “I dunno what happened,” Rooney said, a sob catching in his throat. “We crossed the finish line first, and then she dropped.”

  Crouching beside Blaze, Ross scanned the growing crowd around the filly. The Duke of Inverary and Bobby Bender managed to cut through the throng.

  Bender knelt beside Pegasus and gingerly examined her for any obvious injuries. He looked over his shoulder at the duke. “She broke both front carpal joints.”

  “What is that?” Blaze asked.

  “Pegasus broke both front knees,” Ross answered.

  “You can fix them, Bender,” Blaze said. “Can’t you? People break their legs all the time.”

  Bender turned his head away. The trainer’s throat was bobbing as the man tried to swallow raw emotion before speaking.

  “Bender?”

  Ross heard the fear in Blaze’s voice.

  The trainer looked at the Duke of Inverary. “We need to put her down.”

  “Pegasus is not dying today,” Blaze told them, a river of tears streaming down her cheeks. “Bender, I demand you fix her.” She looked at her father. “Papa, we don’t put people down.”

  The Duke of Inverary cleared his throat. “Pegasus cannot stand on broken knees, and lying down will kill her slowly.”

  “We’ll make a body sling to hoist her up,” Blaze said in desperation. “That will keep her standing and her front legs off the floor until they mend.”

  The Duke of Inverary shifted his gaze to Ross, his eyes pleading for help.

  “Ye love Pegasus and dinna want her to suffer,” Ross said, his tone gentle, his arm around her. “Do ye love Peg enough to let her go?”

  Blaze bowed her head and sobbed, a gut-wrenching howl of pain that Ross hoped never to hear again. He’d never seen a body wracked with sobs, but he did now.

  A Jockey Club official handed the Duke of Inverary a pistol. The duke shook his head and passed the pistol to the trainer.

  His expression grim, Bender moved around to the filly’s head. He looked at Ross and nodded.

  In a flash of movement, Ross lifted Blaze away from the horse and backed away. He held her tight, her face pressed against his chest. Her body jerked at the sound of the pistol shot.

  Blaze broke free and dropped to her knees beside the dead filly. She stroked her horse and wept.

  Ross knelt beside her and prayed he would never witness such misery again. He put a comforting arm around her shoulders but said nothing. There was nothing to say. No words could console her.

  The Duke of Inverary cleared his throat. “Come away, Blaze. Let the workers dispose—”

  Ross leveled a deadly look on his future father-in-law, silencing him. “Let her grieve, Yer Grace.”

  The Duke of Inverary nodded and walked away. Bobby Bender handed the official the pistol and followed his employer.

  Hours passed, the sun never pausing its westward journey to mourn the filly’s untimely death. The curious onlookers faded away, leaving the woman to grieve in privacy. The grandstand emptied, the day’s remaining races postponed.

  Only Blaze, Ross, and Rooney knelt beside the fallen horse. Eventually, the horse grew cold and the tears were spent.

  “Blaze?” Ross thought she might have cried herself to sleep. “We need to leave Pegasus and let the staff—”

  Ross winced when she looked at him. Her eyes had swollen into slits. She held her hand out and stood with his assistance.

  “Burn Pegasus.” A steely determination had entered her voice. “No man or animal will feed on her flesh.”

  “I’ll give the staff yer instructions,” Ross said.

  “Burn Pegasus now.”

  Ross studied her grim expression and knew Blaze would never budge until the filly was ashes. He crossed the short distance to the waiting Jockey Club staff. “Miss Flambeau wants her horse burned. Fetch whatever ye need.”

  “My lord, we always—”

  “Always doesna mean this time,” Ross interrupted, passing each worker a gold sovereign. “Miss Flambeau willna leave until it’s done.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Within twenty minutes, kindling covered Pegasus. Ross lit a torch and tossed it on the filly.

  Blaze watched Pegasus burn. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks, but the heart-wrenching sobs were silenced. She refused a handkerchief when the stench of burning horseflesh permeated the area.

  “Raven was right,” Blaze murmured. “Pegasus won the race.”

  Chapter Twelve

  She had never imagined or even wanted a wedding day.

  On the first day of June, Blaze stood in the back of St. Agnes Church and prepared to marry the Marquis of Awe. The guests were seated, the groom awaited, and two violins were playing in the choir loft.

  Blaze felt like a princess in a cream-colored satin gown adorned with hundreds of seed pearls. The form-fitting bodice had a squared neckline and a dropped waist. The long sleeves formed a bell shape at her wrist. She carried a bouquet of fragrant orange blossoms. Much to her stepmother’s chagrin, the fashionable bride ended there.

  Blaze had insisted she was who she was. She’d already created two scandals, jockeying a thoroughbred and chasing the thoroughbreds down the length of the Rowley Mile. Creating a flurry of gossip seemed insignificant.

  Refusing a veil, Blaze had left her head uncovered, her fiery mane cascading down her back almost to her waist. The duchess had loaned her a jeweled tiara.

  “You sired seven lovely daughters,” the Duchess of Inverary told her husband, “but their taste in fashionable coiffeur leaves much to be desired.”

  “Roxie, my daughters are setting the trends,” the Duke of Inverary teased her.

  The duchess’s dimpled smile appeared. “I suppose the coming year will see an abundance of brides leaving their hair loose and wearing tiaras.” She turned to the four unmarried Flambeau sisters. “Come, my darlings. The guests are waiting for our entrance.”

  The Duchess of Inverary led her charges down the aisle. Like a queen, the duchess nodded at family, friends, and foes.

  Only Raven lingered behind. “Something
borrowed?”

  Blaze pointed to her tiara.

  “Something blue?”

  Blaze lifted one side of the gown to show her blue garter.

  “Something old?”

  Blaze slid one of her sleeves up to show their mother’s butterfly bracelet.

  “Something new?”

  Blaze held her right hand out showing her betrothal ring, a butterfly created with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. Ross had commissioned the betrothal ring, and she would wear his mother’s wedding band as her own.

  “You have been wanting to ask me a question,” Raven said. “The answer is I sensed Peg’s win, not her death. I would have warned you if I had known.”

  “Thank you.”

  Raven turned away to follow her stepmother and sisters to the front pew.

  Gazing down the aisle, Blaze noted the seated guests and the white flowers decorating the front of the church. Flickering candles cast dancing shadows on the walls and sunbeams streamed through two stained-glass windows.

  God did not dwell in this house of worship. Why would He hide inside four walls when He could walk the earth and enjoy His wondrous creations?

  “God isn’t here,” Blaze whispered.

  “I know,” her father said, “but please do not mention that to the clergy.”

  “Papa?”

  “We’ll speak later,” the duke said, looping her hand through the crook of his arm. “Ross is fidgeting like a ten-year-old at the altar.”

  Blaze giggled at that, and two hundred guests turned in unison to look over their shoulders at her. Her father started forward, forcing her to step with him.

  Elevating her status seemed incredibly easy. One moment she was an illegitimate miss, albeit acknowledged. A few words magically transformed her into a marquise and a future duchess.

  Only one tiny thing marred the short ceremony. Blaze could feel the witch’s basilisk stare on her back. A confrontation seemed inevitable.

  Smiling, Ross turned to her at the end of the ceremony. He lifted her hands to his lips, his gaze telling her that all would be well.

  “Are ye ready to begin yer life as my wife?” he whispered, leaning close to plant a chaste kiss on her lips.