Marrying the Marquis

by Patricia Grasso

  The duke smiled at the correct answer. “How is your father?”

  “Da, Stepmama, and the Feathered Flock will be arrivin’ in Newmarket before the Jockey Club Ball,” Ross answered.

  “What is the Feathered Flock?”

  “My sister and stepsister will be bringin’ Drucilla Gordon, Catriona Calder, and Felicia Burns,” Ross told him. “I called them the Feathered Flock because they’re constantly preenin’ and twitterin’ like canaries.”

  “All women preen and twitter, especially wives and daughters of aristocrats,” Inverary said. “I recall your father was hoping for a match between you and the Gordon girl.”

  “My stepmother was pushin’ for a match between me and my stepsister,” Ross said, reaching for the second glass of whisky, “but I’ve no inclination to wed her or one of my sister’s friends.” He kept the liquid in his mouth a moment before swallowing. “Elegant and floral. Lowland whisky, no doubt.”

  The Duke of Inverary nodded at his answer. “I never hear your name attached to any ladies.”

  “I dinna trifle with maidens or marrieds.”

  “Do you keep a mistress?”

  The question gave Ross an unexpected jolt, putting him on guard. “Why do ye ask?”

  Inverary shrugged, his inscrutable smile appearing again. “Simple curiosity while passing time with my favorite cousin’s son.”

  Curiosity, my arse. Ross smelled a trap. Inverary had never been prone to idle curiosity. His duchess was another matter, though.

  “Where has Douglas Gordon been hiding himself lately?” Inverary asked, changing the subject.

  Ross relaxed again. “Dougie’s been delayed in London, confounded by this Seven Doves Company undercuttin’ his prices, but he’ll arrive in Newmarket before the Jockey Ball.”

  “I suppose you’ll be stayin’ with Gordon once this Feathered Flock perches at your home,” the duke said.

  Ross shook his head. “I keep rooms at the Rowley Lodge to escape the twitterers.”

  “Did you hear what happened to Charlie?”

  “I heard he’d been stabbed in a tavern brawl, God rest his soul,” Ross said, reaching for the third glass of whisky.

  “Thoroughbred racing’s best jockey would never have been involved in a brawl two weeks before the first race,” the duke said. “I’ve given Harry the nod to ride Thor.”

  “Perhaps Charlie was reluctantly drawn into the brawl.”

  “Someone murdered Charlie to prevent his winning me the Crown again this year,” Inverary said. “Alexander Blake is arriving today for the races and helping Constable Black investigate the murder. Hiring London’s most famous constable is costing me a fortune.”

  “Ye can afford it.” Ross sipped the whisky. “This spicy taste screams Campbeltown whisky.”

  The Duke of Inverary smiled. “You are three for three, lad.”

  “What’s this I heard aboot a monkey livin’ with ye?” Ross asked, resting his tongue before continuing the whisky tasting.

  “My daughter acquired a Capuchin monkey,” Inverary said, rolling his eyes. “Blaze inherited my aunt Bedelia’s affinity with animals. Did your father ever tell you stories about Aunt Bedelia?”

  “Ye mean the witch?” Ross asked, reaching for the fourth glass of whisky.

  “Bedelia was no witch,” the duke said, “but she did possess several unusual gifts, one of which was communing with animals.”

  Ross sipped the whisky, savoring its flavor. “Speyside whisky, soft and lovely but no Lowland lady.”

  “Correct again, lad.” Inverary continued his story, “Anyway, Blaze acquired Miss Giggles, but Roxie insisted the monkey needed to go.”

  Ross’s lips quirked in a barely suppressed smile at the duke’s predicament. “Monkeys are such wee, cute creatures.”

  “Do you know how a monkey expresses displeasure?”

  Ross shook his head.

  “The monkey tosses its feces,” the duke told him, “and Miss Giggles took an instant dislike to my wife’s good friend, Lady Althorpe.”

  Ross chuckled. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”

  “I needed to lose the monkey,” Inverary said, gesturing to the last glass of whisky, “or I would lose my wife. On the other hand, I’d lose my daughter if I used my pistol on it.”

  “How did ye solve the problem?” Ross sipped the whisky, the warmth of his tongue releasing its distinctive taste. “Peaty and smoky, this Islay has been aged better than fifteen years, I’d say.”

  The Duke of Inverary nodded his approval and then finished his story. “I sat Blaze down and explained that Giggles, being an adult female, needed a husband. Though it broke her heart, my daughter saw the sense in that and agreed to give Miss Giggles to the Tower Menagerie. I bought the monkey a husband, and the two recently became parents. Problem solved.”

  “Good thinkin’ on yer part,” Ross said. “Now, tell me what I’m worthy of.”

  “You are worthy to marry one of my daughters,” Inverary answered.

  Ross coughed and reached for a glass of whisky. He gulped a healthy swig and shuddered as the potent liquid burned a path to his stomach.

  “Russian princes are all very well,” the duke was saying, “but I aim for some of my girls to wed sturdy Scotsmen.”

  “I’m honored,” Ross hedged, “but our families dinna need another connection, ye and my father bein’ cousins and all.”

  “My wife has decided,” Inverary said, his gaze narrowing on the younger man. “Accept your fate, Ross. After all, you need to marry someone and get an heir.”

  “Which daughter does the duchess have in mind?”

  “Blaze.”

  “The animal communicator?”

  “You breed and race thoroughbreds,” the duke said, “and my Blaze added to the Inverary coffers by picking last year’s winners.”

  Ross slid his gaze to the Triple Crown trophies. “Did she ever pick a loser?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Ross knew he’d been hooked neater than any fish. “How does she do it?”

  “You will need to ask her.”

  “I will certainly enjoy meetin’ Blaze,” Ross said, trying to sound casual.

  “There is a minor problem,” Inverary warned him. “Blaze refuses to marry and intends to win enough money this racing season—I gave her a filly—to open a refuge for unwanted horses, dogs, and cats. Naturally, Roxie worries the girl will end a spinster.”

  “Yer daughter has ambition,” Ross said. “Which filly did ye give her?”

  “I gave her Pegasus,” the duke answered, “and Rooney will jockey her.”

  “Pegasus balks at goin’ through holes,” Ross said, “and Rooney is a drunkard. Ye’ve set yer daughter up for failure.”

  “Blaze needs to learn that horse racing can be a difficult and heartbreaking business,” the duke replied.

  “I dinna ken the reason ye keep Rooney on yer payroll,” Ross added.

  “My grandfather was his great-grandfather,” Inverary answered, “though Rooney hails from the illegitimate branch of the family.” The duke smiled, adding, “Rooney got Aunt Bedelia’s red hair, too, and could pass as my daughter’s brother. I thought you and Blaze could become acquainted under the guise of helping her.”

  “Mind ye, I amna agreein’ to marriage at this moment,” Ross said, “but I’m curious to know if yer plannin’ to force the lass down the aisle.”

  “Roxie insists on giving this daughter a choice,” the duke told him, “but she does favor you.”

  Ross loved nothing more than a challenge. “Who’s my competition?”

  “Prince Lykos Kazanov and Dirk Stanley have been invited to dine with us tonight.”

  “My stepbrother is a compulsive gambler.”

  “Roxie decided to give Blaze the choice of a prince, a marquis, and an earl,” the duke said, “but we don’t expect her to choose Dirk.”

  “I’ll be lookin’ forward to meetin’ the lass and my royal competition,” Ross sai
d, stretching his long legs out. The racing season could prove interesting as well as lucrative.

  “You’ll like her,” Inverary said. “My Blaze has a big heart along with a hot temper to match her fiery hair, which she also inherited from Bedelia Campbell.”

  Ross crossed the office to the window and gestured outside. “Is that Blaze?”

  The Duke of Inverary joined him there. “What is she doing to my lawn?”

  Blaze dropped the shovel and, opening a sack, pulled out a fur. Shaking her head, she folded the fur and placed it in the hole. Then she reached into the sack again, producing another fur.

  “Good God, she’s burying my wife’s fur coats.”

  Ross shouted with laughter, and the Duke of Inverary chuckled. Neither heard the door opening.

  “My lord, you were able to join us,” a woman said, by way of a greeting.

  Both men whirled around at the sound of the duchess’s voice. They stood with their backs against the window to block her view.

  “You gentlemen look guilty,” Roxie teased them, crossing the chamber. “What are you hiding?” The duchess peered out the window through the space between their bodies, the girl’s red hair catching her attention. “What is Blaze doing?”

  “I believe she’s buryin’ yer furs.”

  “Oh, dear God.” The duchess swooned at his words.

  Ross caught her before she dropped to the floor and, with the duke’s help, carried her to the sofa in front of the hearth. Inverary dropped on his knees beside his wife.

  “Send a maid to fetch hartshorn,” the duke instructed him, “and then go outside and save my wife’s furs.”

  Ross started for the door but paused halfway across the chamber. “Yer Grace, I’ll take the lass,” he said, smiling, and turned to leave. “If she’s agreeable to the match, that is.”

  “MacArthur wants to marry Blaze?” he heard the duchess exclaim in a surprisingly strong voice. “Even though the little witch is burying my furs?”

  “I daresay the lad wants to marry her because she’s burying your furs.”

  The door clicked shut behind Ross, but he’d heard the laughter in his kinsman’s voice. His conniving father must have told the duke how to pique his interest.

  Ross decided he would play along. After all, he was competing against a prince and an earl, a foreigner and a gambler. He enjoyed winning, and his stepbrother was inferior competition. The prince might give him a bit of trouble, but that would make winning so much sweeter.

  The lass would not prove a problem, but her dog was a monster. Wheedling a few treats from the cook would suit his purpose in keeping the dog sweet.

  Once armed with the dog’s favorite cinnamon cookies, Ross strolled across the duke’s lawns in the direction of the gazebo, his gaze fixed on the petite redhead’s backside as she bent over. His future bride had herself a fetching arse. True, she was no bigger than a mite, the perfect size for a jockey had she been born male.

  Lucky for him, the lass had been born female. That glorious red hair positively screamed stubborn determination. Life with her would never bore him.

  Ross recalled the dance they had shared at her sister’s wedding. Her small, perfectly proportioned breasts had enticed him. The fine sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her delicate nose had intrigued him, and he’d wondered if she sported freckles anywhere else on her body.

  He’d been tempted to seduce her that night, but no sane man trifled with Inverary’s daughters. Besides, seducing maidens and marrieds was dangerous in the extreme.

  Apparently, both Inverary and his own father wanted him to marry her. He would demolish the other two contenders and win the lass’s hand in marriage. By fair means or foul.

  Ross glanced at the mastiff, wagging its tail at his approach. No protection for her there.

  Standing with his hands on his hips, Ross willed her to turn around. She was muttering to the dog about the slaughter of animals and remained oblivious to his presence.

  “Drop the fur, lass.”

  Blaze gasped and whirled around. Surprise made her stumble back, but she managed to remain standing. Beside her, Puddles was wagging his tail like a conductor’s baton, which meant the mastiff sensed no danger.

  She recognized the intruder. They had waltzed together in dozens of her daydreams during the previous year. Now he stood in front of her.

  More than six feet tall, the Marquis of Somewhere was not a man easily forgotten. He reminded her of a warrior, his broad shoulders and tapered waist shown to best advantage in expensive clothing.

  His face was arrestingly handsome, his lips generously chiseled. The hint of a dimple on his chin softened the aura of ruggedness. His hair was blacker than a moonless midnight, his eyes gleaming black diamonds.

  Gawd, the Marquis of Somewhere reeked of masculinity.

  His expression irritated her, though. He was staring as if he’d never seen her before, never shared a dance at her sister’s wedding.

  That hurt.

  Blaze knew no one would consider her an acclaimed beauty, but no one would lose lunch by looking at her face. The insult rankled, demanding she repay him in kind.

  “Who are you?”

  “Ye wound me, lass.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Dinna ye recall us sharin’ a dance at yer sister’s weddin’?”

  Blaze tilted her head, studying his face, and then shrugged. “I cannot remember every gentleman who requests a dance.” A tightening of his lips told her she’d hit her mark.

  “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 t
wo 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.