“I thought Russians peddled vodka,” Dirk injected himself into the conversation.
“Russian princes do not peddle,” Lykos told the earl.
“Forgive my poor choice of words, Your Highness,” Dirk apologized, his smile ingratiating.
“I forgive you, Dick.”
“Dirk.”
Blaze swallowed a bubble of laughter. She would bet her last penny the prince had purposely mispronounced the earl’s name, and she noted no permission granted to use his given name.
Three rivals vying for her attention could be amusing. She did not need to marry any of them, merely enjoy the bloodletting.
“Lykos is an interestin’ name,” Ross was saying. “Does it carry a special meanin’?”
“Lykos means wolf,” the prince answered.
“Ah, I understand the significance of your ring,” Blaze said.
“Shall we go down to dinner,” the duchess suggested.
Prince Lykos offered Blaze his arm. “I will escort you, my lady.”
“How kind.” Blaze accepted his arm but caught the marquis’s unhappy expression.
Her father did not appear pleased, either. In fact, he was giving his wife a hard look, and she responded with a vacuous smile.
Her stepmother was the least vacuous woman in the realm. The shrewdest of women, the duchess had more matchmaking tricks than the combined battle strategies of Wellington and Napoleon.
A rectangular mahogany table stood beneath a crystal chandelier in the center of the dining room. The footmen had laid eight place settings of the finest porcelain plates, crystal goblets, and shining silverware.
Tinker, the duke’s majordomo, awaited the signal to serve. With him stood two footmen.
“Ross, you are seated on my left,” the duchess instructed from her position at one end of the table, “and Lykos will sit on my right. Blaze take the chair on the marquis’s left between him and Alexander. Raven, sit between the prince and the earl.”
“Where do I sit?” the duke teased his wife.
“Dearest, you sit at the head of the table as usual.” The duchess signaled the majordomo.
Prince Lykos assisted Blaze into her chair. She glanced at the marquis, smiling at the prince.
“I will take good care of the lady,” Ross needled the other man.
Sitting beside the marquis was not Blaze’s preference. His close proximity disturbed her. She could almost feel the warmth of his body. Or was that her imagination? The good news was she need not stare into his fathomless dark eyes that seemed to see into her soul.
Blaze distracted herself by considering the seating arrangements. Flanking the duchess, Prince Lykos and Ross MacArthur were the honored guests, and placing her beside MacArthur meant the duchess favored the Scotsman. That puzzled her. She would have wagered the duchess was aiming for royalty.
Tinker and the footmen began serving dinner. When the majordomo set a bowl of springtime soup in front of her, Blaze felt a surge of relief. She could eat this first course of vegetables and broth. No creature’s flesh tainted the dish. Even the stock was made from vegetables.
Blaze dipped her spoon into the soup and lifted it to her lips. The broth tasted delicious, and the knowledge that no animals had died comforted her.
When she peeked at the marquis, her relaxation vanished. The man was watching her, the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Is something wrong?” she asked him.
MacArthur shook his head, his dark gaze drifting to her lips. “All is perfection, my lady.”
Was the marquis flirting with her? That was as surprising as his being favored by her stepmother. She wondered what the old vixen was planning.
Attitude, Blaze reminded herself, giving the marquis an ambiguous smile. “Close, my lord, but no one is perfect.”
Amusement shone from his dark eyes. “Almost perfection, then.”
Tinker poured wine into their goblets, leaving only Blaze’s empty. A footman appeared with a pitcher of lemon barley water.
“Ye dinna care for wine?” Ross asked, reaching for his goblet.
“I dislike spirits,” she answered.
Ross set his goblet on the table. “Tinker, I prefer lemon barley water.”
“Lemon barley water?” Prince Lykos echoed. “I will try that, too.”
“I love lemon barley water.” Dirk Stanley gestured to the majordomo. “We English consume too much alcohol, especially gin.”
Blaze looked from the marquis to the prince and then glanced at the earl. Were they so eager to please her? This contest to win her affection was becoming more amusing by the minute.
“Has there been an arrest for your jockey’s murder?” the earl asked the duke.
“Sadly, no.” Her father shook his head. “Blake will be investigating the incident.”
“I expect Constable Black in Newmarket tomorrow,” Alexander told them.
“Amadeus Black?” the earl echoed, paling by several shades.
Watching him, Blaze knew one thing for certain. Even innocent men trembled at the mention of London’s most illustrious constable.
Her ears prickled with the need to hear every word when the earl began discussing the racing season with her father. All her attention focused on their conversation, but she pretended to concentrate on her lemon barley water and soup.
“I will be placing better than last season’s third,” the earl was telling her father. “Emperor is running in the less prestigious races to practice for the Classic Three.”
“Emperor will never beat my colt,” her father replied. “Thor runs faster than Zeus did last year.”
“Pegasus beat Thor in the trial heats,” Blaze said, her pride evident. She caught her father’s gaze, adding, “I will cure her of that slight flaw.”
The flaw you failed to mention was left unspoken.
Her father cleared his throat. “I am glad to hear it, daughter.”
“Tell me about your thoroughbred,” Prince Lykos said.
“Pegasus is a white Arabian,” Blaze began, her pride evident in her voice.
“Ye mean gray,” Ross MacArthur corrected her.
“Pegasus is white,” Blaze repeated, noting the marquis’s smile.
“White horses are considered gray,” Ross told her.
“Pegasus is white,” Blaze insisted. “What color you consider her is unimportant.”
The marquis opened his mouth as if to speak, but the footmen removing the soup dishes interrupted whatever he would have said. Calf’s liver salad, the dinner’s second course, consisted of various kinds of greens and well-trimmed calf’s liver.
Blaze looked at her plate and then glanced across the table at Raven, who gave her an encouraging nod. Then she shifted her gaze to her stepmother. The duchess’s expression dared her to complain.
“Mmm, this looks delicious,” Blaze said to no one in particular.
“Cook does excel at calf’s liver,” the duchess remarked.
Blaze cut a sliver of liver into two minuscule pieces. Instead of eating the meat, she moved the pieces to the side and speared a lettuce leaf. She chewed the lettuce slowly and longer than necessary, trying to waste time until the third course arrived. Then she reached for her lemon barley water.
Peeking at their guests, Blaze noted that no one noticed her liver avoidance. She repeated this procedure again and again and again while conversations swirled around her.
“Jeez, lass, are ye eatin’ the liver or playin’ with it?”
All conversation ceased. All eyes shifted to Ross and Blaze, her complexion reddening.
“I am eating what I prefer,” Blaze answered, her irritation apparent in spite of her smile. “I suffer urticaria from certain foods.”
The Marquis of Awe raised his eyebrows at that, and Blaze could have sworn the corners of his lips twitched. She peeked at her stepmother and then her father. Both were staring at her in unmistakable surprise.
“Is that serious?” Dirk Stanley asked. “Or contagious?”
“The lady gets the hives,” Ross informed his stepbrother.
“Which foods cause that?”
“Meat, fish, and poultry,” she answered.
Dirk Stanley wore an expression of sympathy. “What a pity.”
“All those foods give ye the hives?” Ross asked, his expression incredulous. “No wonder yer no bigger than a mite.”
Blaze blushed, but Tinker rescued her from more embarrassing comments by instructing the footmen to serve the third course. Roasted duck with espagnole sauce, fricassee of turnips, and vegetable pie arrived next.
“Ye’d better set the turnip platter in front of the lady,” Ross told Tinker, making everyone smile.
Except the lady.
Blaze leveled a deadly look on the marquis, but he surprised her with an infectious grin. Though the joke was on her, she returned his irresistible smile.
“So, you own a white filly,” Prince Lykos said, catching her eye.
“My father gave me Pegasus,” Blaze told him, “and I intend to race her.”
“Colts possess more stamina,” Dirk said.
Blaze looked down the table at him and then wished she hadn’t. The earl was sucking on a duck bone, his perfect white teeth scraping its roasted flesh.
Nausea churned her belly. Fighting her revulsion, Blaze set her fork down and reached for the goblet of lemon barley water.
After taking a sip, she replied to the earl’s comment without looking at him. “Take my advice, my lord, and wager on my filly.”
“Blaze picked last season’s winners,” the duke boasted. “Her advice fattened my purse.”
“How did you divine the winners?” the earl asked her.
“Horses never lie,” she answered. “I asked them.”
Everyone laughed. Blaze peeked at her stepmother, whose expression resembled a woman with a pin stuck in her unmentionables.
“The lady doesna care to share her secrets,” Ross said, covering for her.
“Ladies are entitled to keep their secrets, Dick,” Prince Lykos agreed.
“Dirk, Your Highness.” The earl looked at her, gesturing with the duck bone in hand. “You should enter your filly in the filly-only races.”
Blaze blanched at the sight and dropped her gaze to her vegetable pie. “A filly can beat a colt, my lord.”
“Darling, a lady acknowledges a gentleman by looking at him when he speaks,” the duchess said, clearly irritated.
And a lady never corrects another’s behavior in public, Blaze thought, her expression mutinous. Raven was correct; she needed to be herself, no matter how outrageous others considered her.
“I apologize for my lapse in manners,” Blaze said, meeting the earl’s gaze, “but I dislike watching people suck on dead animal bones.”
The Duchess of Inverary gasped, and the Duke of Inverary covered his mouth though his shoulders shook with mirth. The others at the table could not suppress their laughter.
“That’s my girl,” the marquis whispered, leaning close. “Speak yer mind freely.”
Blaze froze at his nearness, his warm whisper against her ear creating a riot inside her belly. The marquis’s scent of mountain heather sent her senses reeling. She was torn between bolting off the chair and flattening herself against his hard, muscular body. Neither of which her stepmother would approve.
“Bone marrow is good for your health,” Dirk Stanley was saying, his easy smile making her feel guilty. “I will, however, refrain from sucking animal bones if you ride with me to the village tomorrow afternoon.”
“I would love to accompany you,” Blaze lied, “but I have already accepted Lord MacArthur’s invitation to tour his estate and stables.” She flicked a sidelong glance at the marquis and hoped he would not dispute her words.
Dirk Stanley cocked a blond brow at his stepbrother. “Alone?”
“Alexander and I will be joining them,” Raven spoke up. “Isn’t that so?”
“I can hardly wait to tour the marquis’s estate,” Alexander agreed.
“The estate belongs to his father,” the earl said.
“I own the thoroughbreds,” Ross said, “and ye arena invited to tag along.”
Blaze felt sorry for the man. “Come to tea another day.”
The earl’s expression brightened. “I would enjoy that.”
“What about me?” the prince asked.
Blaze sent him a flirtatious smile. “Your Highness—I mean, Lykos—you are welcome to tea every afternoon.”
When dinner ended, the ladies rose from their chairs to leave the gentlemen with their port. Ross MacArthur stood when they did.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he told the others, and followed the ladies into the corridor. “Yer Grace, I beg a private word with Blaze.”
The Duchess of Inverary nodded, her dimpled smile decidedly feline. “Take as long as you like.”
Blaze faced the marquis but dared not meet his black gaze. “Thank you for not contradicting me,” she told his chest.
“Look at my face.” When she did, the marquis warned her, “Ye’ll need to follow through on our outin’ lest Dirk discover the lie.”
“I will tour your estate if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, lass.”
“I’ve decided to accept your help with Pegasus,” Blaze told him.
He smiled with apparent satisfaction. “Ye’ve made a wise decision, lass.”
“That remains to be seen,” she said, wiping the smile off his face. “I’m meeting Rooney at the track in the morning.”
Ross nodded. “I’ve arranged everythin’.”
Blaze narrowed her gaze on him. “What do you mean?”
“Bobby Bender and I will be the other riders,” he answered.
“Bender is my father’s trainer,” she said. “He’ll squeal to my father.”
“Bobby willna say a word,” Ross assured her. “The other two would’ve spilled their guts to curry yer father’s favor.”
Blaze disliked the marquis controlling the situation. Pegasus was her filly and her responsibility. She was the boss, not he.
“Ye know, I thought ye didna like me.”
She arched a copper brow, assuming a haughty expression. “I don’t like you.”
Ross raised his brows. “Ye dinna mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“How much time do you have to listen?”
“Very funny, lass.”
Blaze gave him her sweetest smile. “Shall I begin with bossy and arrogant?”
His lips twitched. “Oh, that.”
“You disturb me,” she added.
“Thank ye for the praise.” Ross turned toward the dining room door. “I’m in dire need of whisky to wash the foul lemon taste from my mouth.”
“I thought you liked lemon barley water.”
“I lied.” He winked at her and then disappeared into the dining room.
Chapter Three
The bachelors were stealing her focus.
With her lips in a grim line, Blaze trudged across the lawn early the next morning on her way to the path leading to her father’s private track. Troubled thoughts had disturbed her sleep, her mind consumed with a newly discovered flaw.
Cowardice. She was a coward, no doubt about it.
Pleading a headache, Blaze had escaped the bachelors by retreating to her chamber and bolting the door against intruders. Locking the door had been a wise move. Later, her stepmother had knocked and called her name, but Blaze had jerked the coverlet over her head and pretended deafness.
She could return to the old Flambeau family home in Soho Square. Unfortunately, that would mean forgetting her dreams for the racing season and a refuge for unwanted animals.
In spite of a lack of sleep, Blaze felt her fighting spirit reviving. Would she allow three bachelors to send her scurrying back to London? Certainly not. She would string them along to keep her stepmother quiet. At least, until the racin
g season ended.
All three bachelors were wealthy, titled, and reasonably good-looking. Her stepmama would have barred the door against them if they hadn’t possessed those first two qualities.
Choosing a husband on the basis of prestige meant marrying Prince Lykos Kazanov, but his wanting to court her stretched the limits of credulity. For some unknown reason, Lykos wanted to irritate MacArthur and had chosen her as his instrument.
Dirk Stanley’s blond hair, green eyes, and angelic expression would win him the beauty contest. Blaze knew she could never marry a man prettier than she, nor could she erase the sickening sight of the earl sucking on the duck bone.
That left the Marquis of Awe. Marrying MacArthur would be almost as prestigious as marrying the prince. Though he lacked an angelic expression, the Scotsman possessed a ruggedly handsome masculinity. She could not envision herself marrying a bossy, arrogant man.
Blaze smiled at the idea of marrying the marquis. The peace would last less than two minutes. She could almost hear the sound of the crockery crashing.
The three bachelors were simply unacceptable. The next three paraded in front of her would not be any better. Nor would the following three.
Her plan to keep the bachelors dangling was stepmother-proof. Once the racing season ended, she would inform all three that she could not develop a fondness for them. Then she would steel herself for the meddling woman’s next parade of bachelors.
Chirping birds, aroused from their night’s sleep, awakened Blaze to her surroundings. The April morn was crisp, promising warmth once the sun rode high in the sky.
Blaze reached the end of the path. Morning fog clung like a lover to the open track.
Ross MacArthur, Bobby Bender, and Rooney huddled together and spoke in hushed conversation. Two chestnut horses and Pegasus stood nearby, the Arabian’s white coat creating the illusion of a mythical horse goddess.
The three men watched her approach. Greeting them with a nod, Blaze headed straight for Pegasus.
She stroked the filly’s face. Love Peg.
Me love, the thought popped into her mind, making her smile.
Walking back to the men, Blaze knew the marquis would not be easily controlled. She needed to assert her authority.
“Good morning.” Blaze looked at Bobby Bender. “You won’t mention this to my father?”
Marrying the Marquis Page 4