Marrying the Marquis

by Patricia Grasso

  The trainer shook his head. “My lips are locked.”

  “Good mornin’.” Ross slid his gaze from her freshly scrubbed face to her body. “What are ye wearin’?”

  Blaze glanced at her stableboy garb. She wore black breeches and a shirt topped by a leather jerkin for warmth. She’d woven her hair into one thick braid and tucked it beneath a cap.

  “I am wearing appropriate clothing,” she answered.

  “Well, ye make a bonny jockey.”

  “Thank you for the praise,” she said, echoing his words from the previous evening.

  Then Blaze became all business. She knew the trainer and the jockey would follow her orders. The marquis was an entirely different matter.

  “Mount your horses,” she said, “and show me this balking.”

  Ross MacArthur cocked a dark brow at her. “Are ye orderin’ me?” His tone challenged, not questioned.

  “I must see the balking in order to solve the problem,” Blaze said, evading a direct answer.

  The marquis did not budge. “I told ye I would solve the problem.”

  “Demonstrate the balking.” Blaze gave him an ambiguous smile. “Please.”

  “That’s better.” The marquis turned to the others. “Let’s show her.”

  MacArthur gave Rooney a leg up on Pegasus. Then he and the trainer mounted their own horses.

  “Give Bender and me a four or five length lead down track,” Ross instructed the jockey. “We’ll keep a hole between us.”

  Rooney nodded.

  “Wait.” Blaze approached the jockey and held her hand out. “Nobody uses a whip on my horse.”

  Rooney rolled his eyes at the other two men but passed her the whip.

  Ross called to Bender, “One, two, three, go.”

  The marquis and the trainer spurred their horses into action. Swishing and thudding, their horses galloped down track. When they were fifty feet from the line, Rooney and Pegasus started after them. Within mere seconds, the Arabian caught them but slowed near the hole. The filly refused to pass between the galloping horses.

  Slowing their mounts, the three men halted farther down track. They turned their horses in unison and returned to the start line.

  “I can see the problem,” Blaze began. “Perhaps if we—”

  Rooney ignored her, turning to the marquis. “Do you think blinders would work?”

  “I suppose blinders could help,” Ross said, and then looked at the trainer. “What do you say, Bobby?”

  Bender shook his head. “We tried blinders in her second race last year. She balked all the same.”

  Blaze did not like the way this was unfolding. She owned the filly, but the men were ignoring her.

  Sounding more confident than she felt, Blaze lifted the reins out of the jockey’s hands, telling them, “I can solve this problem once I know the source.”

  Blaze led the filly away, feeling the men’s gazes on her back. They were smiling behind their hands at her foolishness, but she would make them believers before the season ended.

  Love Peg, Blaze thought, stroking the filly’s face.

  Me love.

  Peg run between horses?

  Lonely. Scared.

  Seeking to comfort, Blaze put her arm around the filly’s neck and pressed her face against her cheek. Then she led the filly back to the watching men.

  “Dinna kiss me until ye wash yer face,” Ross teased her.

  “I would rather kiss a frog,” Blaze said, remembering to give him a serene smile. “Perhaps the frog would turn into a Russian prince?”

  That wiped the smile off the Scotsman’s face.

  Blaze shifted her gaze to the trainer and the jockey. “Peg feels lonely, which makes her afraid to go through the hole. She needs to feel the jockey is with her.”

  Bobby Bender and Rooney stared at her in openmouthed surprise. The marquis was not so polite.

  Ross shouted with laughter. “Horses canna feel lonely.”

  “What does it mean when a dog growls or bites?” Blaze asked, rounding on him, her hands on her hips.

  Ross rolled his eyes at the other men, making them smile. “Most likely, the dog is angry.”

  “And if the dog wags its tail?”

  “The mutt likes ye.”

  “How about a purring cat?”

  The marquis’s expression said he knew where her questions were leading. “The cat feels contented.”

  “If dogs and cats can feel anger, friendliness, and contentment,” Blaze said, “then a horse can feel lonely.”

  “Have it yer way, then.” He threw his hands up in feigned surrender. “Ye women always do.”

  “Try again,” Blaze ordered Rooney. “While you ride, reassure Peg that she’s not alone.”

  The three men mounted their horses while Blaze watched from the sideline. Again, the filly balked at passing through the hole.

  “Rooney isn’t connecting with her,” she told them. “Do it again, and I will try connecting with her from here.”

  Blaze leaned against the track’s fence. The three men lined their horses side by side, and then the marquis and the trainer spurred their mounts forward into a gallop. Rooney and Peg gave chase.

  Love Peg. Love Peg. Love Peg.

  Blaze chanted inside her mind, her lips moving with the repetitive thought.

  Peg through hole. Peg through hole. Peg through hole.

  Rooney reached the marquis and the trainer. Pegasus started through the hole but slowed at the last minute, allowing the other horses to pull ahead.

  Blaze closed her eyes in disappointment. Communicating from a distance was proving more difficult than she could have imagined. She did not doubt her eventual success, but weeks of practice would be needed.

  “Give it up,” Rooney said, dismounting. “Winning requires heart, not speed.”

  “Peg can do this,” Blaze insisted. “I’ll take her through the hole.”

  “Women do not jockey racehorses,” Rooney told her.

  “If you get on that horse,” Bender said, “your father will slit my throat.”

  In desperation, Blaze turned to the marquis. His expression was unreadable, but he wasn’t laughing anymore.

  “Raven insisted we will solve Peg’s problem.” A pleading note crept into her voice. “She said you would help us.”

  “How does your sister know we can solve the problem?” Rooney asked, drawing her attention.

  “Raven knows because…because she knows.”

  Ross struggled against the urge to laugh in her face. He could never have imagined how entertaining his future bride would be. Her pleading expression became glacial when he said nothing.

  By fair means or foul, Ross reminded himself. He aimed to persuade her into marriage even if it required dragging the damn filly through the hole.

  “I’ll give ye a leg up,” Ross said, gratified when her expression thawed into pleased surprise. He turned to the trainer. “I’ll shoulder the blame if she gets hurt. Rooney, ride my horse while I watch.”

  Ross cupped his hands together and hoisted Blaze up, admiring her derriere as she swung her leg over the horse and settled into the saddle.

  “Crouch low over Peg,” he instructed her. “Ye must connect with yer horse physically as well as mentally. A winnin’ jockey and horse become one. Ye ken?”

  Blaze gave him a smile that made rising early worth every minute of lost sleep. She nudged her horse forward to the start line.

  “Wait until they’re eight lengths ahead of ye,” Ross called.

  He kept his gaze fixed on Blaze. Her lips were moving in silent communion with the filly, who seemed to stand more confidently. Or was his imagination running wild? Horses did not feel confident or anything else.

  “One, two, three, go.”

  Bender and Rooney spurred their horses into action, galloping down track.

  “Go now, lass.”

  Blaze and Pegasus bolted away. The filly chased the two horses down track at an amazing speed. Blaze’
s lips never stopped moving as the filly ate the distance like a starving man at a feast.

  And then it happened. Pegasus flew through the hole between the two horses.

  “God’s balls, she did it,” Ross shouted.

  Blaze slowed the filly and turned toward the start line. He could see her smile even from this distance.

  Ross helped her off the horse. Before speaking, she paused to stroke the filly’s face. “Love Peg,” he heard her whisper.

  “Pegasus, I do believe ye’ll win a few races,” Ross said, patting the filly.

  “What good is Blaze taking her through the hole if Rooney will be riding?” Bobby Bender argued.

  Raising his brows, Ross looked at Blaze. His dark gaze demanded she answer the trainer.

  “We’ll practice every day,” Blaze said, “and Peg will learn to go through the hole while I guide her from the sidelines. Communicating from a distance takes practice.”

  “Time is short,” Rooney entered the argument. “Peg cannot learn by Monday.”

  Ross recognized the worry in Blaze’s eyes. To her credit, she managed a confident smile for the trainer and the jockey.

  Did the lass believe in miracles? Why would God grant her a miracle when so many others needed a miracle more than she?

  By fair means or foul.

  “Blaze will ride Pegasus in The Craven next Monday,” Ross announced, startling everyone.

  “I will?” Blaze looked flabbergasted.

  “I refuse to become an accomplice to this,” Bender said.

  “Bobby, ye need to go along to get along,” Ross said, giving the man an easy smile. “I’ll make it worth yer while and shoulder the blame.”

  “The Jockey Club will revoke your membership,” Bender warned him.

  “I’ve read the book,” Ross countered, “and I canna recall any specific rule banning female jockeys.”

  “Inverary will never permit his daughter to race.”

  “Bobby, ye worry too much aboot life’s little thin’s,” Ross told him. “Ye should be worryin’ aboot findin’ employment if ye dinna go along with me.”

  “I knew I should have stayed in bed this morning,” the trainer muttered.

  “They’ll disqualify her for being female,” Rooney argued, and the trainer bobbed his head in agreement. “She won’t even make the starting line.”

  “Both of ye sport red hair and freckles,” Ross said. “Once dressed for racin’, no one will suspect she isna ye.”

  “What about her”—Rooney dropped his gaze to her chest—“her you-know-what?”

  Ross laughed at Blaze’s blush. “She’ll bind them.” He looked straight into her blue eyes. “Give me an honest answer, lass. Do ye want to win enough to ride Peg if need be?”

  Blaze bobbed her head. “I’m game.”

  “Mind ye, this can only work at Newmarket,” Ross warned her. “When the horses move to Epsom, the other track willna allow deception. Ye’ll need to use the next two months trainin’ Peg to go through holes with Rooney.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ve a plan that can work.” Ross looked at the trainer. “Bobby, I’d be grateful if ye showed each mornin’ for practice and escorted the lass onto the track on race day. Ye dinna need to know more than that. If we’re caught, ye can claim ignorance.”

  “I’ll do it,” Bender agreed, and then walked away grumbling to himself.

  “Crush a large stash of Stinkin’ Billy,” Ross said, turning to the jockey. “Ye must carry some in yer pockets day and night. Smudge a bit of dirt on yer face each mornin’, and carry an empty flask of gin at all times.”

  “I know what you’re planning.” Rooney laughed, grasped Peg’s reins, and led the filly toward the stables.

  “What is this Billy?” Blaze asked him.

  “Stinkin’ Billy is the most foul smellin’ weed on earth,” Ross answered. “The stink keeps people away better than dung. Ye’ll need to carry it on race day.”

  “Why is it called Stinking Billy?”

  “We Highlanders named the weed after the Duke of Cumberland.”

  “Who is he?” Blaze looked confused. “Does my father know him?”

  “I keep forgettin’ how young and English ye are,” Ross said, touching her cheek. “I’ll tell ye the tale of Cumberland one day, but trust me on this. Dinna ask yer father aboot Cumberland lest ye arouse his suspicions.”

  “Why does Rooney need to carry a flask and smudge his face with dirt?” she asked him.

  “We want the whole of Newmarket to believe Rooney is drinkin’ again,” Ross answered. “Drinkin’ and stinkin’.”

  “You are sneaky.”

  “Thank ye for the high praise, darlin’.” Ross grabbed his horse’s reins. “Come on, and I’ll walk ye home.”

  “No, thank you.” Blaze gestured to her garb. “I need to sneak inside via the back door.”

  “Ye’ve a ways to go before ye reach my level of sneakiness,” Ross said. “I’ll see ye at two o’clock for our tour.”

  “I will count the minutes.”

  He winked at her. “See that ye do.”

  Why is the marquis courting me? Blaze wondered, inspecting herself in the cheval mirror.

  She doubted he was spying on Thor or Pegasus. Hercules, his own colt, was a formidable competitor. That left her father’s influence and fortune, neither of which he needed.

  With a critical eye, Blaze stared at her reflection. She wore a pale peach gown topped with a white cashmere shawl, its bottom edge embroidered with dainty peach blossoms.

  Turning around, Blaze glanced over her shoulder to see her backside. All seemed in order. Then she turned sideways and, not for the first time in her life, wished her bosom were more developed.

  Would the marquis try to kiss her? That disturbing possibility leaped into her mind. She needed to speak with her stepmother before leaving.

  Crossing the bedchamber, Blaze lifted the white hat with peach ribbons off the bed. She would carry her bonnet while seeking her stepmother’s advice and then ditch the hat in the foyer on the way out.

  Blaze met the majordomo on the second-floor landing. “Do you know Her Grace’s whereabouts?”

  “Their Graces are consulting in his office,” Tinker answered. “May I add how lovely you look, Miss Blaze.”

  “Thank you, Tinker.”

  Reaching her father’s office, Blaze lifted her hand to tap on the door. She hesitated, hearing her stepmother’s voice.

  “Magnus, please trust my strategy.” The duchess sounded exasperated. “I promise all will end as you desire.”

  Her father muttered a reply, his words inaudible. His tone did not sound especially happy.

  Blaze tapped on the door and then peered into the office. In an instant, her father and stepmother pasted smiles onto their faces. Had they been discussing her?

  “Come inside, darling.” Her stepmother beckoned her. “How beautiful you look for your outing.”

  “Thank you for noticing.” Blaze dropped into the chair beside her stepmother’s.

  Her father’s office was a bastion of masculinity. Sturdy oak furnishings and muted colors lent the room a somber atmosphere. No feminine frills distracted the eye or the mind from business dealings.

  Blaze fixed her gaze on her stepmother. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “I am trying to do right by you.” The duchess’s dimpled smile appeared. “Darling, marrying a wealthy gentleman means you can save more animals.”

  Blaze said nothing. Wealth did afford its owner freedom, a valuable commodity to a woman. Money meant doing as one pleased. Within reason, of course.

  “If you do not like the three gentlemen you met last night,” the duchess said, “I can introduce you to others.”

  Uh-oh. Her strategy for the racing season required pitting the marquis, the prince, and the earl against each other.

  “I am content for the moment.” Blaze practiced her serene smile on her stepmother. “Choosing a husband must be do
ne carefully.”

  The duchess gave her husband a triumphant smile. Her father looked suspicious, though.

  Blaze realized the trainer had been correct. Her father was not easily fooled, but she would give him something to worry about other than her sincerity.

  “What should I do if a gentleman tries to kiss me?” Blaze asked her stepmother.

  “Slap his face,” her father answered.

  The duchess gave her husband a pointed look. “Magnus, let me handle this.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “Kissing gentlemen is my expertise.”

  “What?”

  “You know what I mean,” the duchess said, and then turned to Blaze. “If you do not welcome his kiss, show him your cheek and step back a pace or two. If you do welcome it, simply allow him the kiss.”

  “No tongues,” the duke added.

  “Tongues?” Blaze echoed in confusion. “People kiss with their lips, don’t they?”

  “Yes, dearest, people use their lips for kissing,” the duchess said. “I hope that settles the matter for you.”

  “What should I do with my hands?” Blaze asked her.

  “No touching,” the duke ordered.

  “Ignore your father,” the duchess told her. “When you desire a gentleman’s kiss, your hands will do what comes naturally.”

  “Good God, I’ve got a headache,” the Duke of Inverary muttered, both hands holding his head.

  “Leave your father and his headache to me,” the duchess said, gesturing her out. “Enjoy your afternoon with the marquis.”

  Wondering about her father’s hands and tongues comments, Blaze crossed the chamber and opened the door. She heard her father asking in a loud voice, “Are Alex and Raven accompanying them?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the duchess said, and the door clicked shut.

  Blaze struggled against laughing at the anxiety she’d heard in her father’s voice. He didn’t know he had nothing to fear. She planned never to marry, nor would pregnancy trap her into marriage.

  When she reached the foyer, Tinker was opening the door for Ross MacArthur. Tall and broad-shouldered, the marquis cut an imposing figure in his perfectly tailored clothing.

  Her knees weakened at the sight of him. The damn butterflies had returned, winging inside her belly.