Marrying the Marquis

“Come here, lass.” Ross grabbed her hand and led her behind the trees lining the path. He smiled into her questioning gaze and gently drew her closer.

Blaze knew he was going to kiss her. And she was going to allow it.

His head dipped lower, his mouth inched closer, his breath mingled with hers. His lips were warm and firm, his kiss gently persuasive, his invitation subtle.

Accepting his invitation, Blaze pressed herself against him. Ross wrapped his arms around her body, and her hands slid up his chest to entwine his neck.

His mouth on hers sent delicious shivers down her spine. She sighed, surrendering to these new sensations.

The kiss deepened, demanding her response. She met his growing passion with equal fervor. The world faded away, leaving her alone in the universe with only this man…

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Newmarket, England

The duchess was giving her grief.

Blaze Flambeau crossed the bedchamber to the window overlooking the gardens. Her lips quirked in grudging admiration for her stepmother, a woman determined to reach her goals, not unlike herself.

Her Grace refused to accept that she planned never to marry, and discussing the situation with her father had not helped. He had shrugged at her complaint and explained that his dearest Roxie wanted everyone to marry and live as happily as she. Of course, as the duke’s second wife, his dearest Roxie had not been abandoned at home while her husband sired seven daughters on Gabrielle Flambeau, his long-time lover.

Blaze knew she would not feel differently once she had met—as her father insisted—the right man, her true love. What had love given her mother except heartache and seven daughters?

Scanning the world outside her window, Blaze spotted the gardeners performing their daily chores. She would need to wait before slipping outside to complete her task.

Blaze leaned against the windowsill, willing the gardeners to hurry, when the first stirrings of dread seeped into her consciousness. Her stepmother had invited several bachelors to dine with the family that evening, and nobody refused an invitation from the Duke and Duchess of Inverary.

Snoring from the bed intruded on her thoughts, drawing her attention. Puddles was lying in the middle of her bed, all four limbs outstretched. The brindled mastiff looked like he was sleeping off a seven-day drunk.

Blaze wandered across the room to the cheval mirror. Studying her reflection, she wondered how she appeared to gentlemen.

Gawd, she hated her freckles, and her red hair accentuated the sprinkling of dots across the bridge of her nose. Blushing diminished the tiny flaws, but she could not blush every minute of every day for the remainder of her life.

If only she had inherited the Flambeau black hair and flawless complexion. A Scots ancestor—Aunt Bedelia Campbell, her father said—had sent the riotous red hair and freckles through time and space to land on her, making her the cuckoo in the nest. The classic Flambeau beauty had even touched her own twin, who looked nothing like her.

What sane gentleman would offer for a redhaired, freckled-faced monkey?
Blaze asked herself.

A blind man
, came her honest answer,
or a man desiring a close connection with the influential Duke of Inverary.

She supposed her freckles did not matter, though. Attracting a husband did not appear on her list of priorities. Winning the thoroughbred races that season would give her the money to reach her goal. Or, at least, set her plan into motion.

And yet…A smile touched her lips when she recalled the handsome gentleman who had requested a dance at her sister’s wedding the previous year. Waltzing with the Marquis of Somewhere-Or-Other had made her feel almost pretty. At least for the dance’s duration.

The fond memory disappeared as quickly as it had come. The marquis had proceeded to dance with every female guest, no matter her age or appearance. Blaze could not fault the marquis for failing to request a second dance. She
had
stepped on his feet several times.

Gazing out the window again, Blaze noted the gardeners had finished their chores and gone. She grabbed the bulging sack stowed beside her bed.

“Outside, Puddles,” she called, heading for the door.

Awakened by the word
out
, the black-masked mastiff bolted off the bed. He trotted beside her down the corridor.

Blaze stopped at the next door and peered into her twin’s bedchamber. Working on ledgers, her sister sat at a table near the window.

“Bliss?”

“I’m too busy at the moment,” her sister said without looking up. “Ask someone else.”

Blaze closed the door. Her twin was always busy when she needed her assistance.

Continuing down the hall, Blaze paused at her sister Serena’s bedchamber and pressed her ear to the door. The sound of muted voices in conversation reached her. She opened the door. Apparently, Serena was posing for Sophia, her artistic identical twin.

Blaze cleared her throat. “Sisters?”

Both twins looked at her, their gazes dropping to the sack in her hands. “No,” they said simultaneously, and then giggled.

Blaze closed the door and walked the length of the corridor to her youngest sibling’s door. She raised her fist to knock but heard her sister’s voice.

“Come inside, Blaze.”

That made her smile. Raven always knew things in advance. She wondered if her sister could tell her how successful the thoroughbred racing season would prove.

Blaze stepped into her sister’s chamber. “Will you—?”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Raven interrupted, crossing the chamber, “but I am not digging.”

“I will bury the deceased.”

Raven smiled at that. “What if Her Grace catches you?”

“I’ll say I was simply playing an April Fool’s joke on her,” she answered.

“You are sneaky.”

Blaze gave her a sunshine smile. “Thank you for the compliment, sister.”

“Do you have a shovel?” Raven asked, following her into the hallway.

“I hid one behind the gazebo.” Blaze started to walk down the corridor to the main staircase.

Raven touched her arm. “Using the servants’ stairs will be more discreet.”

Blaze retraced her steps in the opposite direction. “You are almost as sneaky as I am.”

Raven threw her arm across her shoulders in camaraderie. “Sneakiness must run in our family.”

“Did we inherit our sneakiness from the Flambeaus or the Campbells?”

“Both, probably.”

Hurrying down the back stairs to the garden door, Blaze and Raven stepped into an unseasonably warm April afternoon. They walked through the formal gardens and passed the maze’s clipped hedges. Ahead of them stretched an expanse of manicured lawns and then the woodland, the white gazebo standing guard between the two.

Birdsong wafted through the air, catching Blaze’s attention. She looked up at the sky. High, thin clouds diluted its blue brilliance, and a hawk was gliding on a breeze while searching for its next meal.

Walking around the gazebo, Blaze grabbed the shovel and returned to where Raven sat on the structure’s top step. Puddles dashed around, enjoying his freedom like a felon released from Newgate.

With her right foot on the shovel, Blaze used her weight to lift the top layer of grass and gently set it aside. She repeated this again and again until she had the width and the length of the hole she wanted to dig.

“Life seems different with Fancy and Belle married,” Blaze said as she worked. “You will be gone, too, in a couple of months.”

“I may need to postpone the wedding,” Raven told her.

Blaze stopped digging. “Why is that?”

“I feel one of my sisters may need to use the wedding plans for herself.”

“Which sister?” Blaze asked, her blue gaze narrowing.

“I don’t know everything,” Raven said. “Why are you setting the grass aside?”

“Once the hole is filled,” she answered, “I will replace the grass, and no one will notice the grave.”

“That
is
sneaky,” Raven said. “Alex will be arriving in Newmarket this afternoon.”

“Are he and the constable investigating the jockey’s murder?” Blaze asked, glancing at her.

“I suppose so, but they will be staying at his grandfather’s estate,” her sister answered. “Alex may be following the thoroughbreds when they leave Newmarket if the crime remains unsolved.”

Blaze fixed her thoughts on her own thoroughbred, a gift from her father, and the filly’s success during the racing season. She wanted to ask her sister if Pegasus would win but feared the answer.

“You will experience joy, sadness, and surprise,” Raven said, her smile ambiguous.

“Do you mean Pegasus will win?” Her digging forgotten for the moment, Blaze sat beside her sister.

“Your filly will beat the others,” Raven answered, “but she must overcome a slight problem first.”

Her comment surprised Blaze. “What is the problem?”

“I don’t know, but you will find the solution to it.”

Blaze smiled at the encouraging words. “Pegasus loves running.”

“Doesn’t winning require strategy, too?”

Blaze considered the question. She hadn’t thought about strategy in terms of horse racing. “I will speak to Rooney,” she said, referring to her jockey.

“Wait until he’s sober,” Raven advised her.

“Rooney promised me no drinking during the season.” Blaze rose from her perch and resumed digging. “Her Grace invited several bachelors to dinner this evening.”

“Stepmama has invited three bachelors,” Raven told her.

“That takes care of Bliss, Serena, and Sophia,” Blaze said, her mood brightening. For the first time in her life, she enjoyed being overlooked. “Perhaps the duchess has accepted my preference for remaining unmarried.”

“If I were you,” Raven said, “I wouldn’t wager on that. Why don’t you want to marry?”

Blaze tossed a shovelful of dirt aside and then looked her sister in the eye. “Testicles cause trouble.”

Raven laughed at that. “Sister, all three bachelors have been invited to meet you.”

“Me?” Blaze stopped digging to brush a wisp of fiery hair away from her face. “That woman will not rest until she marries me off. I don’t think she likes me.”

“Stepmama is giving you a choice,” Raven told her. “That means she likes you best.”

“What if I don’t want anyone?”

“That is
not
one of your choices.” Raven smiled, adding, “Her Grace possesses a wealth of knowledge for living with troublesome testicles.”

“Have you been following her advice?”

Her sister nodded. “I am becoming adept at confounding Alex.”

“I should speak to Her Grace before the Jockey Club Ball,” Blaze said, and then a troubling thought stepped from the shadows of her mind. “What if none of those bachelors interests me? What if I don’t interest them? What if one interests me, but I do not interest him?”

“You think too much,” Raven said. “Relax and enjoy the competition for your affections.”

“Humph, Bliss says I do not think at all.” Blaze tossed another shovelful of dirt aside. “The man I marry should love me even if I were not the Duke of Inverary’s daughter, but how will I know which gentleman is sincere?”

“You will know in your heart.”

“Gawd, you sound like Papa.”

“Miss Raven.”

Both sisters turned at the call and spied Tinker, the duke’s majordomo, hurrying toward them.

“The Marquis of Basildon has arrived,” Tinker announced, reaching them.

“Thank you, Tinker.” Raven rose from her perch on the stair. “Tell the marquis I will be along shortly.”

“Yes, Miss Raven.” Tinker turned to walk away but paused, his gaze shifting from Blaze to the shovel in her hand and the hole.

“You did not see me digging this hole,” she said.

The man’s lips twitched. “I have not seen you all afternoon, Miss Blaze.”

“Thank you, Tinker.”

“You are very welcome.” The majordomo started across the lawn toward the mansion.

Blaze looked at her sister. “How will you confound Alex today?”

“I will take the long way round,” Raven answered. “Walking slowly, of course. I believe that will set the tone for his visit. I would never want him to think I had been waiting for him.”

“Were you waiting for him?”

“Yes.” With that, Raven walked away.

Blaze patted her dog’s massive head. “Good boy, Puddles.” Then she resumed her digging, pressing the shovel into the dirt with her foot before scooping it up and tossing it aside.

A sudden chill danced down her spine, and an uncanny feeling of being watched seeped into her senses. She could almost feel someone’s gaze on her.

Blaze stilled, her gaze drifting to the mastiff lying relaxed in the sunshine. Which meant there was no imminent danger.

Nevertheless, Blaze could not shake the feeling. She scanned the woodland behind the gazebo but saw nothing. Then she whirled around to scan the lawns and formal garden. No one was lurking about.

Blaze lifted her gaze to the mansion’s windows and caught movement in one of the second-floor rooms. That would be her father’s office.

Damn, damn, damn. Trouble had found her again.

Blaze knew she would be getting another lecture from her father and stepmother on proper deportment. Digging in the dirt would never be considered a ladylike pursuit.

And then she smiled. Thank God for those bachelors. If they arrived early, the bachelors could save her from a dressing down.

What the hell is she doing?

Ross MacArthur, the Marquis of Awe, stood at the duke’s office window and watched the petite redhead digging his kinsman’s manicured lawns. He’d never seen a gardening girl, never mind one bent on ruining a fine lawn.

The marquis admired the girl’s fiery hair glinting in the afternoon’s sun. A smile touched his lips when she bent over to scoop another shovelful of dirt, offering him the sight of her backside’s delightful shape in the light gown she wore.

When the girl looked over her shoulder, Ross scanned the area. He wanted to see what had distracted her, but the gardens appeared deserted.

Resuming her task, the gardening girl tossed another shovelful of dirt. A moment later, she paused again, this time facing the mansion.

Ross guessed the girl felt watched. She stood motionless, staring at the mansion, and he knew her gaze was traveling from window to window.

“Come here, Ross,” the Duke of Inverary beckoned him. “I want to test your whisky knowledge.”

“Ye pour the whisky into a glass and drink it,” Ross said, turning away from the window, his dark gaze on his kinsman. “What more do I need to know?”

Ross smiled at the duke’s irritated expression. Heavily invested in the business, the duke and his own father believed whisky akin to chalice wine.

“Never joke about whisky or horses,” the Duke of Inverary warned him.

Sauntering across the office, Ross dropped into a chair in front of the desk. Five chunky glasses, each containing a measure of whisky, stood in a line on the desk.