Marrying the Marquis (17 page)

An expression of horrified revulsion appeared on her face. Her hands flew to her throat. In desperation, she grabbed the crystal glass from his hand, gulping the punch in one long swig. Then she hiccupped.

“Are ye ill?”

“I needed the punch to wash the taste from my mouth.”

Ross smiled and glided a finger down her cheek. “The punch is spiked with champagne.”

Blaze giggled. “The punch tickled my throat going down.”

“Champagne will do that.” Ross stared at her upturned face, the invitation in her eyes.

Miss Blaze Flambeau was a delightful paradox. Innocence clung to her like a sensuous perfume, but she wasn’t above getting her hands dirty or mucking stables. The Highland blood pumping through her veins was apparent in this Flambeau.

“I want to know the reason yer sister is suppin’ with my stepbrothers,” Ross said, “and Alexander Blake is suppin’ with my stepsister.”

“They’re investigating Charlie’s murder.” The words slipped out before she could stop herself.

“Is Dirk a suspect?”

“Anyone who owns a thoroughbred is suspect.”

“Am
I
suspect?”

“Do you own a thoroughbred?”

“Blast it, Blaze,” Ross said. “I want to know what’s happenin’.”

“I know you are an innocent man,” Blaze said, “but you must pretend to know nothing.”

Ross narrowed his gaze on her.

“God gifted Raven with the ability to read events from holding objects,” Blaze began.

Ross laughed in her face. “I apologize, darlin’. Finish yer story.”

“Raven did a reading with Charlie’s gold ring,” Blaze continued. “She saw a night sky with a crescent moon. Draped across the moon was a MacArthur plaid and a dirk.”

“That isna evidence, and ye havena answered my question aboot tonight’s supper.”

“Alex and Raven are spying,” Blaze explained. “Befriending the Stanleys may give them important information.”

“Why isna anyone spyin’ on me?”

Blaze leaned close and stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “I am.”

Ross turned his head and captured her lips in a lingering kiss. “I didna realize bein’ investigated could feel so good.”

She gave him a coy smile. “Neither did I.”

“If I could see yer bedchamber,” Ross said in a husky voice, “I could imagine ye there when I’m lyin’ in my lonely bed at night.”

She brushed her lips across his cheek. “Only look?”

“Well, I’d love to touch.”

“Are all aristocrats as smooth as you?” Blaze asked, echoing his sister’s words.

“Sorry, darlin’ I’m the best of the lot.”

Blaze offered him her hand. “We’ll use the servants’ stairs.”

No one saw them scoot up the back stairs. The staff was busy in the kitchens, serving supper, or assisting the guests’ coachmen in the front courtyard.

Ross bolted the bedchamber door. He turned around slowly and smiled at her.

Blaze walked into his embrace, molding her body to his, drawing his head down to kiss him. She poured all of her passion into that single stirring kiss.

He unbuttoned the back of her gown, making his way from neckline to waist. Parting the sides, he caressed her delicate backbone with a finger.

Blaze purred at the sensation. A delicious chill danced down her spine, her body heated, and her nipples hardened in arousal.

Pushing the gown down, Ross let it pool at her feet while his warm lips touched the side of her throat. “Let’s go to bed,” he said, his voice hoarse with need.

Without embarrassment, Blaze crossed the chamber to the bed. She wore her lace and silk chemise, silk stockings, garters, and satin slippers.

Ross lifted the ice-blue gown off the floor and, following her across the room, tossed it onto the chaise near the hearth. When he faced her, desire gleamed in his dark eyes.

Holding her gaze captive, Ross undressed slowly. He removed his jacket and waistcoat, placing both on the chaise. Next were his cravat, shirt, and trousers.

Naked, Ross crossed the room and knelt in front of her. He slid his hands up her legs, pushing the silk and lace chemise up to reveal her thighs. After removing her garter, he rolled her stocking down her leg slowly. Then he did the same for her other leg.

Ross slid her chemise off her body and, pushing her down on the bed, lay on top of her. Blaze liked his hands on her body and his weight pressing her down.

He kissed her cheeks, eyelids, temples. Then his lips drifted down her throat.

Kneeling again, Ross cupped her breasts and whispered, “I love yer nipples.”

He dipped his head to lick and suck one pink-tipped peak and then the other. She wrapped her arms around him, holding his head against her breasts, savoring the throbbing in her lower regions.

His lips burned a trail from her breasts to her belly and beyond. He buried his face against the coppery curls at the juncture of her thighs.

Blaze rose up in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me.” Ross flashed her a smile, gently pressing her back on the bed.

“So said the Serpent to Eve in Paradise,” she murmured.

He kissed her inner thighs, his lips moving toward the center of her womanhood. When his tongue touched her swollen nub, Blaze arched against him and cried out as waves of pleasure surged through her.

Ross stood then, drawing her closer to the edge of the bed. He positioned himself, saying, “Wrap yer legs around my body.”

When she did, he thrust into her and—

Someone knocked on the door.

Blaze opened her eyes. Ross winked at her and withdrew from her moist heat.

Again came the knocking. “Are you there, Blaze?” The voice belonged to her stepmother.

“One moment,” Blaze called, placing a finger across her lips. She pointed at his clothing and the privacy screen in the corner. Blaze donned her robe while he gathered his garments and crossed the room.

Blaze threw the bolt and opened the door a crack. “What is it?”

“What took you so long?” the duchess asked her.

“I was sleeping.” Blaze feigned a yawn.

“Why is your door locked?”

“We have guests in the house.”

“Why did you leave the Ball?”

“The punch made me dizzy,” Blaze said, irritation tingeing her voice. “Are you practicing for the Spanish Inquisition?”

“Darling, you are so amusing.” Her stepmother gave her a feline smile. “Your father wants to speak with Ross MacArthur. Have you seen him?”

Blaze dropped her gaze to her bedrobe and then looked at her stepmother. “Apparently not.”

“The marquis and you disappeared during supper.”

Blaze heard the suspicion in her stepmother’s voice and pasted a serene smile on her face. “Shall I check under the bed?”

“No, thank you, darling.” The duchess’s dimpled smile appeared. “You have told me what I wanted to know.”

Three weeks of sensual nights at the Rowley Lodge and dawn practice at the track were ruining her health. She’d been queasy, tired, and cranky for the past week. She hoped the late nights and early mornings were making her feel poorly, the alternative too scandalous to consider.

“Ye dinna look well,” Ross said. “Rooney can jockey Pegasus today.”

“It’s too late to switch places.” Blaze recognized the concern in his dark eyes. “I’m tired but well enough to ride.”

Ross and Blaze sat inside his closed phaeton on the practice field at Newmarket Heath, as they’d done three weeks earlier.

The Rowley Mile lay beyond the heath, the grandstands rising near the start line. Waving in the gentle breeze, the Jockey Club flag beckoned Newmarket’s inhabitants to the races.

Gamblers, aristocrats, horse people, and country gentry mingled together near the grandstands. The second race of the season offered the public a chance to watch a filly make history by beating the colts a second time.

Blaze wore the same jockey attire. Her racing silk jacket sported the green, black, and blue Campbell colors. Her mane of red hair was hidden beneath the jacket’s matching cap. Light-weight riding boots covered the bottom of her breeches. Goggles dangled around her neck, and fingerless leather gloves covered her hands.

Digging in his leather satchel, Ross produced the packet of Stinking Billy and passed it to her. Blaze placed the cord over her head and slipped both beneath her jacket.

The stench assaulted her. Her hands flew to her throat, and she gagged dryly.

“Are ye ill?”

Blaze waved her hand. “I’m fine, momentary revulsion to the Stinking Billy.”

“Could ye swagger a bit on the way to the paddock?” Ross slashed mud streaks across her cheekbones. “I caught ye wigglin’ last time.”

“Here comes Rooney,” Blaze said, and they climbed out of the phaeton.

Rooney grinned and passed her the whip. “Good luck.”

“I’ll see you on the path.” Blaze gave them a thumbs up and started across the heath.

The closer Blaze walked to the spectators, the louder the noise. The cacophony of sounds—conversations, laughter, shouted oaths—could make a healthy body wish for deafness.

The groups of roughly dressed men were still entertaining themselves with cockfights. She needed to remind her father to speak with the Jockey Club about that.

“Here’s ya drink, guv.” The boy offered her a shot of whisky.

Without breaking stride, Blaze lifted the glass out of his hand. She tossed it down in one gulp and shuddered, the amber liquid burning a trail to her stomach.

The three jockeys who’d heckled Rooney at the last race appeared sullen. Looking straight ahead, Blaze walked past them.

“Hey, will ya look at that,” one jockey said, his voice loud.

“Rooney wiggles like a girl,” a second jockey said, making his friends laugh.

“He’ll be using his winnings to buy a new gown,” the third said.

The three losers wanted to get a rise out of Rooney so the officials would toss him out of the race. What would Rooney do at the insult to his manhood?

Blaze lifted her hand and again gave them her middle finger. She and Peg would make them eat dirt.

Arriving at the paddock, Blaze spied Bender at the far side. She raised her hand in greeting but walked to Pegasus first.
Love Peg
.

Me love
.

Peg run?

Run, run, run
.

Turning to the trainer, Blaze passed him the empty shot glass. Bender looked around and then pocketed the glass.

“Rooney?” The boy who’d delivered her whisky the last race stood there, offering her a shot glass. “Here’s ya whisky.”

Blaze shifted her gaze to the trainer and saw his surprised expression. To his credit, Bender recovered his composure, saying, “The other boy brought the whisky.”

“I always bring Rooney his whisky,” the lad said. “There’s no other boy.”

“My mistake,” Bender said, offering her the shot glass, “I was thinking of something else.”

Blaze gulped the whisky down and passed the boy the empty glass. If she hadn’t been poisoned, she would definitely be drunk.

“Don’t race today,” Bender said, his voice low. “Someone could have slipped you poison.”

“I’m already dead if someone fed me poison,” Blaze said, her placid expression masking her fear. “Pegasus will win the race before I expire.”

“MacArthur is correct,” Bender said. “You’re too damn stubborn.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

The bell sounded. Bender gave her a leg up on Pegasus and then mounted his own horse.

“Cheer up.” Blaze passed him the whip. “I will be sitting in the grandstands the next time Peg races.”

They left the paddock in pairs, jockeys on the thoroughbreds with their escorts. The crowd cheered as the first thoroughbreds appeared on the track.

“Pegasus,” someone shouted when the filly walked onto the track. The excited crowd began chanting the filly’s name.

“Peg is the crowd’s favorite,” Bender remarked.

“I won’t make any money if everyone bets on her,” Blaze said, making the trainer smile.

The two horses in front of her suddenly blurred into four, making her queasy and disoriented. If she quit now, they’d be in trouble. She needed to hang on and let Peg fly to the finish.

“Good luck,” Bender said, and turned his horse away.

Blaze moved Pegasus into position at the start line. She crouched low, her gaze on the official holding the flag. Seeing two flags didn’t matter as long as she saw them drop.

And then the Jockey Club official dropped the flag.

Peg run
.

Run, run, run
. Peg bolted off the start line to take the lead.

“Faster, faster, faster,” Blaze whispered.

And Peg flew like the mythical winged horse. The filly increased her lead, racing against herself, leaving the others behind.

Blaze felt the world spinning out of her control. Determined to stay seated and win, she slumped forward and clung to the filly’s neck.

Ross stood on the path in the copse of trees beyond the finish line. “Call the race,” he shouted to the jockey.

“They’re off.” With spyglass raised, Rooney sat on a tree limb. “Sweet Jesus, our girls are in the lead. No holes blocking them. Peg gaining speed. Ten lengths in front. Fifteen, twenty…” The jockey looked down at him, his face ashen and his expression stricken. “Blaze is slumped over Peg’s neck.”

Ross didn’t need to hear more. He ran down the path, the jockey two steps behind him.

Bursting into the clearing, Ross saw Peg crossing the finish line first. The official waved the Campbell colors, and he heard a roar of approval from the grandstands.

Peg slowed gradually and stopped near Ross. Blaze lay slumped over the filly’s neck. Her eyes were closed, her lips were moving in silent chant, and her knuckles were white from holding the filly so tight.

“I’m here, lass.” Ross gently lifted her off the filly and lay her on the grass.

Blaze opened her eyes, whispering, “Whisky drugged.” And then she lost consciousness.

Three hours later, Ross paced back and forth across the Inverary drawing room. Reaching the front, he pushed the drapes aside to look out the window at the courtyard. Then he turned and crossed the room to stare at the portrait of Gabrielle Flambeau.

He should have listened to Bender. He should never have allowed her to jockey Pegasus. He should have known she would be targeted.

The Duchess of Inverary had promised to report on Blaze’s condition but hadn’t appeared yet. The Duke of Inverary and his own father were meeting with the members of the Jockey Club.

“Sit down, MacArthur. You are tiring us.”

Ross paused in his pacing and looked at Prince Lykos Kazanov, sitting on the sofa. Grim-faced, Bobby Bender and Rooney sat in high-backed chairs.

The Duke of Inverary and the Duke of Kilchurn appeared in the drawing room doorway. Bender, Rooney, and even Prince Lykos stood when the older men walked into the room.

Without a word or a glance at them, the Duke of Inverary accepted the glass of whisky his old friend passed him. The duke prolonged their misery by sipping his whisky before speaking.

“Peg’s win stands,” the duke told them. “Apparently, the rules do not include a ban on female jockeys.” He looked at Ross. “That oversight has now been corrected.” Next the duke turned to the trainer and the jockey. “The Club forgives your transgressions in this affair, assuming you had no choice but obey the marquis’s order. You are still in my employ and will leave now.”

Bender and Rooney hurried out of the drawing room before he changed his mind. If the duke dismissed them, no one would hire them after this fiasco.

“Your membership has not been revoked,” the Duke of Inverary told Ross, “but the Club considers you a troublemaker and will be watching.” He drained his whisky and set the glass on a table. “I am going upstairs to confer with Dr. Elliott and my wife about my daughter’s health and will return to tell you the news.” At that, the duke quit the chamber.

“Do ye have a brain in yer head? How could ye behave so irresponsibly?” The Duke of Kilchurn rounded on his son as soon as his friend disappeared out the door. “Ye’ve embarrassed me and, more important, endangered my friend’s daughter. She could have been killed, not to mention the damage ye’ve done to her reputation.”

Ross remained silent, knowing he deserved worse than a dressing down. His father should have shown more discretion than rebuke him in front of the prince, but he didn’t think pointing that out would lighten his father’s mood.

“Well? Do ye have nothin’ to say?”

“Yer correct, Father.” Ross met his gaze. “I used poor judgment.”

“
Poor judgment
? Ye nearly caused a catastrophe.” His father walked away, though, silenced by his son’s remorse.

A short time later, the Duke and Duchess walked into the drawing room. “Magnus, calm yourself,” the duchess was saying.

Inverary poured himself a whisky and didn’t bother to sip. He committed the ultimate sacrilege by belting the whisky down in a single gulp.

Ross feared the worst. How could he live with himself if Blaze died?

“My daughter is awake and as well as can be expected,” Inverary told them. “Dr. Elliott believes she’d been slipped a sedative but will recover.”

“The news is good,” Ross said, every muscle in his body relaxing.

“You have relieved my mind,” Lykos echoed the sentiment.

“There is more, however.” The duke paused a moment and then added, “I trust whatever I say will not be repeated.”

“Magnus, you need not involve His Highness in this,” the duchess said.

“His Highness was supping with Blaze at the Ball,” the duke argued, “and he’s been visiting on a regular basis.”

“I can vouch for his behavior,” the duchess said. “You will create a scandal.”

The Duke of Inverary rounded on his wife. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Roxie, Ross and Blaze already created the scandal.”

“I assure Your Graces,” Lykos spoke up, “I will keep your confidence.”

The Duke of Inverary stared at Ross, making him squirm mentally. He looked at Lykos for a long moment before shifting his gaze to Ross again.

“Who impregnated my daughter?”

Ross dropped his mouth open and tried to get his mind around what the duke had asked. He was going to be a father?

“I will marry Blaze,” Prince Lykos said.

“I’ll marry her,” Ross growled. “She’s carryin’ my heir.”

“Blaze refused to name the father, and I needed to be certain before accusing Ross.” The Duke of Inverary offered the prince his hand. “I thank you for your offer.”

Lykos shook the duke’s hand. “You can depend on my discretion.” The prince nodded at the Duke of Kilchurn and grinned at Ross. “I congratulate your impending fatherhood.” And then he left the drawing room.

“I hope your powers of persuasion are as sharp as your powers of seduction,” Inverary told Ross. “Blaze refuses to marry, but if she doesn’t, I will kill you.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” the duchess said. “Of course, they’ll marry. Blaze will view the situation differently once she’s rested. Five years from now, we will enjoy a merry chuckle about this affair. I mean, situation.”

“I may not live that long,” the duke replied. “My daughters are digging me an early grave. Would that I had sired all sons.”

“Sons give us gray hair, too,” the Duke of Kilchurn told his friend.

“I’ll speak with Blaze now,” Ross said.

“You will speak with her when I allow it,” the duke told him. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”

“I will return in the mornin’.” Ross crossed the drawing room to leave. Behind him, he heard Inverary saying to his father, “Let’s toast our sharing grandchildren.”

With Puddles at her feet, Blaze sat in a corner of the drawing room and stared at her mother’s portrait. She’d never known her mother the way she appeared in the portrait—incredibly young, sensuously innocent, surprisingly happy. The woman she’d known had been broken by losing her family in the Terror, loving a man unable to marry her, and giving birth to seven illegitimate daughters.

Gabrielle Flambeau had been a countess, but Society shunned women who broke the rules. Society was less stringent when a gentleman sinned, averting their collective gazes and pretending ignorance.

Life was unfair. Women were either wives or mistresses. Only men were allowed to be more than husbands and lovers.

Now Blaze understood that Gabrielle drank to dull the pain. She wished she’d been kinder to her mother. Why did understanding come too late? She’d give her right leg to reverse time and relive those days. Would her mother still live if she’d been kinder?

Her thoughts turned to the marquis. Ross would soon be arriving to propose marriage. What else could he do? He was unmarried, and their fathers were best friends. Refusing to marry her meant ruining a lifelong friendship.

She needed to consider what was best for her baby. She recalled her own childhood and her yearning for a father. She did not want her child labeled a bastard, nor would a son thank her for tossing his birthright away.