Marrying the Marquis (15 page)

“Yes.” And so did she.

He moved then, slowly at first and gradually increasing his tempo. Catching his rhythm, she moved with him, meeting his thrusts.

“Ross,” she moaned, waves of throbbing pleasure washing over her.

He groaned and shuddered, his seed flooding her. Unable to move, he dropped his head against her breast.

Their labored breathing was the only sound in the room while they floated from the heights of paradise to the reality of the lodge. Recovering first, Ross rolled to the side, pulling her with him.

“Yer everythin’ a man could want.” Ross planted a kiss on the crown of her head. “Next time will be even better.”

Surprised by his remark, Blaze lifted her gaze to his. “I wasn’t planning on a next time.”

“Yer plans have changed, darlin’.” He gave her an easy smile.

Now Blaze understood the temptation her mother had faced with her father. Gabrielle had succumbed to a handsome face, an easy smile, and persuasive words from a charming aristocrat. A penniless countess who had escaped the French Terror, her mother had never stood a chance against her father’s domineering personality or the security he offered.

Blaze had learned hard lessons from her mother’s misery. She was not her mother. She refused to become her mother. Love would never enslave her as it had her mother.

“There will be no next time,” Blaze said, sitting up. “I will not follow my mother’s path.”

“Yer in no danger of becomin’ yer mother,” Ross said. “Trust me on that.”

Trust me?
So whispered the Serpent to Eve in Paradise.

Ross traced a finger down her cheek to her throat and her breasts. His touch hardened her traitorous nipples.

“Ye want me, darlin’.”

“Wanting does not mean having.”

His black gaze narrowed on her. “Yer more stubborn than a mule.”

“Thank you for the praise.”

Ross laughed at that and pulled her down on his chest. “Let’s argue aboot this tomorrow.”

They cuddled in sated silence for a long time, neither needing to fill the void with conversation. Ross slid the palms of his hands across her shoulders and down her back. Blaze snuggled against him, enjoying his hands on her.

“I met your stepsister in Newmarket,” Blaze said, watching his expression. “I don’t like her, and she doesn’t like me.”

“Amanda isna a bad sort,” Ross said, “but Celeste pushes the girl at me. I keep a room here at the lodge so the witch canna set a marriage trap for me.”

His words heartened Blaze, lessening her concern with the blonde. “Amanda is exceptionally pretty.”

“Any man who marries a woman because she’s pretty deserves the misery comin’ his way,” Ross told her, looking at her upturned face. “Beauty, titles, and wealth can be lost in an instant.”

“So you won’t marry a pretty girl?” That left the field open for her if she harbored the notion to marry, which she did not.

“I’ll marry a pretty lady if she meets my requirements,” Ross answered. “I want a wife with a big heart who loves children and animals, and she must love me for myself. Not my title, my wealth, or my incredible beauty.”

Blaze smiled at that. “You forgot bossiness, arrogance, and conceit.”

“So I did.” Ross winked at her and then changed the subject. “Here’s my plan for the Jockey Club Ball. Save me the last dance of the evenin’, the last dance before supper, and, of course, sup with me.”

Uh-oh
. “I am already engaged for supper,” Blaze told him.

He did not look pleased. “Get yourself unengaged.”

“I cannot accept Prince Lykos’s invitation one day and reject him the next,” she argued. “Society would frown on that bit of rudeness.”

“I dinna give a damn aboot Society.”

“My stepmother would not approve,” Blaze said, “and I will not hurt the prince’s feelings.”

“Rejectin’ his invitation willna kill the man,” Ross said. “Sharin’ supper isna a life-long commitment.”

“That is precisely my point,” she countered. “Next time invite me before the other two.”

“Two? Who’s the other one?”

“Thankfully, your stepbrother invited me after the prince.”

“Ye wouldna consider suppin’ with the bone sucker.” Ross hooted with laughter at the idea. “Have it yer way, lass, but consider yourself engaged with me for supper at every ball henceforth.”

“I will consider your invitation.” His easy capitulation bothered Blaze. She did not trust easy capitulations from pig-headed men. The marquis was planning something.

“So when did ye distance connect with Pegasus?”

“Yesterday—” The word slipped past her lips before she could stifle it. “One connection does not guarantee success. If I ride in the next race, Rooney and Peg will practice for six weeks.”

“That makes sense.”

“It does?” His easy agreement surprised her.

“Ye’ll jockey the First Spring,” Ross said, “and Rooney will jockey the other races. Dinna try wheedlin’ a third race out of me cuz I willna change my mind. If six weeks of practice doesna do the trick, Pegasus isna destined to win the big races.”

Ross rolled Blaze onto her back. “I want ye again,” he said, “but I willna abuse yer body tonight. Ye’ll be sore enough without a second helpin’.”

Blaze blushed at his words. Talking about doing was more embarrassing than the actual doing.

“Yer blushin’ again.” Ross smiled, amused by her sudden shyness, and rose from the bed. “I need to get ye home now.”

The ride from the lodge to Snailwell Road was still short and silent. Ross sat beside her this time, though, and their silence was relaxed instead of tense.

When they stood outside her back door, Ross cupped her chin and dipped his head to plant a chaste kiss on her lips. “Pleasant dreams, darlin’. Dinna forget practice at dawn.”

Ross waited until she bolted the door. Then he jogged to Snailwell Road where his man waited.

Climbing into the coach, Ross yawned and stretched his legs out. The evening had proven satisfying, his courtship progressing. The only glitch was that sneaky Russian who’d beaten him to the supper invitation. Her supping with the prince mattered little, though.

Blaze wanted him as much as he wanted her. Now he needed to persuade her into marriage.

The coach halted in front of the Rowley Lodge. Ross climbed out, calling to his man, “Tomorrow night, same time.”

Ross walked into the lodge’s common room, intending to seek his bed and enjoy the sleep of the sated. Blocking his path, Baron Edward Shores sat on the stairs but stood to confront him.

“Good evening, my lord,” the baron greeted him.

Ross groaned inwardly. He wanted his bed, not conversation with Crazy Eddie Shores, a man who profited from other men’s vices.

“I’m tired, Eddie,” Ross said. “Let me pass.”

“You do appear drained,” the baron said, “but I beg a moment to offer you a deal.”

“Speak yer piece and then step aside.”

“Give me five hundred pounds a week,” Eddie said, his voice low, “and I won’t tell Inverary you’re bedding his daughter.”

“Here’s the deal, Eddie.” In a flash of movement, Ross grabbed the baron’s throat and slammed him against the wall. “Keep yer mouth shut, and I’ll let ye live. Agreed?”

When the suffocating baron managed a slight nod, Ross dropped his hold on him. “A pleasure doin’ business with ye, Eddie.”

She felt different.

Bedding the marquis made her feel feminine but somehow vulnerable. She could live with feminine, but vulnerable reminded her of her mother.

The marquis had taken her innocence, initiating her into womanhood. She hadn’t planned to join those ranks until achieving her goals.

She was lying to herself. The truth was the marquis had taken nothing. She had given him her virginity, offering herself like a Christmas goose on the silver platter of his bed.

Losing her virginity was one of life’s milestones. Blaze wished she could have crossed that threshold under different circumstances.

She wasn’t doing as well as her mother. Gabrielle had bedded the man she loved, who’d loved her in return.
She’d
bedded a man who professed to wanting her.

Did she love the marquis? Or were her tender feelings a product of sharing intimacy and the secret of Pegasus?

If she did love the marquis, how could she hold his attention? Society was filled with dozens of hopeful maidens who wanted to marry a marquis, including the blond stepsister. And none of the hopefuls had made the mistake of sharing his bed.

Blaze wished she hadn’t scoffed at the duchess’s life lessons. After yesterday’s questions, her stepmother would become suspicious if she sought her advice. The woman was no fool.

Drowsy from lack of sleep, Blaze sat on the edge of the bed and dragged the black breeches up her legs. Then she donned her riding boots and slipped her arms into the leather jerkin. Without bothering to look in the mirror, she plaited her hair into one thick braid and hid it beneath a cap.

Blaze yawned and stretched before rising from her perch on the bed. Late nights and early mornings did not produce an alert person.

Curiosity got the better of her, and Blaze peered at herself in the cheval mirror. She looked the same—flame-haired, freckle-faced, flat-chested.

Blaze crossed the bedchamber and opened the door a crack, peering up and down the hallway. Satisfied the household slept, she walked toward the back stairs and exited the mansion through the rear door.

Passing the formal gardens, Blaze veered to the right and trudged across the dew-covered lawn to the path. The closer she got to the practice track, the slower her pace became.

Blaze conjured Ross’s image in her mind’s eye and replayed their evening. Again she felt the warmth of his smile, his hands and lips caressing her, his hardness moving inside.

Her body heated and her legs weakened. Reminiscing burned her skin.

Seeing Ross at the track worried her. Casual conversation and nonchalant behavior eluded her. Their shared intimacy should never have happened without benefit of marriage.

She would pretend nothing happened. A true gentleman would not refer to her downfall in any way. Gawd, she would die of embarrassment if he mentioned it.

Blaze reached the practice track, shrouded in ground-hugging fog. The three men were waiting for her.

Puddles barked in greeting and dashed toward her, giving her a moment to compose herself before facing the marquis. She gave her dog a hug and then ordered, “Stay.” The mastiff sat, but his tail swished back and forth across the grass.

Unable to delay any longer, Blaze walked toward the men. She viewed the marquis differently. He wore the usual working clothes—riding breeches, shirt, leather jerkin; she saw him naked—broad shoulders, muscled chest, perfect buttocks. She knew what the bulge in his breeches hid.

“Good morning,” Blaze said, her cheeks pinkening, and walked past them to greet Pegasus.

She stroked the filly’s face.
Love Peg
.

Me love.

Peg run?

Run, run, run.

“The lady has a surprise for us,” Ross told the trainer and jockey.

Blaze walked to where the men stood. Avoiding the marquis’s gaze, she wondered when he had taken charge of her filly, her goals, her life.

“Are ye ready, darlin’?” Ross asked her.

Blaze snapped her gaze to his and nodded. She wished he would refrain from casual endearments in front of others, which diminished her authority as the horse’s owner.

Ross gave Rooney a leg up on Pegasus. Then he and Bender mounted their own horses.

“Give us a five-length lead,” Ross instructed the jockey, “and we’ll keep a hole between us.”

At the start line, Ross called to Bender, “One, two, three—
go
.”

Ross and Bender spurred their horses into action. Swishing and thudding, their horses galloped down track. When they were fifty feet from the line, Rooney and Peg gave chase.

Blaze kept her gaze fixed on the filly. She chanted inside her mind, her lips moving with a repetitive thought.

Peg through hole. Peg through hole. Peg through
—

Pegasus shot through the hole between the two horses. Success.

The three men slowed their horses. Smiling, they rode back to where she stood.

“I’m relieved,” Bender said, dismounting. “I don’t have the nerves for subterfuge.”

“Peg’s the fastest horse I’ve ever seen,” Rooney said in obvious excitement. “I’ll take good care of her out there and promise to ride her to victory. Pegasus will become legend.”

“Blaze is jockeyin’ in the First Spring,” Ross told the men. “That gives Rooney and Peg six weeks to practice.”

“I know you’re disappointed,” Blaze said to Rooney. “You will jockey all the other races, which includes the Classics. You will ride Peg into legend.”

“Our luck held the first time,” Bender argued, “but we’ll get caught if we try again. Inverary will never believe I failed to recognize his daughter.”

“I’ll take the fall if that happens,” Ross said.

“Do you think Inverary cares I was following your orders?” Bender asked. “His Grace pays my salary, not you.”

“Yer the best in the business,” Ross told him. “His Grace willna want to lose ye.”

“Do you swear this is the last race she jockeys?” Bender asked.

Ross smiled at the trainer and raised his right hand. “I give ye my solemn word.”

Bender nodded, his reluctance apparent. So did Rooney.

“Rain or shine, we’ll practice each mornin’,” Ross told them. “His Grace is hostin’ the Jockey Club Ball tonight. I dinna want any guest slippin’ into Peg’s stable.”

Rooney led Pegasus toward the path to the stables. Bender followed with his own horse.

“I thought ye wouldna show after last night,” Ross said. “I should’ve known ye wouldna falter.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Blaze told his chest, her complexion reddening. “I prefer not speaking about
that
.”

“Look into my eyes.” When she did, Ross said, “Stop blushing. Only the guilty blush.”

Blaze heard the smile in his voice. “Everyone blushes, but redheads are more susceptible.”

“Men dinna blush.”

“What hour does Juno visit the breeding barn?” Blaze asked him.

“Trust me,” Ross said. “Even if yer father gave his permission, ye dinna want to witness this.”

“The owner always witnesses the breeding,” she countered. “My father is old-fashioned about maidenly sensibilities.”

“I’ll tell ye what happens,” Ross said, “and I’ll speak to yer father if ye still want to witness.”

Blaze nodded. “Very well.”

“Juno’s tail will be bandaged so it doesna interfere with the matin’,” Ross told her, “and she’ll be teased to get her in the mood.”

Blaze felt her face heat with embarrassment. She didn’t stop him, though, because her duty as an owner required she know the procedure.

“They put soft boots on her back feet and a huge leather collar around her neck to protect her from Zeus’s love bites,” Ross continued. “One man holds her left front leg up so she canna kick her back legs.”

When he paused, she said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “Please continue.” The marquis was smiling at her discomfort, which didn’t sit well with her.

“After sniffin’ Juno, Zeus will rear up and land on her back,” Ross said. “The consummation time is short, maybe three or four thrusts to—”

“Enough.”

“Do ye still want to witness the act?”

Blaze shook her head. “I trust you to represent me.”

“Yer face is burnin’.” Lowering his head, Ross planted a chaste kiss on her lips. “We’ll leave the Ball after yer supper with the prince.”

“I will not leave with you.”

Ross mounted his horse. “Lyin’ is a terrible sin, darlin’.”

“Sex without marriage is a worse sin,” Blaze countered.

“Will ye marry me, then?”

“If I accepted your proposal,” she said, her smile inscrutable, “you’d fall off that horse.”

Blaze walked away, her dog at her side. He was watching her. She could feel his gaze on her backside. Losing an inner struggle, she glanced over her shoulder.

He was smiling at her. “I’ll see ye tonight, darlin’.”

Her beauty would never inspire love poems.

Blaze stood in front of the cheval mirror for a final inspection before joining her sisters in the ballroom. If she wanted to hold the marquis’s attention, she needed to outshine the blond stepsister and every other maiden angling to catch a future duke.

Her ice-blue gown had a squared neckline, fitted bodice, and off-the-shoulder sleeves. The gown’s ankle-length skirt allowed a peek at her silk stockings embroidered with butterflies.

Blaze wore her coppery mane upswept, her mother’s jeweled butterfly hair clasp holding her hair in place. Several loose tendrils of fire accentuated her slender neck. She wore her mother’s gold choker and bracelet, both bearing jeweled butterflies, and carried a deep blue fan with a mother-of-pearl butterfly motif.

Blaze frowned at her reflection. Outshining the other unmarried hopefuls would surely prove impossible.

She needed blond hair.

She needed an ivory complexion.

She needed bigger breasts.

Attitude means everything
, Blaze recalled her sister’s advice.

Staring at her reflection, Blaze lifted her nose into the air to practice her superior attitude. Tonight, she was the queen. Her red hair had become the latest rage, maidens secretly pined for a sprinkling of freckles across their noses, and Society’s fashionables considered big-breasted women vulgar cows.

Blaze spied her long, white gloves on the bed. She paused for a mere second and then left her bedchamber. Tonight she was setting the trends and refused to follow any archaic rule like wearing gloves indoors.

London’s elite filled the ballroom, only death keeping the socialites from attending an Inverary function. A four piece orchestra—cornet, piano, violin, cello—played at the top of the ballroom and served as background for cultured conversations, muted laughter, and air kisses.

The ladies were gowned in a rainbow of colors. Priceless gems sparkled on every woman’s neck, arms, fingers, and ears. Their perfumes wafted through the ballroom, scenting the air like a lush garden.

The gentlemen appeared more elegant by lack of color. Their black and white evening attire provided a stark background for their ladies’ flamboyant colors.

“Shall I announce you, Miss Blaze?” asked the Inverary majordomo.

“Only if you are contemplating leaving this life.”

Tinker broke into a smile. “I believe your parents are standing at the far end of the ballroom.”

“Thank you, Tinker.”

Attitude
, she reminded herself and took a deep, fortifying breath.

Blaze joined the milling throng and skirted the dance floor. Several guests congratulated her on her thoroughbred’s victory. She acknowledged their good wishes with a smile.

Her sisters looked beautiful, of course. Ebony-haired women could wear any color. Raven wore soft pink. Bliss, her own twin, wore celestial blue. Serena and Sophia wore gowns in jonquil and violet whisper.

Catching the eye from a distance, the Duchess of Inverary wore a red gown and enough diamonds to blind a person. Diamond hair pins adorned her auburn hair, diamonds dangled from her earlobes, a gold and diamond collar circled her neck, and diamond rings sparkled on each finger.

“Where are your gloves?” the duchess asked.

“The gloves are lying across my bed,” Blaze told her, and caught her father’s smile.

“Well-bred women wear long gloves in the evening,” her stepmother said. “You aren’t completely dressed without gloves.”

“Who made that rule?” Blaze countered. “The glove makers?”

Her father chuckled, earning a censorious glance from his wife. “Do not encourage her.” She looked at Blaze, saying, “I’ll send someone to fetch your gloves.”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I intend to make bare arms the latest rage,” Blaze told her.

“I hate these gloves,” Raven said, peeling hers off.

“So do I.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t like them either.”

In turn each of her sisters voiced their dissent and removed their gloves. Raven collected the gloves and tossed them on a nearby table.

“Magnus, do something,” the duchess said.

The Duke of Inverary was openly laughing at his daughters’ insurrection. “Roxie, you always say my girls should set the trends. I believe they’re learning from your example.”

“How will they catch husbands if they don’t wear gloves?” the duchess snapped.

“Catching a husband does not depend on young ladies wearing gloves,” the duke replied, making his daughters laugh.

The duchess’s dimpled smile appeared. “I suppose one gloveless evening will not ruin anyone’s reputation.”

“Do you see Ross anywhere?” Blaze whispered to Raven.

Her sister scanned the crowded ballroom and shook her head. “Here comes trouble.”

“Good evening, Your Graces,” Celeste MacArthur greeted their group.

Blaze watched her father shake hands with Ross’s father. Her gaze drifted to the two younger women with them, Amanda Stanley and a dark-haired beauty, Ross’s sister.

“Good evening, Miss Blaze and Miss Raven,” Dirk Stanley greeted them. “I present my brother, Squire Chadwick Simmons.”

Tall and well-built, Squire Simmons was easily one of the handsomest men in the ballroom. Like his siblings and mother, he had blond hair and green eyes but seemed more masculine and self-assured than his brother.