Free Marrying the Marquis by Patricia Grasso Page B

frankness.
    “What?” the duke exclaimed, his tone incredulous. “In thoroughbred circles, we breed the best to the best. That means I cannot send my champion to the breeding barn for a barren mare.”
    Blaze leaned forward, ready to haggle for what she wanted. “I will pay for the stud service”—she blushed again—“with my winnings from The Craven next week.”
    Her father smiled, hopefully reminded of his beloved aunt Bedelia. “I agree to your terms, but if you lose, will you marry the man of my choice?”
    “Trust me, Papa,” she sidestepped his question. “Pegasus will win The Craven.”
    “I hope she does win,” her father said, “but do you agree to my terms?”
    “I agree.” No hesitation there.
    “You may now leave us to our business.”
    “I met the Duke of Kilchurn at MacArthur House,” Blaze said, standing to leave. “I wonder the reason he speaks with an accent, but you do not.”
    “Aunt Bedelia decided I needed to sound English in order to move successfully through life.” The Duke of Inverary smiled at the memory. “Jamie and I took elocution lessons but tormented the tutor. Bedelia banished Jamie, and without an accomplice, I lost my taste for bad behavior.”
    A knock on the door drew their attention. Tinker walked into the office, announcing, “The Marquis of Basildon and Constable Black have arrived.”
    “Ask them to wait ten minutes,” the duke instructed his man. He looked at Blaze. “Run along and let me finish this meeting.”
    “You won’t forget about Juno?”
    “I doubt you will allow me to forget.”
    “Wager on my filly,” Blaze advised the princes. “You will win a fortune.”
    “How can you be certain?” Prince Rudolf asked her.
    “Pegasus told me.”
     
    Two miles west of Inverary House, shorter as the crow flies, Ross MacArthur lifted the satchel and left his bedchamber. He would return another day if he’d forgotten anything.
    Descending the stairs to the foyer, Ross set the satchel down beside three others. “I want these delivered to Rowley Lodge,” he instructed the majordomo, “and send someone to bring my horse around.”
    “Yes, my lord. Their Graces are expecting you in the drawing room.”
    Ross grimaced. He should have known his stepmother would delay his escape. “Thank ye, Dodger.”
    “You don’t look thankful,” Dodger drawled. “I can tell them I forgot to relay their message.”
    “I wouldna put ye in that position,” Ross said.
    “I have lied for you before,” the majordomo reminded him.
    “True, but we need to save lyin’ for emergencies.” Muttering to himself, Ross climbed the stairs and marched down the corridor to the drawing room.
    The scene was worse than he could have imagined. Though his sister’s twittering friends were missing, Dirk Stanley had arrived. He preferred the twitterers.
    “Here comes your son,” Celeste MacArthur told her husband. “Ross, sit on the settee beside Amanda. Perhaps the girls will entertain us on the pianoforte and the harp.”
    “I dinna have time for a concert.” Ross dropped onto the settee beside his stepsister and smiled a greeting.
    Amanda Stanley returned his smile. “Good to see you, Ross.” Blond and green-eyed like her mother, Amanda shared her brother’s angel face and could have posed for one of the masters.
    “How are ye, Poppet?” Ross teased his sister.
    “How are ye, Aged Sibling?” Mairi countered, a sparkle of merriment in her dark eyes.
    Dark-haired like him, Mairi MacArthur was petite and had inherited their mother’s fire instead of his own easy nature. Her pure Highland blood emboldened her unlike the shy blonde by his side.
    Dirk Stanley sat on the settee beside Mairi while he sat beside Amanda. Ross would bet his last shilling his stepmother was trying her hand at matchmaking. Celeste MacArthur had never accepted that he did not want to marry her daughter, a sweet twit who deferred to her mother in all matters.
    Ross always took himself to the