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 done 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.
“Ye look peachy and good enough to eat,” Ross said, his smile charming. “I bet ye taste sweet, too.”
Attitude , Blaze reminded herself.
“I’m as sweet as lemons,” she said, making the majordomo chuckle.
Blaze passed him her bonnet. “Tinker, hide this until I return.”
“I understand, Miss Blaze.” Tinker opened the door. “Enjoy your afternoon.”
Ross escorted her to his phaeton, its hood folded down. He helped her onto the seat and climbed up beside her. “Shall I put the hood up?”
Blaze shook her head. “I love feeling breezes and the sun’s warmth.”
“In that case”—Ross plucked the pins from her hair, letting the fiery mane cascade around her—“enjoy the ride.”
Blaze felt uncomfortable sitting so close to him and wished the marquis had arrived with a coach and a driver instead of the two-seater phaeton. His thigh flirted with her skirt, and she caught his mountain heather scent.
Intelligent conversation eluded her. She had never been completely alone with any gentleman except Alexander Blake, and he was more brother than gentleman. Though born on the wrong side of the blanket, she
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 done 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.
“Ye look peachy and good enough to eat,” Ross said, his smile charming. “I bet ye taste sweet, too.”
Attitude , Blaze reminded herself.
“I’m as sweet as lemons,” she said, making the majordomo chuckle.
Blaze passed him her bonnet. “Tinker, hide this until I return.”
“I understand, Miss Blaze.” Tinker opened the door. “Enjoy your afternoon.”
Ross escorted her to his phaeton, its hood folded down. He helped her onto the seat and climbed up beside her. “Shall I put the hood up?”
Blaze shook her head. “I love feeling breezes and the sun’s warmth.”
“In that case”—Ross plucked the pins from her hair, letting the fiery mane cascade around her—“enjoy the ride.”
Blaze felt uncomfortable sitting so close to him and wished the marquis had arrived with a coach and a driver instead of the two-seater phaeton. His thigh flirted with her skirt, and she caught his mountain heather scent.
Intelligent conversation eluded her. She had never been completely alone with any gentleman except Alexander Blake, and he was more brother than gentleman. Though born on the wrong side of the blanket, she
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