Chapter 8 #2
“She will not,” Blaise said with quiet confidence, though a thrill of anticipation coursed through him. “By the end of the month, she will be out on the street, begging to stay under my roof.”
And in my bed.
“I doubted you, cousin. Perhaps you are an evil bastard after all.” Alistair shook his head, signaling to the curvaceous blonde who had been casting heated glances his way all evening.
The woman approached with swaying hips, her hand trailing lightly over Alistair’s shoulder in clear invitation. He grinned, rising smoothly to pull her close against his side.
“Duty calls, Blaise,” Alistair said with a wink. “Try not to brood too deeply over your fiery widow or the forbidden past.”
Blaise watched his cousin and the courtesan disappear into a curtained alcove, their laughter fading into the noise.
Alone now, he let his gaze sweep slowly across the salon.
Normally, this was where his artistic inspiration struck him: a particular tilt of a woman’s head, the elegant curve of a hip, the spark of defiance in a glance that made him itch to sketch her, to bind her wrists in silk, and explore every sigh and shudder until she came apart under his skilled hands.
Tonight, however, every face blurred and faded, and all he could envision was Iris, naked and glorious on the velvet chaise in his red room.
Her long, curvy body stretched out languidly, honey curls spilling like liquid gold over her shoulders and across her full, heaving breasts.
He imagined the elegant arch of her spine as she surrendered to him, the flush creeping from her neck down to her tight, rosy nipples begging for his mouth.
His charcoal would capture the subtle tremble in her thighs as he secured her to those iron rings, the way her untouched core would glisten with arousal, pink and perfect, waiting for him to—
“Your Grace?” Blaise had not realized that the raven-haired courtesan approached him again. “Would you like to go somewhere more private?”
Blaise’s shaft throbbed against the confines of his trousers, heavy and insistent but for a different woman entirely.
“Not tonight, darling,” he rejected the beautiful woman without regret.
“I will be waiting if you change your mind.” The woman swayed her hips seductively as she walked away.
“Damn it all,” Blaise muttered under his breath, downing the remainder of his brandy in one fiery gulp. The burn did nothing to quench the fire Iris had ignited within him.
The usual allure of the private salon felt hollow and stale.
No other woman could compare. Not when the defiant Little Blossom occupied every shadowed corner of his mind.
Annoyed by his uncharacteristic fixation, Blaise pushed to his feet.
He tossed a generous handful of coins onto the table and strode out, the cool night air hitting his face like a sobering slap.
As the carriage rode through the darkened streets, the rhythmic clop of hooves did little to calm the storm in his blood. Tomorrow, he would step fully into her world and begin methodically dismantling the walls the way she desired.
One month.
He would honor the time she had bargained for so desperately.
He would let her play at repairing the house and helping with Marcus’s bride.
And if she were willing, then he would collect on their agreement with exquisite, unrelenting thoroughness.
Binding her, teasing her, breaking her open until she knew exactly who owned her pleasure.
Iris had no idea what manner of storm she had invited into her life. But Blaise intended to make certain she craved every thunderous moment of it.
* * *
Dear Marcus,
I trust this letter reaches you in good health at Oxford. I shall refrain from unnecessary formal pleasantries. Your presence in London is anticipated within the upcoming month. Preparations are currently in progress for your arrival at Hentley House.
There are extensive discussions to be had concerning your future. I have initiated plans that will guarantee your position and dispel any remaining doubts regarding your legitimacy.
Do not delay. I await your arrival.
Your uncle, Blaise Vale
Duke of Knoxford
Blaise sealed the letter with the heavy Knoxford crest. He rang for a footman and handed it over with curt instructions.
“See that this reaches Marcus at Oxford with haste.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” As the servant departed, Blaise rose, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension coiled there.
The memory of Iris’s defiant amber eyes and her sweet taste still lingered on his lips. She thought their bargain gave her control, and he would enjoy disabusing her of that notion.
He strode through the grand halls of Knoxford, his boots echoing sharply on the marble floors. Servants bowed hastily as he passed, sensing the storm of determination rolling off him. Outside, his carriage was already waiting. Blaise mounted with fluid grace.
“Hentley House,” he ordered the coachmen.
He cast one last glance at the imposing facade of the London residence before the carriage turned toward the streets. A dark, predatory smile played on his lips as he set out to meet the menacing widow.