Chapter 9
“Iexpect every one of you to carry on exactly as we always have,” Iris declared to her staff.
She kept her voice steady despite the nervous flutter in her stomach as she faced the small, gathered group.
Mrs. Henkings, the housekeeper, the elderly footman, the coachman, and the cook stared at her expectantly with fear in their eyes.
They were just a handful, but they were loyal to her, and she never doubted them.
“We will not change a single thing about our routine. No special preparations, no extra deference. If His Grace is uncomfortable enough, perhaps he will tire of this place and leave us in peace.” Iris kept glancing toward the large window, expecting his carriage to show up at any second.
Mrs. Henkings twisted her apron in her hands, her kind face creased with worry. “My lady, are you certain this is wise? He seems a determined sort.”
Iris swung around to face her. “Determined or not, this is still our home… at least, for the moment.” She lifted her chin.
“We have kept these walls standing for seven years with very little. If we simply continue as we are, he and any of his family will feel like outsiders. They will see that they do not belong here. Be polite, but… do not go out of your way for him. In fact, we are going to subtly do the opposite of everything he asks.”
The small staff nodded, exchanging worried glances.
“My lady,” Johnson, the only cook of Hentley House, stepped forward. “Will our jobs be safe? We have families to feed and cannot anger His Grace if it leads to displacement.”
Iris inhaled deeply. “Do not fret. I will not allow that.”
The elderly man nodded and stepped back into line.
They had been loyal through lean years, through creditors pounding at the door, and through the quiet dignity Iris had maintained.
She saw the resolve in their eyes and felt a surge of affection mixed with guilt.
This was risky, but it was the only plan she had, and she would protect them more than herself if it all went wrong.
“You are all—” Just as she was about to dismiss them, the back door opened with a firm, authoritative creak, and heavy boots sounded in the hall.
Iris’s pulse spiked. She did not hear his carriage arrive. She looked at her staff and placed a finger on her lips; they nodded silently until Blaise stepped into view.
Iris’s breath caught at the sight of him, and she cursed herself for the damned reaction.
In the daylight, he was even more mesmerizingly tall and broad-shouldered, his dark curls slightly tousled from the ride, and that savage scar caught the light.
His presence instantly filled the modest space, making her and the hallway feel smaller.
Blaise eyed the staff before he turned to Iris with an unmistakable interest in his dark gaze.
“What is the meaning of this gathering?” His deep voice carried easily through the hall.
There was no accusation in his tone, only a cool curiosity laced with that ever-present amusement that grated on her nerves.
Iris smoothed her skirts and stepped forward, forcing a polite smile. “Nothing of importance, Your Grace. Just a routine household discussion. The staff and I were reviewing the week’s tasks. Forgive us, we did not hear your carriage approaching.”
Blaise’s dark blue eyes narrowed slightly in her direction, as if he could see straight through her polite deflection. He studied the small group for a moment longer before turning his full attention back to Iris.
“I see,” he said simply. Before she could steer the conversation elsewhere, he continued, his tone brisk and commanding.
“I came through the back entrance. I had to survey the gardens for the renovations. I have already hired additional staff to assist. Carpenters, painters, and laborers will begin arriving this afternoon. I have also engaged more permanent servants. Housemaids, a butler, and kitchen help. Your current numbers are hardly sufficient for a proper household, let alone one undergoing repairs.”
Iris felt her jaw tighten as the group looked helplessly at her.
“Of course, everyone’s occupation is safe here in Hentley House unless there is reason to let you go.” Blaise smiled warmly at her staff.
The implication stung.
“Your Grace, we had managed perfectly well with what little we have and—”
“I also sense a rather… particular loyalty among your current staff toward you, Lady Hentley. Bringing in new people will help restore balance. Fresh eyes and new routines will be better for everyone.”
The sour expression must have shown clearly on her face, because the corner of his mouth curved in satisfaction when he finally looked at her.
“Yes,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I believe I am right.”
Iris’s cheeks burned, but she kept her mouth shut. Arguing now would only make him more pleased.
Without waiting for further invitation, Blaise moved past her toward the study, the room she had long considered her sanctuary for managing accounts and correspondence. He paused at the threshold, then glanced back at her with provocative intent.
“I shall be using the study as my own for the duration of my stay,” he said smoothly. “And the main bedchamber as well. I hope you do not mind, Little Blossom.”
The endearment, spoken so casually in front of the staff, sent heat rushing through her. Iris clenched her fists at her sides, biting back the sharp retort that rose to her lips.
“Oh, and Mrs. Henkings, I will have some of that divine tea in my study,” he called out as he shut the door behind him.
Mrs. Henkings, who had sauntered closer to her, turned to Iris with concern etched across her features.
“My lady,” she whispered, “how do you feel about all of this?”
Iris met the housekeeper’s eyes, then looked past her to where Blaise had already claimed the spaces that had once been hers. Defiance ignited in her chest, hot and bright.
“If he desires a duel, then he shall receive just that!” she said firmly.
* * *
Blaise sat behind the heavy oak desk in the study; despite the overwhelming florals, the room was now clearly his territory. The day drifted by like a haze, and the sunlight began to slant through the windows, reminding him that time was slipping away.
Blaise breathed in deeply. Iris’s scent still lingered despite his intrusion, and he found it annoyingly distracting. The door to the study opened softly, and Mrs. Henkings entered carrying a silver tray. She moved with quiet efficiency, setting his afternoon tea before him without fanfare.
“Thank you, Mrs. Henkings,” Blaise said politely.
He waited until she turned to leave before lifting the cup.
One sip told him everything. The tea was weaker than his morning cup, little more than stained water, and there were no sugar cubes on the tray.
Not even a slice of lemon. A deliberate slight, no doubt orchestrated by the lady of the house.
Blaise’s lips twitched with dark amusement, but he said nothing.
He simply took another sip, letting the insipid brew coat his tongue.
“Mrs. Henkings,” he called before she could disappear. The housekeeper froze in the doorway. “Where is Lady Hentley?”
The faithful servant hesitated, her fingers tightening on the handle.
Blaise leaned back in the chair, keeping his voice even. “I only wish to speak with her about the house. Nothing more.”
The older woman’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, though her loyalty to Iris remained evident in the careful set of her mouth.
“She is in the gardens, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” Blaise said smoothly. “That will be all.”
He rose once the door clicked shut, rolling his shoulders. It was time to find his reluctant hostess.
As he strode down the corridor toward the front of the house, movement through the half-open library door caught his eye.
Iris was seated at a small writing desk, poring over ledgers with focused intensity. A soft chuckle escaped Blaise’s throat. Mrs. Henkings had lied for her.
How charming.
He leaned against the doorframe for a long moment, watching her.
Her hair was pinned neatly, though a few rebellious curls had escaped to frame her face.
She chewed on her lower lip in concentration as her quill moved steadily across the page.
Blaise remembered exactly how that very lip tasted.
The light touched her profile, highlighting the elegant line of her neck and the subtle rise and fall of her breasts beneath her modest gown.
Admiration stirred in his chest and surprised him. This woman had kept a dying estate afloat for seven years with nothing but stubborn will and clever accounting. She was no fragile blossom.
Blaise cleared his throat, and Iris’s head snapped up, her eyes widening for the briefest second before she schooled her expression into polite neutrality.
“Your Grace,” she said, setting her quill down. “I did not realize you were there.”
Blaise smiled and shook off his growing admiration for her; he had to stick to his plan to unsettle her.
“I thought we might take a tour of the house and grounds,” Blaise said, stepping fully into the room. “You can show me the changes you were planning, and perhaps we can come to an agreement for each change before the workmen arrive. I would like to understand your vision.”
Iris rose gracefully, but he noticed the subtle change in her breath whenever he was near her.
“Of course, Your Grace. Shall we begin with the drawing room?” she said, too politely.
“Iris, we have been through this. Call me Blaise.” His tone changed, and he watched as her skin burned deliciously under his gaze.
She nodded, then led him silently with the poise of a perfect hostess, though he could sense the tension humming beneath her skin. As they entered the faded but well-kept space of the drawing room, she began explaining her plans.
“I planned to purchase new draperies in a practical fabric, and fresh paint, perhaps in a soft cream, for the peeling walls. The plasterwork is in need of minor repairs, as you can see.”
Blaise listened, then deliberately expanded on every suggestion.
“The draperies should be heavy velvet; I believe deep emerald would suit the drawing room. And the walls, perhaps a rich burgundy with gold accents. We will commission new furniture from the best makers in London. No sense in half measures.”
“I cannot afford that—”
“I will provide the finances.”
Her jaw tightened.
“It is not necessary; I believe the best décor is simple.”
She was stubborn, and he liked that about her, but he could be difficult, too.
“Simple is not enough for a duke.”
Iris’s nostrils flared, and never before had Blaise felt such a strong pull toward such an infuriating woman.
Her shoulders hunched, then fell.
“Perhaps we should start with the gardens instead?” she suggested sweetly, and he almost chuckled despite himself.
“Yes, the outdoors might be more refreshing,” he added, equally as sweetly.
By the time they moved past the other rooms, her responses to his many questions had grown clipped, and her shoulders became rigid with suppressed irritation. He enjoyed provoking her far more than he should.
Blaise inclined his head, following her out through the French doors. The gardens were modest but clearly loved. The neat paths had a few hardy blooms pushing through despite their slight neglect. Iris walked ahead, her posture straight and chin lifted.
She stopped at a nearby wall and began speaking of her plans with genuine warmth. “I intend to plant more roses myself along this wall.” She gestured toward a sunny patch on the wall. “They will climb beautifully once established. I have already sketched a layout.”
“Gardening is hardly a lady’s job,” Blaise remarked, watching her reaction closely.
Iris turned to him, a surprised laugh escaping her lips. The sound was bright and genuine, catching him off guard.
“There are many things ladies do that men are supposed to handle, Blaise,” she countered, eyes sparkling with challenge.
This time, his breath caught at the way she mentioned his name in such a playful manner. She was truly beginning to intrigue him, and it both frightened and excited him.
“Such as?” he probed.
“Oh, I do not know… Perhaps running a household on nearly nothing,” she said without hesitation. “Paying off mountains of debts with just my dowry. Fixing a house that should have crumbled years ago. To name only a few.”
Blaise looked within her fiery eyes, and something unfamiliar twisted low in his chest.
“Have I said something wrong, Your Grace?”
“No,” he replied quietly. “I was merely thinking about what you just said.”
He studied her for a moment, then glanced around the gardens. They were quite alone; the house was vast enough that no servants lingered nearby. Blaise slowly closed the distance between them until their arms grazed each other.
“I hope my small plans will meet your standards and satisfy you,” she said in a small voice, but a touch of defiance still remained in her tone.
Blaise dropped his voice to a low rumble. “Even if this house never fully satisfies me, Little Blossom. In less than a month, you will satisfy me very thoroughly indeed. Just as you promised.”
Color flooded her cheeks instantly, a deep, rosy blush that spread down her neck and disappeared beneath her bodice. He savored the sight and the way her breath hitched. His eyes dropped to where her fingers twisted in her skirts.
“You look exquisite when flustered.” He could not hide his own arousal in his voice.
Iris parted her lips, but before she could speak, Mrs. Henkings appeared on the garden path, approaching with careful steps.
“Your Grace,” the housekeeper said. “Pardon my intrusion; the workmen have arrived, and the cook would like to know what time you would like breakfast served tomorrow?”
“Nine o’clock,” Blaise replied without taking his eyes off Iris.
Mrs. Henkings quietly left them alone, and Blaise leaned closer to Iris, inhaling her scent deeply.
“Well, it seems that we will see your small plans come to life now,” he whispered softly, and her amber eyes dropped to his lips.
Blaise smirked, but his smile disappeared when Iris suddenly leaned closer to him with a daring look in her eyes.
“Indeed, Your Grace, and I look forward to it.” Her sultry voice wrapped around him before she whipped around and stormed away from him.
Blaise chuckled. “This ought to be a riot.”