Chapter 12
Blaise stood in the center of the newly painted drawing room, and he surveyed the deep burgundy walls with a critical eye.
He hated to admit it, but Iris’s original ideas had merit.
The color she had chosen might have been safer, but this burgundy, paired with the heavier velvet draperies he had insisted upon, created an atmosphere of refined power.
It felt like a duke’s house now, not the faded remnants of a careless viscount.
“Iris is going to hate this,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his dark curls.
The woman was getting under his skin in more ways than one. Her quiet competence, her stubborn vision for the house she had fought to preserve… it was beginning to impress him against his will.
He turned on his heel and strode out of the drawing room, intending to check on the library’s progress. His footman followed closely behind. But the moment Blaise stepped through the doorway of the library, his jaw clenched so tightly that the scar on his face began to burn.
“Kennedy, what is this?”
Every piece of furniture he had explicitly ordered removed was back in place, including some from the drawing room.
“I... I am not sure, Your Grace,” Kennedy stuttered nervously.
The old, worn settee still sat against the far wall. The mismatched armchairs still flanked the fireplace. Even the small writing desk Iris favored had been returned to its corner, complete with her ledgers neatly stacked upon it. The room looked exactly as it had before his instructions.
Blaise’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “This is the last bloody miscommunication,” he growled, and Kennedy nodded frantically.
“Yes, Your Grace, I will see to it at once.”
“Let the servants know that their little campaign of petty resistance has crossed from irritating to intolerable,” he instructed the boy before he left.
More discipline is long overdue.
Blaise stormed out of the library, his heavy boots echoing through the corridor like thunder.
A young housemaid was dusting a side table nearby.
She curtsied and straightened instantly when she saw him, but he was too distracted to notice her or anyone else as he approached Iris, who was reading silently at a table.
“You,” Blaise said sharply, stopping in front of her. “I gave clear orders yesterday to remove the old furniture from the library. Why is it all still there?”
Iris looked up at him, feigning confusion. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I had always been fond of those pieces. So, I assumed you could change your mind.”
“Change my mind?” Blaise repeated her words mockingly. “Why would I do that for you? Tell me, do you and the rest of the staff make a habit of assuming my orders mean the opposite of what I say?”
Her cheeks flushed beautifully, and he was tempted to kiss her again.
“Do not blame them. They only wish to serve the household as it has always been run.”
Blaise stepped closer, towering over her. He tried not to picture her in her robe, but he failed as he looked down at her; all he could see was that image of her and the drawing he had left behind.
“The household is under my management. Inform your servants that the next person who ‘misunderstands’ an order will be seeking new employment by nightfall. Is that clear enough, or shall I write it down?”
“That is perfectly clear,” she whispered and smiled dangerously at him.
Blaise exhaled sharply, the memory of her half-naked body still in his mind.
“And another thing, Iris,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “I need you to instruct the servants to serve dinner for both of us tomorrow evening.”
Iris set her book down slowly, folding her hands in her lap. “You are the master of this house, Your Grace. The servants follow your orders. There is no need for me to intervene.”
Blaise leaned against the table, studying her closely. She was trying to maintain distance, but he could see the redness climbing up her slender neck and the way her eyes filled with desire.
Good girl. He wanted her unsettled.
“I am making it your concern,” he replied slowly. “They listen to you, Little Blossom. Tell them dinner will be served at seven o’clock sharp.”
Iris could barely keep the smirk from forming as she met his gaze with a challenging look.
“If the staff has been slow to adjust, it is only because they have served this house loyally for years. Through hardship and through my husband’s debts.
They are not accustomed to… sudden changes in authority. ”
Blaise pushed off the table and walked around her. He stopped just behind her, close enough that he could smell the faint lavender on her skin.
“Well, that is too bad. Because this house is mine by law and title, and you and I have a deal, Iris. So you either help me prepare it properly, or our agreement becomes considerably more immediate. You and your horde have not behaved, and you are not making this easier for me. You either listen like a good girl or suffer the consequences.”
Her breath hitched, but she did not move. “You enjoy threatening me.”
“I enjoy watching you squirm,” he countered, a dark smile tugging at his lips as he ran his hand along her chair without touching her. To his delight, she squirmed in her seat. “Now, will you speak to them, or shall I start dismissing staff until someone obeys?”
Iris rose from her chair, refusing to let him tower over her completely. The movement brought them dangerously close.
“Very well,” she said tightly. “I will instruct them to serve dinner tomorrow evening. For the both of us. Is that all that you request?”
“Not quite.” Blaise’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, remembering how boldly she had kissed him the previous morning. “Tell them I expect full cooperation going forward. No more flowers. No more misplaced furniture and no more weak tea served at dawn.”
A spark of irritation flashed in her eyes. “You seem quite preoccupied with my servants’ behavior, considering you have your own staff.”
“My staff will learn the ways of this house, eventually,” he said smoothly. “But your people need to understand who holds the power now. Starting with dinner tomorrow. I want it to feel like a proper household, and not a battlefield.”
Iris’s lips pressed into a thin line. The tension between them was palpable.
“As you wish,” she finally conceded. “I will speak with Mrs. Henkings right away.”
Blaise stepped even closer, until only inches separated them. “Good,” he murmured, the words low and provocative. “See? Obedience suits you.”
Her cheeks reddened. “Do not push me, Blaise.”
The use of his given name sent a thrill through him. He leaned in slightly, voice husky. “Or what, Little Blossom? Will you fill my room with more flowers? Hide the furniture again? Or perhaps you will kiss me again just to prove how unaffected you are?”
Iris’s breath quickened, her eyes darkening with fury and desire. For a moment, Blaise thought she might actually slap him or kiss him again. The uncertainty only made him want her more.
She took a deliberate step back. “Dinner will be served at seven tomorrow evening. Now, if you will excuse me, I have servants to instruct.”
Blaise allowed her the retreat, but his eyes followed her as she moved toward the door. “I look forward to it, Iris. Try not to poison me.”
She paused at the threshold, glancing back with a sharp smile. “Do not tempt me.”
As she swept from the room, Blaise let out a low, appreciative chuckle.
The woman kept him on his toes, and every confrontation only made him more determined to have her completely.
Discipline for the servants was overdue, yes.
But taming the mistress of the house might prove the most satisfying challenge of all.
* * *
“Your Grace, welcome! What an honor it is to host you at my club.” Mr. Reynolds greeted him at the door and escorted him to a plush booth.
“I heard a lot of good things about the Reynolds Club and had to visit it.” Blaise clapped the elderly man’s back, and he returned the gesture.
“Whatever you need, we will get it for you.” Reynolds winked at him.
“Thank you, Mr. Reynolds.”
Blaise lounged in London’s newest gentlemen’s club, and a glass of fine brandy was promptly brought to him, but the rich liquid did little to dull the restlessness within him.
Across the room, he noticed a familiar, striking raven-haired woman.
She smiled at him, slow and inviting, leaning forward just enough to display the generous swell of her breasts.
He wondered, for a heated moment, if he should simply take her upstairs and blow off some of this pent-up steam.
The woman tilted her head, lips curving playfully as their gazes locked.
She slowly got up and approached him like a lioness.
“We have to stop meeting like this, Your Grace,” she purred, sauntering closer.
Blaise’s mouth curved in return; the flirtation came to him naturally. “Perhaps. You look like the kind of trouble a man could enjoy without regret.”
She laughed, low and throaty, trailing a finger along the edge of his table. “I can be very accommodating, especially for a duke with such a… commanding presence.”
“You seem capable enough to take on my commands.” He allowed his gaze to drift over her body appreciatively, but even as the words left his mouth, dissatisfaction gnawed at him.
“Would you like to go somewhere more private, Your Grace?” The easy promise in her eyes felt hollow.
His mind kept drifting back to Iris’s soft, damp skin and the way she had looked lying on her bed, allowing him to immortalize her.
He regretted giving her that sketch. He should have kept it. The image of her half-draped in that robe, vulnerable and aroused, belonged in his collection. No nameless courtesan could satisfy what Iris had awakened.
“Perhaps another time.”
The woman looked disappointed as Blaise finished his drink in one swallow and rose, offering her a polite but final nod before heading deeper into the club.
The familiar scent of cigar smoke and aged leather wrapped around him as he claimed a quieter table.
Another brandy arrived promptly. He looked around and saw Mr. Reynolds at the bar, waving and smiling at him.
Blaise smiled back at him. He was proud of the old man.
He had heard him talk about opening a gentlemen’s club for years, and Blaise understood the pleasure of enjoying the fruits of your own labor.
He had barely taken two sips when a familiar, unwelcome voice cut through the murmur of conversation.
“Well, well. I am not surprised to find the new Duke of Knoxford in such a place as this.”
Blaise’s grip tightened on his glass. His cousin, Daniel Vale, slid into the seat across from him, all false charm and snake-like eyes. The man had always been an ambitious, resentful, and lying little—
“Blaise, it is good to see family after so long.” Daniel placed a hand over his shoulder, and Blaise looked at it in disgust.
“Daniel,” Blaise said flatly. “What do you want?”
Daniel smirked, signaling for his own drink. “Can a man not greet his cousin? I heard you have taken up residence in that crumbling Hentley House. And how is that bastard nephew you are trying to polish up for society?”
The word ‘bastard’ landed like a slap. Blaise’s fists clenched at his sides. He barely controlled the surge of fury that roared through him.
“Marcus is none of your concern. No matter what schemes you are hatching, you will never come near the title. Give it up. You have no claim, and you never will as long as I am alive.”
Daniel leaned back, utterly unfazed. “Oh, I do not need the title to win. I will enjoy dragging everyone down with me. The great Blaise Vale, a murderer of his own brother, and his precious little bastard. What a charming family portrait that will make.”
A murderer and a bastard.
Blaise shot to his feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor. He loomed over the table. The noise around them slowly dimmed as everyone’s attention turned toward them.
Daniel’s smile only widened. “Oh, come now, cousin. It was just playful banter. Please sit down?”
“I will take my leave.” Blaise turned his back on the sly man.
But Daniel was not finished. “And how is that little widow you are housing these days? Iris, is it not? Quite the resilient creature. I might even pay her a visit since she seems not to mind taking in strays and distant relations. Perhaps she will be equally welcoming to me—”
Blaise lunged forward and drove his fist squarely into Daniel’s jaw. The satisfying crack of knuckles meeting flesh echoed through the room. Daniel staggered back, his chair toppled and crashed to the ground as blood trickled from his split lip.
“You will stay the hell away from her!” Blaise snarled like an animal. “Do not play games you cannot win, cousin. If you so much as breathe in her direction, I will destroy you.”
Shouts erupted around them. Strong hands grabbed Blaise’s arms as club members and staff rushed in, surrounding the two men. Daniel wiped blood from his mouth, laughing bitterly even as he was pulled back.
“Gentlemen, please!” Mr. Reynolds called urgently. “This is no place for such behavior. You must both leave at once.”
Blaise shook off the restraining hands with a sharp jerk, chest heaving. His knuckles throbbed, but the pain was nothing compared to the protective fury still burning in his veins. He shot Daniel one final, menacing glare.
“Remember my warning,” he growled.
As he was escorted out, the doors shut on Daniel’s smug grin.