Chapter 18
Blaise dismounted from his carriage in front of Hentley House as evening shadows lengthened across the driveway.
The journey from Surrey had been long and exhausting, but the crisp night air helped ease some of the tension from his shoulders.
A footman hurried forward to take the reins as Kennedy joined his side.
“Welcome back, Your Grace,” the young man said, bowing. “Shall I have your bags brought in?”
“Yes,” Blaise replied curtly. “And see that the horses are properly rubbed down. They pushed hard today.”
He strode towards the house without waiting for a reply; his boots crunched loudly on the gravel, and he briefly wondered if he should go see Iris first. The butler opened the front door before he reached it.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” he said, taking his coat and gloves. “We were expecting you this morning.”
“Plans changed,” Blaise said, already heading towards the study. “Has Lady Hentley retired for the night?”
“I believe she is still awake. Shall I have Mrs. Henkings inform her of your arrival?”
“No need.” Blaise waved him off. “I will see to my own affairs first.”
The study was quiet and warm when he entered.
The fireplace burned, and he sank into the chair, pulling a stack of correspondence toward him.
There were breeding reports, investment ledgers, and urgent notes from his stewards in Yorkshire that he needed to sift through, and he did not want any distractions.
For nearly an hour, Blaise worked in focused silence; the only sound was the scratch of his quill on the parchment until a soft knock interrupted him.
“Enter,” he called out roughly.
A footman stepped in, carrying a silver tray with a letter atop it. “This arrived for you earlier today, Your Grace. From Lord Vale.”
Blaise’s hand paused mid-signature. He set the quill down and took the letter, dismissing the footman with a nod. Breaking the seal, he read:
Uncle,
I received word of your efforts on my residence, the prospective bride, and the arrangements concerning my relocation to London.
I am aware of your actions and wish to express my disapproval.
I have no interest in acquiring the title, responsibilities, or the lifestyle you are attempting to impose upon me.
I respectfully request that you relinquish these demands and allow me to pursue my life according to my own choices after Oxford.
I refuse to become another pawn in the perpetual tragedies of the Vale family.
Marcus
Blaise crumpled the letter in his fist, jaw clenching until the scar on his face pulled tight. Stubborn boy. Just like his father.
Just like me.
But Blaise had no intention of giving up.
Marcus would see reason eventually, even if he had to drag him into it.
His mood darkened further as he tossed the crumpled paper aside.
He reached for another document when the door opened again without a knock, and Iris stepped inside, clearly intending to grab something from the desk.
She froze when she saw him, looking embarrassed to be caught.
“Blaise,” she said his name on a breath, and his body reacted instantly.
“Iris,” he said her name like a prayer, and she blushed in response.
He wanted her on her knees again.
“I did not realize you had returned. I only came to fetch some papers for the restoration work.” She hurried forward and picked up a stack of paper on the corner of the desk.
Blaise leaned back in his chair, studying her. She looked lovely in the firelight. Her curls were loosely pinned, and she wore a simple evening gown. Blaise looked around and was surprised to find that there were no flowers in the study tonight.
A small surrender, perhaps?
“Breakfast will be ready at nine tomorrow morning,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “If you will attend, that is.”
He noticed the way she avoided his eyes for a moment and the slight tension in her shoulders. They both studied each other in tense silence; the air between them was thick with everything unsaid and undone.
“Is something wrong?” Iris asked finally, her voice softer than he had ever heard before.
“Yes.” Blaise exhaled. “I just had some family issues. But it is nothing new.”
She nodded with understanding. “Is it about your nephew?”
How does she know?
“Yes.” He rubbed his temple. “He is… resistant to my plans.”
“How old is he now?” she asked, tilting her head.
“He is one-and-twenty.” Iris’s expression shifted thoughtfully. “What is it, Iris?”
“Oh, it is nothing. I just all of a sudden thought about my niece, Lady Pamela. She will be eighteen next Season.”
Blaise’s interest sharpened immediately. “Lady Pamela? Tell me about her.”
Iris hesitated at first, then spoke with quiet fondness.
“She is the niece of the Duke of Brentmere; she is a bright young lady and extremely artistic. She loves poetry and sketching. She has a romantic soul, and she is always dreaming of grand passions. Her mother passed tragically during childbirth, and Pamela was raised by her uncle after that.”
Blaise froze. The similarities between Pamela and Marcus were uncanny.
“And what of her father?” Blaise asked.
Iris’s face hardened. “He is not around. Nor should he be. He was an evil man.”
Blaise inclined his head and noticed her fury immediately. “I apologize for bringing up painful memories.”
“Do not apologize,” she said firmly. “The truth is usually painful.”
Blaise thought of this for a while until Iris broke the silence again and said almost casually, “The reason why I guessed it was your nephew troubling you is that he visited while you were away.”
Blaise’s head shot up. “He visited?”
Iris nodded. “Yes. He seems a fine young man, though… a bit on edge.”
“He got that from me.” Blaise sat up straighter, genuinely concerned about his nephew. “What did he want?”
“He said he received word from you, and he was… unsettled by your plans for him. Especially about finding him a bride. Although he listened to me, I cannot help but feel like it is my fault because I assumed he knew that you were searching for a wife for him.” Iris’s gaze fell shamefully, and Blaise had to hold himself back from reaching out to her and comforting her.
“It is not your fault, Iris. The boy is under my care, and I should have told him.” His fists clenched under the table as he pictured Iris bringing herself down the entire day because of his mistake.
“Nevertheless,” she continued, “we talked, and he was grateful for your care, even if he does not show it well.”
Blaise felt a rare warmth at her words. Despite the fact that his plans would eventually displace her, Iris had been kind to Marcus, and he was grateful for that.
“Thank you, Iris,” he said quietly.
She looked up, surprised. “For what?”
“For treating him with respect. You did not have to.” He looked into her eyes and saw the unwavering kindness within them.
Perhaps she only shows her hard side to me.
And that was understandable.
Iris gave him a small, sad smile. “He is just a young man trying to find his way. Much like the rest of us.”
Blaise watched her for a long moment, and the weight of their complicated situation settled heavily between them.
The month was slipping away faster than he liked.
He could see the lingering flush on Iris’s cheeks, and he wished he knew what she was thinking about.
He needed to change the subject before the tension pulled them into dangerous territory again.
“Young people can be remarkably difficult creatures,” Blaise said, his tone deliberately lighter as he leaned against the edge of the desk. “Marcus fights me at every turn. He is as stubborn as a mule and twice as proud. I tell him to come to London, and he digs his heels in deeper at Oxford.”
Iris’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and a small, genuine smile touched her lips.
“I know the feeling well. I had to take care of my sisters after Mama died. Margaret was still so young, and then recently Pamela came along. There were days I thought I would lose my mind trying to keep them all in line while Papa grieved.”
Blaise chuckled, the sound low and warm.
“I understand that all too well. Marcus once convinced half his dormitory that a ghost haunted the east tower in Eton. They spent three nights sneaking out with lanterns and salt to ‘exorcise’ it. The headmaster was not amused. I had to ride up there and smooth things over with a rather large donation to the library fund.”
Iris laughed softly, and the sound eased something tight in his chest. “Margaret once decided she would run away to become a theatrical actress. She packed a bag with three dresses and all our mother’s old jewelry, then got as far as the end of the drive before realizing she had no idea how to reach the theater.
I found her sitting on a rock, crying because her favorite doll had fallen out of the bag somewhere along the way.
I carried her home and never told Papa.”
They shared a quiet moment of amusement, and for a brief time, the sharp edges between them dulled.
“I truly believe that Margaret would be perfect for Marcus,” Blaise said after a pause, testing the waters again. “She seems spirited, clever, and she is from a good family. She could handle his stubbornness, too.”
“No.” Iris’s expression closed off instantly. “Absolutely not.”
Blaise raised a brow. “Why are you so opposed? You do not want to be related to me that badly?”
Iris gulped, her gaze dropping to the floor for a second before she met his eyes again.
“No, Blaise, I do not want to be related to you,” she admitted quietly.
The honesty hit him harder than expected. Blaise felt a strange twist in his gut, but he pushed it aside. He wanted to ask what she truly meant by that, but even he was afraid of the answer.
Iris hesitated, then asked with genuine curiosity, “Is finding a bride for someone so young and hard-headed truly the right decision? He is still practically a boy.”