Chapter 23
“Your Grace,” a dry voice drawled at Blaise’s elbow. “Are you looking for someone in particular?”
Blaise did not smile; he was not in the mood to banter. “If I am looking for someone, it is most definitely not you.”
Alistair stepped into his line of sight, blocking the view of the lawn. The Duke of Skelton was dressed perfectly, as always.
“You did not come for my assistance again for this grand party,” Alistair said. “Although with this décor I am beginning to wonder if the rumors were true and if you had become respectable.”
“I had some help, and I have been occupied,” Blaise responded curtly.
He searched the gardens for one person only, but he could not find her anywhere. Blaise’s mind traveled to the red room that was just inside. The week and month were over, and he could not stop imagining what he would do if he could have Iris in there again.
“Tell me. Were you occupied by the help? And have you rid yourself of her yet?” Alistair’s voice interrupted his search again.
Blaise stared at the pale wine. “Rid myself of who?”
“The widow at Hentley House.” Alistair’s eyes glittered. “Did you toss her out personally? Or did you delegate to the servants? I should like the details.”
Blaise hated how casually his cousin asked about Iris. It simply did not sit right with him, and he could not understand why.
“She is still there,” Blaise said eventually.
“Good God, man,. You have never been so inefficient in your life.” Alistair tutted, as if disappointed.
Blaise took a swallow of wine, but he did not taste any of it. The memory of Marcus’s flung words echoed unpleasantly in his mind.
“It is… complicated,” he said.
Alistair studied him. “You do not usually allow complications to stand between you and what you have decided must be done. Has London misjudged the infamous Duke of Knoxford?”
“I said I have been occupied.” Blaise was getting beyond annoyed with Alistair.
“Occupied with who exactly? Because there is a certain raven-haired beau who keeps calling your name at all the gentlemen’s clubs.” Alistair winked at him.
“That woman bores me now.”
“She never bored you before, and her talents are legendary.” He glanced at Blaise’s face, searching. “You have not had a woman since you moved into Hentley, have you?”
He suspects nothing.
“I have had no time,” Blaise lied.
“You always made time! You do not even have a discreet mistress, Blaise?”
The honest answer rose before he could shape it into something glib: None.
He had not lain with anyone since that first day in Hentley, with dust in the air, his temper frayed, and a woman with amber eyes standing before him, refusing to move.
“You are unusually interested in my bed, Skelton,” Blaise jested.
“I am merely interested in why you are in such a foul mood.” Alistair’s easy expression had gone thoughtful.
“You snarl at everyone, bark at your servants, and now you glower at your own garden party as though it has personally offended you. There can only be three possible causes: money, which I know is not it; politics, which you avoid; or women.”
“Not women,” Blaise said. “One woman, perhaps, but not in the manner you think.”
“Ah.” Alistair’s voice brightened with interest. “So, there is a woman at the root of this after all. Let me guess. The inconvenient widow who will not vacate your house and refuses to be bought off with a cottage in Surrey?”
Blaise did not dignify that with a reply.
“She must be remarkable,” Alistair continued. “You, of all men, undone by a widow.”
“I am not undone.”
“You are here, gritting your teeth. You have not flirted with a single lady since you arrived. And you did not even notice that Lady Pembrough has been staring at you for the last five minutes as though she would like to lick your scar.”
Blaise’s head turned, surprised despite himself.
Lady Pembrough indeed stood near the rose arbor, half hidden behind an ivy column, her gaze fixed on him with eager suspicion.
Once, he would have smiled slowly at her, watched the blush spread under her powder, and taken his time to decide whether to reward her persistence.
But that idea did not stir him. His mind refused the image. It was not indifference, exactly; it was as if some inner doorway had been barred.
“I am… preoccupied,” he said slowly. “That is all.”
“With the widow.”
“With other matters,” he said too quickly.
Alistair’s brows rose. “What is she like? Is she at least pretty enough to excuse your absurdity?”
Blaise’s gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the far end of the lawn, where the garden opened into a small clearing bordered by beeches. There, under a string of paper lanterns that had not yet been lit, a figure stood slightly apart from the crowd.
A faint breeze tugged a few of her rebellious strands loose. Her gown was a soft green that made her skin look almost luminous, and the fabric draped and fell in a way that concealed the curves he had felt beneath his hands.
Iris.
Something in his chest tightened, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Alistair followed his gaze and gave a low whistle. “Ah. So that is she.”
Blaise did not correct him. He said, instead, “You will not speak of her that way.”
“What way? I have not yet said anything wicked.” Alistair flicked him a sideways look. “But I will tell you this: if that woman were occupying my house, I might find myself inexplicably tolerant of the arrangement.”
“She is not your concern.”
“On the contrary. Any woman who can turn you into a celibate recluse is very much my concern.” Alistair clapped a hand lightly to Blaise’s arm. “Go on, then.”
“What?”
“Go to her. You look like a man on the edge of a precipice. It will either cure you or kill you. And if you will not flirt with anyone else, at least you may lose that murderous expression in company. You are frightening the debutantes.” Alistair looked around them worriedly.
The quartet had shifted from background melody into the slower strains of a waltz, though only a few couples had yet bothered to take the grass for it. A garden party was not, by tradition, a dancing affair.
Blaise looked at Iris again. She was not laughing. She rarely did so in company, and he had noticed. Her lips curved politely, but her eyes remained watchful. Amber flecks in brown; he had sketched them, without intending to, more than once over the last couple of days.
“It was not a pleasure talking to you,” Blaise muttered to Alistair before he left him standing slack-jawed.
As he crossed the lawn, the air felt thicker, scented with crushed grass and roses. A woman’s laughter rang nearby, high and bright, but he had his eyes on her.
* * *
Iris saw him coming when he was only a few paces off. She had been looking for him and felt relieved when she finally saw him.
“Your Grace,” she said with perfect politeness when he stopped before her.
“Little Blossom.” He bowed. “You look…”
His stalling made her question herself. She looked down at the pale green ball gown her sisters had picked out for her, and she imagined that perhaps it did not suit her.
“…wonderful,” he finished.
Her lips tilted. “What an alarming compliment. I fear you will make me vain.”
“You would be very poor at it,” he said. “You have entirely too clear a view of your own faults.”
“Do I?” she asked lightly. “Then I shall rely on you to remind me of them whenever I stray.”
“You require no assistance from me in reproaching yourself.” He held out his hand. “Now, dance with me.”
Her eyes flicked over his shoulder, as if checking for witnesses. “It is a garden party,” she said. “Few people are dancing.”
Blaise looked around and noticed that.
“Then we shall give them something to imitate,” he said. “Unless you doubt your skill.”
Her gaze snapped back to his, warmed by a spark of offense. “I do not doubt my skill, Your Grace.”
“Then indulge me.”
Iris hesitated just long enough for him to feel the weight of her consideration, then set her gloved hand in his. It was the smallest of contacts, and yet his pulse jumped.
They took their place on the short-trimmed grass. The quartet, perhaps heartened by the sight of a duke moving to the music, played with more enthusiasm. Blaise set his palm at Iris’s waist; through the layers of fabric, he felt her heat and the breath she drew when his fingers settled.
Others began to drift forward. By the time they stepped into the opening figure of the dance, a half-dozen couples had joined them.
“I had not thought you a man for dancing,” Iris said as they turned. “You seem more inclined to sit in a corner and scowl at society.”
“I prefer to scowl while moving,” he said. “It gives the impression of energy.”
“Ah. Is that what you are doing now? Impressing society?” She raised a brow. “I fear you have chosen poorly if you wish to reassure them of your propriety. Dancing with the widow you are supposed to have evicted is hardly prudent.”
“Let them talk,” he said. “They will, regardless. We might as well give them something accurate to remark upon.”
“And what is that?” she asked softly, their hands meeting and parting as they wove through the steps.
“That we dance well together,” he said shamelessly.
Iris lowered her lashes. “Yes, I underestimated you.”
“And I misjudged you,” he said. “Tell me something, Little Blossom.”
“That sounds ominous,” she murmured.
“Why have you never remarried?”
Iris’s steps faltered by the smallest fraction before she recovered.
“After my husband died,” she said slowly, “it was as if I ceased to exist.”
“That seems… unlikely,” he said. “You are not easily overlooked.”
“You would be astonished at what society can fail to see when it chooses.” She adjusted her hand in his, fingers flexing.
“At first, there were condolences, of course. Curious callers. People wanted to see if I would fling myself on the coffin or waste away decorously. When I failed to do either, the interest waned. A poor viscountcy in debt is remarkably unalluring, I discovered. A widow with no fortune and no influential family is remarkable only for her ability to be in the way.”
Just talking about it saddened her.
“But you had your father.” Blaise squeezed her hand as he spun her.
“Yes. And he is a dear man. But no one comes courting because a lady’s father is soft-hearted and hopeless with accounts.
There were one or two suggestions, early on.
Men whose fortunes had sunk slightly below respectability, who thought a house might be sufficient compensation for a perpetually uncertain income.
But by the time word of our debts had crept through the right drawing rooms, even they were discouraged. ”
She shrugged delicately. “And then… people simply stopped looking. I became useful, instead. A place to send old gowns to. Invisible, as widows often are, unless we contrive to misbehave.”
“You do not strike me as invisible,” he said.
“Because you barged into my house,” she replied. “You only noticed me because I was an obstacle.”
“That is not true.”
She did not argue. Her fingers curled against his as Blaise pulled her closer to him.
“You speak of it lightly,” he said. “But being unseen is no small thing.”
“No.” A wry curve touched her mouth. “It is rather convenient, at times. People say more when they imagine something is unimportant. You may collect a great deal of information that way.”
He understood the impulse with brutal immediacy, though he rarely allowed himself to name it. “You do know that it was never your burden to bear.”
“Someone must.” Her smile flickered, brittle.
“My father is… kind. That is his virtue. It has never been his talent to distinguish between an investment and a sinkhole. He trusted the wrong people, and when everything began to slide downward, it seemed obvious to me that I should find a way to stop it. I was the eldest. It was my duty.”
“And so, you married Hentley?”
“Yes. He promised security. We were to be safe. Instead, I found ledgers full of numbers I did not understand. By then, my sister was…”She froze and suddenly missed Camelia, who did not attend the party.
Iris reminded herself that she would have to visit her or write to her.
Camelia never misses a party or ball, and Iris worried that it had something to do with the baby.
“Was?” Blaise pulled her back to reality.
“I apologize; I lost my train of thought. Camelia was busy saving us all in a far more dramatic fashion.”
“And you blame yourself for not preventing your father’s mistakes. For not carrying a weight that was never meant for your shoulders?”
Iris’s gaze snapped back to his. “Who else is there to blame?”
“Your father,” he said bluntly.
Her fingers tightened around his. “He is a good man.”
“I do not doubt it. I am very fond of him myself. But a good heart does not make a wise steward. Your father made poor decisions that placed you and your sisters in danger. That is his burden and not yours.”
“But I lived in his house,” she said. “I saw the bills arrive. I heard the way his voice shook when he spoke of the future. I should have—”
“What?” Blaise’s tone sharpened, and it made her shiver against him as they danced elegantly together. “You were a girl, Iris. You were not responsible for the weakness of the man who ought to have shielded you from them.”
Her name on his tongue made her breath catch, and she was sure that he felt every tremor and shiver.
They moved through a turn, the world narrowing to the pattern of their steps and the warm press of her palm.
“You carry your own burdens very nobly, Your Grace,” Iris said softly. “It is charming that you are so eager to divest me of mine. But I think perhaps you should practice what you preach.”
“What burden do you imagine I carry?” he asked, though he knew which one she meant.
“Your brother’s death,” she said, not unkindly.
“That is because I am responsible for his death,” he said.
“But you did not kill him,” Iris said matter-of-factly.
Iris looked up at his scar. She held her breath and slowly lifted her hand from his shoulder, fingers trembling slightly as they moved toward his cheek. His body went still.
Then Iris caught herself, and her hand halted just shy of the ruined skin; her fingers curled into her palm, and she lowered it back to the safe territory of his shoulder.
“You should not carry a burden that is not yours, Iris,” Blaise whispered gently into her ear.
Iris whispered back, “And you should not carry the burden of your brother’s death.”