Chapter 2
“Ibeg your pardon?” The captivating woman angrily whispered.
Blaise watched the shock bloom across her pretty face.
When he stumbled upon her in his not-so-secret library, he could not help but stand still and watch as her doe-like eyes widened, her lips parted, and color surged from the fragile hollow of her throat to the tips of her ears.
She looked ravishing and almost ethereal in her pale blue gown and flushed skin.
Now that he stood in front of her, it was unmistakable that she was filled with curiosity just as much as he was.
“You heard me,” he drawled.
Anger flashed in her amber eyes, and he enjoyed every second of teasing her. Blaise had drawn a dozen women in this room and had seen every variation of hunger and coyness, both feigned and real. But this tall, honey-haired woman intrigued him like no other.
“I saw you,” he said, suddenly remembering her in the crowd. “In the ballroom.”
Her throat worked. “There were many women in the ballroom.”
“Yes, but you are difficult to miss,” he said seductively, but she looked offended. “May I draw you?”
Her spine snapped straight, pride rallying where composure had deserted her.
“Absolutely not!” she burst out, then seemed to realize to whom she spoke. “That is... That would be... unspeakably indecent, Your Grace.”
Blaise laughed. “Surely, we are past indecent.”
Her fingers tightened, then moved in a sudden, almost violent motion. She picked up her skirts and tried to shove past him, but Blaise had fought stronger creatures, and he did not budge. She tried to escape until he reached behind him and grabbed her small wrist.
“Your Grace, let go of me, or I will tell everyone in the ton that you are…” She sucked in air, searching for words sharp enough. “You are a shameless, depraved, and arrogant man.”
“At least I am not a trespasser.” He let go of her wrist and spoke wittily.
“I got lost and ended up here,” she argued again and motioned toward the room in disgust. “No normal man would create such a place.”
“Be careful,” Blaise warned her, but he was completely amused. “If you exhaust the language now, whatever will you call me in a real scandal?”
Her eyes flashed. “You designed an entire room for… for…”
She broke off, her soft lips pressing tightly together as her gaze skittered away from where he had held her, to the hoops and the mirror above the bed. Blaise saw her pulse beat wildly.
“For?” he prompted gently. “Do finish the thought.”
“I do not even know,” she hissed furiously, “it is simply an… abomination!”
He arched a brow and looked around. “The carpenter charged me for this specific room. If I have been cheated, I should like to know.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“On the contrary,” Blaise lied. “I find myself perplexed. Perhaps you might explain what, precisely, it is used for if not for torture.”
She swallowed, and the candlelight picked up the faint movement of her throat. “You are mocking me.”
“Relentlessly,” he agreed. “But I am also curious. How does a little blossom like you...” He let his gaze travel, deliberately slow, over the sweep of her hips and the dignified set of her shoulders. “Know the uses of a room like this?”
She bristled, and he almost smiled.
“I am not a blossom,” she said through her teeth.
“I disagree. You are quite the blossom. The type that has not fully opened herself yet.”
“I... I am not ignorant,” she said at last. “I know what men and women do. And I have seen…” Her gaze darted to the sketchbook, then away again. “Enough to know what goes on in your room.”
Blaise found her hard to read. Her coldness made her words seem sure, but the blush that refused to leave her cheeks betrayed her true thoughts.
“Then you know more than many ladies who have actually shared a bed,” he murmured.
Her shock returned. “You presume too much, Your Grace.”
“It is written on your skin, Little Blossom,” he said, unrepentantly. “And I know how to read a woman. Now, you have yet to answer my first accusation.”
Her brows drew together. “You're what?”
“That you are the trespasser,” he said pleasantly. “You broke into my private room and rummaged through my drawers.” Her flush leaped high at that phrasing. “You perused my art, and then had the temerity to be offended that the room exists.”
“I was looking for the library,” she snapped.
“Perhaps an introduction would be wise?”
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze steadily despite the heat still lingering in her cheeks.
“Lady Hentley.”
The moment the words left her lips, Blaise’s scarred brow lifted slightly in recognition.
“Hentley,” he murmured. “The widow whose husband died on their wedding night under rather… mysterious circumstances. The one society has quietly shunned ever since. I did not realize I had such notorious company wandering my halls.”
Blaise noticed the way her spine straightened defiantly.
“How charmingly you phrase it. Tell me, Your Grace, does your past bear such perfection? I doubt it does.”
Blaise’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile. He stepped closer until her scent wrapped around him, ignoring the sting of her words.
“My past is far from spotless. But that is a story for another time. Right now, you intrigue me more than anything I have to say.” It was the truth, and he had many questions for her, but he kept them at bay.
Wrong time and place.
“Why would a widow intrigue you?” Her question cut through his thoughts.
“You survived your husband’s sudden death, society’s judgment, and still possessed the courage to attend a ball. How is that not intriguing?” Blaise was impressed that she did not back away from him as he closed the distance; instead, she challenged him with a stubborn stance.
She was not at all what he had imagined. Many spoke of Hentley’s wife as a quiet, shell-like woman. But the viscountess before him possessed a fiery look that made him doubt every rumor.
“If we are to speak of intrigue, perhaps you could explain why a duke needs such… tools in such a room. Perhaps your past did trouble you so, and only torture can satisfy you.”
Blaise’s eyes darkened, but the smirk remained. “Careful, Little Blossom. Some questions lead to answers you may not be ready to hear.”
Her lips parted, and Blaise allowed the silence to lengthen, closing another fraction of space between them. He did not expect his night to end this excitedly. She tilted her head back to glare into his eyes, stubbornly refusing to retreat.
Beautiful. And so damned proud.
“Do you know the difference,” he asked softly, “between a tool used to harm and a tool used to please?”
“I did not even know there were tools,” she admitted and instantly looked ashamed.
Blaise felt a sudden, unexpected softness toward her. She seemed innocent, but he learned never to assume the characteristics of a woman.
Or an animal.
Reality settled into his bones, and he shook away the lust that deterred his thoughts.
“You are honest; I like that.” He eyed her long, curvy body and felt his manhood twitch stubbornly against his thigh.
Blaise lifted a hand, very slowly, and the blossom flinched, but she did not step back.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“No,” she answered too quickly.
“You should be.” He stopped a hair’s breadth from her cheek, feeling the heat of her skin in the narrow space between them.
“As I mentioned before, if you were truly outraged, Little Blossom,” he murmured, “you would have fled long before I arrived. You would have dropped the book and run shrieking down the corridor until some poor gentleman rescued you from your own imagination.”
Her breath caught as he leaned nearer, his mouth close enough to feel the ghost of his words along her jaw.
“Instead,” he went on, “you lit a candle, looked around, and turned every page of my sketch book. If I were any other man, I would assume that you are a spy—”
“I am not a spy!” Her expression proved she was telling the truth.
She bit her lower lip in frustration, and the action seemed unintended, but it struck Blaise low in the gut, causing him to growl.
This time, she backed away in fear. His gaze fell, just for a moment, to the faint tremor in her hand where it clenched at her skirts.
“I confess… “You are testing my limits.” his voice was dangerously low.
He heard her breath hitch, deliciously audible in the small room. Blaise skimmed his knuckles down the air an inch from her arm, not quite touching her but knowing that her skin would feel that phantom sensation all the same. He did not wish to ruin her, not in the way society imagined.
“You should go,” he eventually said very quietly.
She blinked. “What?”
His lips pulled into a devilish smirk. “If you stay another minute, I am going to show you the true use of this room. And you, Little Blossom, are not ready for that.”
Blaise watched the shudder pass through her.
Her fingers curled tighter in her skirts.
For a heartbeat, she did not move, but he waited and watched pride war with curiosity.
He was tempted to taste her, but he could not risk the dukedom on a fleeting moment of lust with the viscountess.
Despite the warning bells, he leaned closer to her until their noses touched.
Her breathing grew heavier, and he drank in her shallow breaths.
“Run,” he whispered against her lips, letting a thread of command coil through his tone. “Before you find yourself asking me not to let you.”
Her eyes darted to his, outraged, until she finally remembered she had legs.
She turned suddenly, blue skirts whispering, and walked to the door with as much dignity as she could summon.
Her hand fumbled on the latch before finding it, and she yanked the door open.
She disappeared into the corridor, leaving the room’s air thrumming behind her.