Chapter 8
“Blaise!” Alistair Fielding, the Duke of Skelton, called out from the dim private salon.
Blaise smiled knowingly when he realized that his cousin and most trusted friend was already ensconced in a favored corner booth, his long legs stretched out lazily beneath the table, and he was already surrounded by a group of blushing women.
Alistair’s hair was artfully disheveled, his cravat loosened at the throat, and a glass of half-filled brandy dangled from his fingers.
A knowing smirk played on his cousin’s lips when Blaise approached him.
“Or should I say, Your Grace? It still sounds absurd coming from my mouth. One minute you are mucking out stables in Surrey, the next you are inheriting a dukedom and hosting balls that have the entire ton in a frenzy.” Alistair shook his head before dismissing all the ladies.
“Save the formalities for the simpering debutantes,” Blaise replied dryly, sliding into the seat opposite him.
Almost immediately, a striking courtesan with raven hair cascading over her shoulders and a neckline that plunged daringly low glided to his side.
“Your Grace.” She offered a crystal glass of brandy with a sultry smile, her fingers brushing his deliberately. Blaise accepted the drink with a polite nod but waved her away with a subtle gesture.
Tonight, his blood was already stirred by another woman, one with honey-colored curls and amber eyes that haunted him more than they should.
He sat in companionable silence with his cousin, who eyed him suspiciously for several minutes, sipping the fine liquor as the salon’s atmosphere wrapped around them.
Soft laughter rippled from nearby tables where other gentlemen entertained themselves with the available women.
One curvaceous blonde finally caught Alistair’s attention, her fingers trailing teasingly along the back of a nearby chair, but he held back.
“You look like hell.” Alistair’s sharp gaze settled on Blaise’s face. “That scar of yours is standing out tonight. Redder than usual. You still letting it eat at you, or are you merely blushing?”
“What do you think?” he asked dryly.
Blaise’s fingers rose almost unconsciously to trace the jagged line that ran from his left brow, slicing viciously across his cheekbone before ending near his jaw. The skin there remained slightly tender, a permanent brand from that fateful day.
“Lighten up, Blaise. I am just jesting.”
“I know. This scar is a blessed reminder,” he spoke so lowly that Alistair had to bend to hear him over the ambient murmurs.
“You should not hold on to that memory.”
“I have to remember what I did,” Blaise argued.
Alistair leaned on his elbows, his expression turning serious. The playful glint in his eyes all but faded.
“You would rather let the whole damned ton believe you murdered your own brother in some cold-blooded grab for the title. Why the bloody hell do you keep feeding that rumor? A few words from you, and the whispers would die. You could clear your name just like that.” He snapped his finger.
Blaise stared into the swirling depths of his brandy, the firelight reflected in the liquid like blood on wet leaves.
“I am responsible for his death, Alistair. In every way that truly matters. Let them whisper their scandals. I prefer to carry the weight of my brother’s death. It is mine to bear.”
The memories of his brother’s final moments flickered unbidden in his mind and heart. Blaise shoved them down, taking a swig of the brandy to burn away the taste of regret.
Alistair sighed heavily but respected his boundaries, as he always did. He knew when to push and when to retreat.
“And young Marcus? How is the lad faring with all this upheaval?”
“Young? Marcus is a man now, and he prefers staying at Oxford,” Blaise replied, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips despite the heaviness in his chest. “Stubborn as his father ever was. He buries himself in books, I suspect, to avoid thinking about any of it. I would not be surprised if he blames me, too.”
“For what? You practically raised him!” Alistair’s voice rose.
“I do not know, Alistair. Perhaps he blames me for Benjamin’s death, for the years of distance, and for the shadow that is always lingering over him. The boy was convinced that he was unwanted. And now he truly believes that he is a bastard because of his own father’s neglect.”
Blaise hated that his brother had died before reconnecting with his son, leaving the boy lost and alone.
Alistair’s brow furrowed deeply. “You still plan to drag him to London regardless?”
“Of course. In one month,” Blaise confirmed, his tone hardening with unyielding resolve. He set his glass down with a decisive clink.
One month with Iris.
His skin prickled, and he could still taste her on the tip of his tongue.
Blaise cleared his throat. “By then, Hentley House will be fully repaired. The workmen start tomorrow. It will be a proper home for Marcus. And I will have a suitable bride arranged for him. A match with genuine character, one that bolsters his position and silences the vicious whispers about his legitimacy once and for all. He would not spend another day feeling like an unwanted shadow or an inconvenience born of his father’s grief.
Not while I have the power to change it. ”
Alistair studied him for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. “You are overstepping, man. Marcus might resent your grand intervention. He has been grieving in his own way for the last six months and carving out his own path. Does that not sound familiar?”
Blaise’s jaw tightened, the scar pulling taut. Alistair made a good point, but his plan was already in action.
“I do not care if he resents it at first. I will not let him live with that emptiness. Not if I can prevent it.”
His dear cousin leaned back against the velvet booth, crossing his arms over his chest. “You have a god complex, Blaise.”
Blaise chuckled as the alcohol began to warm him up. “But I always thought of myself as a devil.”
“You just look like a devil, but you want to save everyone even though you cannot. Especially those who do not want to be saved. Some wounds run too deep, and forcing your solutions only makes them fester.” Alistair gulped the rest of his drink.
The accusation grated against Blaise’s pride. He had never liked being painted as some benevolent savior; it implied weakness and sentimentality he had long outgrown in the brutal world of business and survival.
“Save everyone?” A dark, humorless chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Hardly. In fact, I plan to throw a certain penniless widow out onto the streets any day now.”
Alistair’s eyebrows shot upward in genuine surprise; then he threw his head back and laughed, rich and unrestrained.
“Ah, yes. The infamous Widow Hentley. Word travels faster than racehorses in these circles. Have you already commandeered her house? Bold moves, even for you.” Alistair raised his glass, then frowned.
“Now that I think about it, I have never seen her, not once. The wedding was a blur, too.”
Blaise’s thoughts immediately drifted to Iris, her flushed cheeks in the firelight, the defiant lift of her chin, the way her body had melted against his during their searing kiss.
“I did not even bother to attend Cousin Hentley’s wedding.” Blaise scoffed, and Alistair chuckled.
Blaise knew damn well that Iris had not truly meant her reckless offer.
It had been a desperate gambit, a shield thrown up to buy herself time in the only home she had clawed into existence over seven long years.
But that knowledge only fueled his curiosity.
He wanted to see how her plan would unfold, how long her stubborn pride would hold against the undeniable pull between them.
“Poor cousin Hentley, did he...” Alistair whispered and leaned closer. “Did he really die during his wedding night?”
Blaise held back his laughter as he signaled for another drink. “Apparently, the bride did not even warm his bed when he was discovered.”
Alistair let out a peal of laughter, clutching his drink in one hand and slapping his knee with his other.
“Do not laugh at the dead, Alistair!” But Blaise could not help himself either, as he chuckled along.
“That is quite despairing, at least not for the widow,” Alistair said, wiping away the tears that fell.
Blaise’s jaw clenched; he did not want to imagine Iris with any other man but himself.
“Yes, the arrangement with this particular widow is… intriguing, to say the least,” Blaise admitted, his voice dropping to a husky timbre laced with dark promise. “She wants to repair the house before Marcus’s return, and she offered to help me find a bride for him in exchange for her surrender.”
It was a half-truth, but Blaise could not bring himself to tell even his most trusted confidant about Iris’s scandalous offer.
Alistair nearly choked on his brandy. “Why would she want that responsibility?”
Blaise shrugged. “I asked her the same thing, but she is a determined woman. So, I allowed it.”
Heat coiled tight and low in his groin as he remembered her other promises. Blaise had to admit that he admired her tenacity.
“She sounds clever,” Alistair pointed out.
“She thinks it is a clever strategy—a way to delay the inevitable displacement. But I see through every layer of it. Perhaps I do need her help navigating the ton for Marcus’s bride; she knows their true characters better than I ever could these days.
Not that I would admit that weakness to her face.
As for the rest of our deal... I will savor watching her unravel. ”
One month of her fire, her blushes, her hidden hunger. Then she will be mine to claim thoroughly in my red room…
“You are playing with fire,” Alistair warned, though his eyes danced with amusement. “This only proves my earlier point. You control every situation under the noble guise of helping. First, your nephew; now, this widow. What happens when she calls your bluff and refuses to leave?”