Chapter 10
“No. I specifically asked for a lighter paint.” Iris stood in the drawing room, arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching with growing dismay as the laborers ruthlessly tore down the old draperies.
The heavy fabric she had mended and cleaned so many times over the years was yanked from the rods with careless force and tossed into a heap on the floor like rubbish. Dust swirled in the air as the painter held up a hideous bucket of burgundy paint to show her.
“My lady, I—”
“Careful with those!” she called out sharply, stepping away from the painter and toward a burly man who carried the small mahogany coffee table she loved in one arm. “That can still be used for the servants’ quarters or—”
Before she could finish, the door opened, and Blaise strode in. His dark curls were slightly tousled, as if he had run impatient fingers through them while overseeing the chaos.
“What is going on in here?” he demanded loudly, causing everyone to stop suddenly.
Three days. It had been three long, restless days since he had fully taken over Hentley House.
Iris’s nights had become a torment she could scarcely admit even to herself.
Knowing he slept just a door away, his long, strong body stretched out in what used to be her husband’s bedchamber, had left her tossing and turning.
Every morning her skin felt feverish beneath the sheets, and every night her dreams betrayed her.
“Your Grace, her ladyship is not happy with the paint.” The painter exposed her.
Damn him!
“Iris?” Blaise called her name sternly, and she felt her body react.
Damn me!
In her dreams, Blaise would call her name as he pushed open their connecting door.
He would stalk toward her with dark eyes and finish what they had started in the study.
Those large, calloused hands pinning her wrists, his mouth claiming hers again, deeper this time, while he whispered filthy promises against her throat.
Every morning she awoke aching and empty, her thighs pressed together in shameful need, cursing both him and her own treacherous imagination.
“Iris!” he hissed her name again.
Thinking of the devil.
She rolled her eyes as he approached her.
“Blaise?” She tilted her head up at him and smiled.
She noticed the sharp intake of breath he took before he stopped a few feet away from her. Iris thought that perhaps she affected him, too.
One of the laborers, the burly one, held up a pot of the soft cream paint Iris had carefully selected.
Where did he dump my table? She looked around frantically.
“His Grace said burgundy for the walls, my lady. Not this.”
Iris’s temper flared. “I chose the cream. It is practical and brightens the room. I think you should proceed with that.”
The man looked at the duke helplessly.
Blaise’s deep voice cut through the air. “The burgundy, as I instructed, will make the room look far classier. Perhaps the viscountess should learn what true elegance means before issuing these orders.”
Iris turned to him, appalled. Heat rushed to her cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and fury.
“Classier?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You want to turn it into some gaudy display like some kind of… of… gentleman’s club!”
Without waiting for his reply, she spun on her heels and stomped away. She cussed when she heard the sound of his boots following closely behind.
“Iris,” he called her name again, but this time it sounded like a warning.
She ignored him, hurrying down the corridor, but the duke caught up easily. A strong hand closed around her upper arm, firm but not bruising, pulling her to a stop just outside the library.
“Let go of me,” she hissed, whirling to face him.
Blaise did not release her immediately. His dark eyes bored into hers as he held onto her.
“The paint you chose looks tacky,” he said flatly. And even then, the sound of his voice and his firm but gentle touch made her stomach flutter.
“It is not tacky; the room is small, and the burgundy will make it look even smaller! You told me the workmen would be under my command,” she retorted.
“I know what I told you. But cream is not classy at all. And if we are to search for a suitable bride for Marcus and entertain guests here, this house must look like a duke’s residence,” he argued confidently.
“But it is not a duke’s residence, and your nephew is not a duke.”
She regretted her words as Blaise clenched his jaw.
“You are right, Iris. Right now, it is not a duke’s residence; it looks more like a dead viscount’s forgotten property. And I do not need that reminder lingering in these walls.”
His words stung, and Iris wrenched her arm free.
She ignored the tingling in her skin where his fingers had been.
The memory of his lean body pressed against hers came to her suddenly and left her shivering.
She stepped away from him, heart hammering frantically from her anger and uncontrolled thoughts.
“You are an insufferable man, Blaise,” she muttered, turning sharply again and storming down the hallway. Her blood boiled with frustration as she reached the turn toward the garden doors, and the words slipped out under her breath. “I hope your cousin haunts the walls you are painting.”
Behind her, Blaise’s rich, amused voice carried clearly. “I heard that, Little Blossom!”
* * *
It was five o’clock in the morning when a soft knock sounded at the study door. Blaise, already dressed and deep into correspondence, called out, “Enter.”
A young footman he had hired stepped in, looking slightly nervous. “Breakfast is ready, Your Grace.”
Blaise paused, then let out a low chuckle, the sound rich with dark amusement.
“Every single morning, I have told you and the rest of the staff that breakfast should be served at nine o’clock. Yet here we are again.”
The footman shifted his weight. “I apologize, Your Grace. There must have been a mix-up in the kitchen.”
Blaise waved a dismissive hand, though his eyes glinted with understanding. “Of course there was. What is your name again?”
“Kennedy, Your Grace.” The young man looked ready to run away in fear.
“Kennedy, remove these flowers from the study before I return from this extremely early breakfast. I have no need for a garden exploding in here.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Kennedy bowed, already moving toward the nearest vase.
Blaise stood, stretching his broad shoulders.
An early breakfast was proving to be a good thing.
He had been waking before dawn these past days, gaining a solid head start on the renovations and his other responsibilities.
The house was gradually transforming under his guidance, and the routine suited him.
Maybe he should thank Iris for the unintentional gift of these early mornings.
The thought brought a faint smirk to his lips as he left the study.
“Your Grace, where should I leave the flowers?” Kennedy asked before he could escape.
Blaise thought about it for a second. “Leave them outside Lady Hentley’s chambers.”
He winked at the boy before he made his way down the corridor towards the breakfast room. As Blaise strolled, he noticed a soft glow of light spilling from one of the side passages. Curiosity got the best of him; he slowed his steps and followed the light.
Who else could be awake this early?
The closer he drew, the clearer the sounds became. There was gentle splashing of water, accompanied by a soft, melodic humming. The voice was unmistakably feminine and familiar.
Iris.
Blaise immediately stopped just outside the ajar door, one hand hovering near the handle.
His breath hitched when he saw Iris’s long, curvy body submerged in the copper tub; her hair was pinned loosely, with damp tendrils clinging to her neck; water glistened on her bare shoulders; and droplets fell on her full breasts.
The image of her filled his mind, and his entire body reacted immediately.
Iris continued to hum, innocently and unaware, sending a wave of heat straight through him. His fingers flexed. It would be so easy to push the door fully open, to step inside, and remind her exactly what their bargain entailed.
Instead, Blaise drew in a steady breath and shut the door softly, careful not to make a sound. He turned and continued towards the breakfast room, jaw tight with restrained desire.
Not yet.
He stalked down the corridor, using all his strength not to turn around until finally he reached the breakfast room.
“Good morning, Mrs. Henkings,” he greeted the housekeeper with a wide grin.
Despite the tiredness in her eyes, she curtsied gracefully. “Good morning, Your Grace. Your breakfast has been served.”
She gestured toward the breakfast table, set with the usual modest spread. Blaise sat and quickly sorted through the morning post. Most were business matters, but one letter bore the familiar handwriting of his nephew. He broke the seal and read through it quickly.
Dear Uncle,
I have received your correspondence and the directives to travel to London.
While I appreciate your concern for my future, I would prefer to prolong my stay at Oxford for another year. My academic progress is satisfactory, and I currently have no inclination to become involved in the intricacies of London society or to pursue any titles.
Please refrain from making arrangements on my behalf. I am satisfied with my current situation.
Marcus
Blaise’s hand clenched the paper until it crumpled. He looked at the crushed letter for a long moment, then pushed it aside and ate his breakfast with grim efficiency, drinking tea and eating eggs as if they had personally insulted him. The boy was digging in his heels, just like his father.
Stubborn to the core.
Blaise would deal with it later. For now, the renovations and a troublesome widow demanded his focus. He rose and made his way back toward the study, his mood darker than when he had left. As he reached the doorway, he stopped short.
“What the devil?” Blaise muttered under his breath.
The room had been transformed into a floral nightmare.
Bouquets of flowers covered every available surface.
Vases overflowing with fresh roses and daisies, clearly picked from the garden, sat on the desk, the side tables, and the mantelpiece.
The air was thick with the sweet, overwhelming scent of flowers.
Petals littered the floor like colorful confetti.
It looked as if a damned conservatory had exploded inside his workspace.
Blaise stepped inside slowly, his boots crunching on a stray petal.
“Mrs. Henkings!” he called, and his voice carried through the corridor. When no immediate response came, he raised his voice louder. “Someone explain this floral invasion!”
A young maid appeared moments later, eyes wide with innocence. She carried a dusting cloth and curtsied neatly.
“Is something the matter, Your Grace?”
Blaise gestured broadly at the explosion of blooms surrounding him. “Where did these flowers come from? I specifically instructed Kennedy to remove them before I returned.”
The maid blinked in confusion. “Oh, but we were instructed that you might enjoy them, Your Grace. Her ladyship mentioned how much you admired the gardens, and she wanted the study to feel more welcoming for you.”
Blaise’s jaw tightened. He plucked a rose from the nearest bouquet and twirled it between his fingers, the thorns pricking lightly at his skin.
“I see. And this was Lady Hentley’s idea, was it?”
The maid hesitated for the briefest second, then smiled sweetly. “Yes, Your Grace. She simply wished to brighten the space. She said you had been working so hard on the renovations, and she thought fresh flowers would lift the mood.”
Blaise stepped closer, towering over the small woman. His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. “How thoughtful of her. Find out from her loyal servants if she often encourages such… creative interpretations of my instructions.”
The maid kept her gaze lowered respectfully. “Yes, Your Grace. But if the flowers displease you, I shall remove them at once.”
Blaise let out a short, humorless laugh. “Remove all of them. And inform the rest of the staff that the next time I give an order, I expect it to be followed without these charming little rebellions.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the maid replied, curtsying again before she began gathering the nearest vases.
He watched her clear several bouquets, the sweet scent now cloying in his nostrils. Despite the irritation simmering in his chest, a reluctant spark of humor flared. Iris was waging a war of small resistances, and her troops were loyal to the last. Including the newcomers was smart of her.
A dark smile curved his lips.
Let her play her games.
He plucked the last rose from the bouquet on his table, twirling it between his fingers as the maid hurried out with some vases. The bloom was perfect, just beginning to open. It reminded him of Iris herself.
“Keep fighting, Little Blossom,” he murmured to the empty room. “It will only make the surrender sweeter.”