Chapter 13
“Imust say, Iris, I rather like the new drawing room,” Margaret declared brightly as she took a delicate sip of her tea and glanced around appreciatively. “That deep burgundy is quite striking. It feels much grander than before.”
Iris’s spoon paused midway to her mouth. “It is distasteful, Margaret,” she replied, a touch too defensively. “It is overly dramatic and far too bold for the house. It does not suit the space at all.”
Camelia raised an elegant brow, exchanging a knowing look with Margaret, who raised her hands as if she were surrendering.
“Calm down, Iris; you do not have to bite my head off. I was just trying to be cordial,” Margaret said sarcastically.
“What or who has gotten you so riled up?” Camelia asked, concern etched in her features.
Iris knew that Camelia was only curious about every detail of the Duke of Knoxford. Ever since she told Margaret about him moving in, Iris has been receiving twice as many letters from her sister as she usually did.
She sighed. “I apologize; it is just the renovations that have me on edge.”
“Speaking of edgy things… Where is the duke this morning? We have been here nearly an hour and have yet to catch a glimpse of the mysterious man who has taken over your life.” Margaret said, wiggling her eyebrows. Camelia laughed, her growing belly bouncing with the tinkling sounds.
Iris set her spoon down carefully, keeping her expression neutral. “I am unsure. I heard him return quite late last night, and he sounded rather upset about something. I have not seen him since.”
Both sisters leaned forward at once, eyes sparkling with identical curiosity. The intrigue on their faces was unmistakable.
“What?” Iris asked, narrowing her eyes.
Camelia’s lips curved into a mischievous smile. “You simply have to find out what happened! Raph overheard all the men talking about a fight at Reynold’s. Apparently, it was quite the scene. Punches thrown, blood on the floor, the usual male nonsense. Surely it must involve your duke.”
A terrible feeling twisted in Iris’s stomach. She instinctively pressed a hand there, her thoughts darting to Blaise, his strong frame, that jagged scar, and the barely contained fury she had seen in him before.
“I hope he is all right,” she murmured before she could stop herself.
Margaret’s grin widened. “Will you find out what happened, then? For our sake, if not your own?”
Iris sighed, knowing resistance was futile when her sisters united. “All right. I will ask him if he knows anything about it.”
Margaret clapped her hands together happily, practically bouncing in her seat.
Iris watched her with gentle frustration.
Her younger sister had always been the liveliest, and it was clear she harbored a small, innocent crush on the idea of the dangerous duke.
It was understandable, really. The scarred duke had that effect on women.
The three sisters spent the next few hours catching up properly on Camelia’s progressing pregnancy and Margaret’s latest social adventures.
Iris was grateful to hear that their father’s health was improving and that Camelia’s husband’s niece, Pamela, was blooming beautifully as her debut Season quickly approached.
But inevitably, the conversation turned to the man currently dominating Iris’s household.
“So,” Camelia began, eyes gleaming. “Tell us more about the duke. Is he as brooding and intense as everyone says, or is he just as domineering as he was at the ball?”
“And does he really have that dangerous air about him up close, or is it just the scar?” Margaret pointed a spoon at her and squinted.
Iris shifted uncomfortably in her seat, heat creeping up her neck. “He is… complicated and very focused on the renovations and his nephew’s future. That is all.”
Margaret was not satisfied. “Come now, Iris. You are living under the same roof as one of the most talked-about men in London. Has he been a perfect gentleman to you? If he has not, I will put him in his place.”
“I do not feel comfortable speaking about him in such detail,” Iris said carefully, avoiding their gazes.
She knew her sisters far too well. They would see right through any attempt at deception. The memory of Blaise’s hands on her and the devastating sketch he had left her burned too fresh in her mind. She could not risk them noticing how deeply he affected her.
Camelia tilted her head, studying her closely. “You are blushing, Iris. Quite fiercely, in fact.”
“I am not,” Iris protested, though she could feel the warmth spreading across her cheeks.
Margaret laughed. “You would blush too if you were staying under the same roof as such a mysterious, handsome, and dangerous man. That scar alone—”
Just as Margaret spoke, heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. Blaise walked past the open doorway, then stopped abruptly, turning back to regard the three women in the drawing room.
“Ah! Our first guests!” he beamed at them, and Iris frowned at his reaction until realization dawned on her.
“These are my sisters,” she said too quickly.
His tall, broad-shouldered frame filled the entrance, where he stopped suddenly. He looked every bit the commanding duke, even in his casual morning attire.
Iris’s heart stuttered at the sight of him.
“Well, all the same. They are our first guests in our new drawing room.” Iris could hear Margaret whispering ‘our’ to Camelia, who giggled quietly in response.
“Good morning, ladies,” Blaise addressed them as he stepped into the room.
Her sisters rose quickly, curtsying with graceful poise.
“Your Grace,” they murmured in unison.
Blaise’s gaze swept over them appreciatively. “I never knew Lady Hentley had such beautiful sisters. The resemblance to your mother must be remarkable.”
Both Camelia and Margaret blushed prettily at the compliment. Iris felt a sharp, unwelcome twist of jealousy in her chest. She rolled her eyes, trying to hide her reaction, but Blaise’s dark eyes found hers, holding them with unmistakable intensity.
“Do not forget our dinner tonight, Iris.” Without waiting for a reply, he gave the sisters a polite nod. “A pleasure to meet you both. Do excuse me.”
Iris had never seen her sisters so quiet and polite before. The moment he disappeared, Camelia and Margaret whipped around to face her, eyes wide with shock and delight.
“You are having dinner with him?” they asked in unison.
* * *
Blaise sat at the head of the long dining table, opposite Iris.
For once, there had been no miscommunication about the time.
Dinner was served precisely at seven o’clock, exactly as he had ordered.
The food was excellent, the wine well-chosen, and the room was impeccably prepared. Yet his attention was not on the meal.
It was fixed entirely on Iris.
She sat at the far end of the table in a modest but flattering evening gown, a deep cream color, her hair elegantly swept up.
She had been stealing glances at him all evening, specifically at the jagged scar that ran down the left side of his face.
Her curious eyes kept returning to it, lingering with a softness that gnawed at him.
Blaise slowly set his knife and fork down.
“Say it,” he ordered, his deep voice cutting through the quiet clink of her silverware.
He must have startled her because her fork paused mid-air while her knife slipped and clanged loudly against the plate. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have been staring at my scar all night, Little Blossom. Speak your mind. I dislike being studied like a creature.”
A deep blush bloomed across her cheeks, traveling down her neck and disappearing beneath the neckline of her gown. Blaise watched it with a hungry fascination, remembering the droplet that ran down her bosom and how jealous he was of it.
“I… I want to know how it happened,” she admitted softly, setting her utensils down. “The scar. You said you killed your brother, but I know you are lying. You did not murder him.”
Blaise leaned back in his chair, studying her.
The woman is far too perceptive for her own good.
“No matter my intentions that day, the result remains the same. My brother is dead, and I am responsible. The details do not change the blood on my hands.”
Iris’s gaze dropped to his hands resting on the table. Her eyes widened slightly as she noticed the fresh bruises across his knuckles. They were just turning into a dark purple from the punch he had landed on Daniel the night before.
“And those?” she asked, nodding toward his fists. “Did they also come from the same kind of… responsibility?”
Blaise flexed his fingers once; the ache was a welcome distraction. “This is from a small tiff at the club. Nothing of consequence.”
He changed the subject swiftly, unwilling to dwell on either his past or his cousin’s vexations. “You do not seem very active in your task of finding a bride for Marcus. I thought perhaps your sister Margaret might be interested. She seems spirited and kind.”
“No,” she said, almost too quickly. Iris’s reaction was immediate and fierce. “Margaret is not suitable. Anyhow, I have been too busy dealing with the house. It still needs my attention, as you well know. But I will find a suitable bride for your nephew. It simply will not be my sister.”
Blaise looked at her suspiciously, noticing the protective glint in her eyes and the slight tightening of her jaw.
She was territorial about her family in a way that went beyond simple sisterly affection, and he could respect that.
The jealousy he had seen earlier when he complimented her sisters now made more sense.
Before he could press her further, Mrs. Henkings entered the room to oversee the next course.
As the housekeeper directed a young housemaid to refill the wine glasses, Iris picked up a napkin and coughed slightly into it.
Blaise was about to ask if she was all right when the maid accidentally tipped the decanter.
Deep red wine spilled across the tablecloth and directly onto Blaise’s lap, soaking through his trousers in a cold, spreading stain.
“Oh! Your Grace, I am so terribly sorry!” the maid cried, rushing forward with a napkin and dabbing frantically at his thigh.
Blaise remained perfectly calm, though his eyes narrowed. He caught the faint gleam of satisfaction in Iris’s expression before she schooled it into concern.
Clever. Very clever.
“That is quite enough,” he said evenly, waving the maid away. “Leave us. And ensure we are not disturbed for the remainder of the evening. I require some privacy with the viscountess.”
The maid curtsied hastily and fled. Mrs. Henkings followed with one worried glance at Iris. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the dining room suddenly and dangerously intimate.
“You arranged that to happen,” he stated.
Iris lifted her chin, though her breathing had quickened. “I have no idea what you mean, Your Grace.”