Chapter 32
Iris had paced herself almost to pieces. She had tried valiantly not to listen in, but she could not help herself. She had heard everything, and she felt Blaise’s victory as if it were her own.
Finally, the door opened, and Alistair and Blaise walked out.
“Good night, my lady, and thank you for saving my cousin.” Alistair bowed, said goodbye to Blaise, and walked briskly out of Knoxford.
“Blaise,” Iris whispered. “I must—”
“No.” His mouth curved. “Our cousin had a great deal of whining to do. It delayed me.”
Something in her chest loosened at the sound of his voice.
“How did it go?” she asked before he could say anything else.
“Marcus is safe,” Blaise said. His gaze did not leave her face. “Daniel has no leverage left.”
Her lungs filled properly for the first time that night. Relief washed through her so forcefully that she had to rest her hand against the wall for a moment.
“So it is done,” she said. “He cannot hurt you. Or Marcus.”
“No,” Blaise said. “Not anymore.”
She swallowed. “And the title? Your nephew—”
“Is the duke?” Blaise said quietly. “Or will be, as soon as the papers are drawn and the registrars have had their say.”
“All right.” Iris beamed at him. “I am happy for you, Blaise.”
Iris found it hard to read his expression.
“Iris, I would like to meet your father,” he said, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips.
Her head snapped up. “My father?”
“Yes,” he said happily. “It seemed wise to inform him that his potential son-in-law had just rearranged the peerage.”
Heat rushed to her face. “Potential—”
She broke off. Her heart was thudding again, but differently now; each beat sent a strange, embarrassed flutter to her stomach.
“Come,” Blaise said. “If we are to have this conversation, I would rather not do it where my entire household can eavesdrop.”
He held out his hand. She hesitated only a moment before placing hers in it.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure.
The contact sent a familiar spark up her arm, like an echo of every time he had touched her before, in shadowed rooms and on illicit cushions.
But there was a new tenderness in his grip, a hesitation that unsettled her more than his most shameless caresses.
He led her not to the scandalous room they both knew too well but to his chamber. It smelled like him, and the bed loomed before her like an inviting temptation. Blaise only let go of her hand to shut the door.
“I am about to do something I have never done in my life, Iris. I am about to apologize properly.”
Her throat tightened. Her fingers, of their own accord, twisted in her skirts.
“I see,” she said.
“No,” he answered softly. “I do not think you do.”
He lifted a hand, slowly, as if giving her time to move away. When she did not, he touched his knuckles lightly to her cheek.
“I have hurt you,” he said. “And not only because I walked away. Long before that, I treated you as if you were a game I intended to win, a puzzle I could solve. I told myself it was what you wanted, because you did want the things I did to your body. But I never paused to ask what you wanted for your life. For your future.”
She wanted to protest, to say that she had known what she risked when she stepped into his room that first time; that she had taken enough control to satisfy the martyr inside her. But the words tangled.
“Blaise—”
“I am not finished,” he said. “Allow me to be thorough in matters of the heart as I am in matters of business.”
Her lips trembled, but she nodded.
“I made you an offer,” he said. “One, you were right to refuse. I offered to keep you here in a gilded cage, to make you my mistress and call it generosity because I would have given you silk instead of chains. It was arrogance. Cowardice, too. I wanted your body and your laughter and the way you look at me, but I did not want to give up anything solid in return. Not my freedom, not my reputation, not my control.”
His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “And then you showed me that none of these things made me less afraid. I could want… more.”
She swallowed. “More of what?”
“Of you,” he said simply, and the floor seemed to shift beneath her.
The words sank into her skin.
“Iris,” he went on, his voice lower and rougher. “I cannot offer you a dukedom any longer. I cannot promise you that society will not mutter behind its teacups about your choice of husband. They will say I am scarred, and difficult, and that my past is… in disarray.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth before fading.
“What I can offer you is this: my entire life. My name, for what it is worth. My house, such as it is, once Marcus has taken the grand one. My business. My ridiculous friends. My nephew, who already seems inclined to defend your honor in ways that make no sense to him yet.”
The image made something warm unfurl in her.
“I do not know how to be a husband,” he continued. “But I want to learn. With you. And I am willing, if you wish it, to leave all those dark rooms and clever devices behind—”
“No!” She clasped her palm around her mouth, and Blaise chuckled. “I mean, there is no need to get rid of all of that…”
“I love you, Iris.” He confessed, and her eyes burned with unshed tears.
“I love you too, Blaise.”
She stared up at him. The scar, the dark eyes, the mouth that had spoken such wicked things to her and now offered the simplest words of all.
Her mind flew back over every night she had spent in her cold bed, convincing herself she did not need anyone.
That need was a weakness. That if she suffered enough, remained pure enough, she might finally be worthy of something.
And here he was making her feel loved. Blaise reached out and caught her wrists gently, as if to steady himself.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
She leaned up, her lips brushing his as she murmured, “I love you.”
Blaise did not hold back; he leaned in and kissed her. Iris surrendered to the slow, reverent kiss, as if learning the shape of his mouth anew. His hands slid down her arms, over her back, drawing her flush against him.
Heat unfurled in her core, familiar and yet sharpened by the tenderness of it all. The old shame stirred and whispered.
You should not want this so much; you should be better—
But another voice grew stronger and overpowered it.
I am allowed. I am allowed to want, to take, to be taken.
She fisted her hands in his coat, opening her mouth under his. He groaned, the sound vibrating through her, and deepened the kiss. His tongue stroked hers, slow and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world now. When he finally drew back, they were both breathing hard.
“You love me,” he said, wonder threaded through the disbelief.
“Yes,” she said. “I love you.”
He laughed, a rough, disbelieving sound, and pressed his forehead to hers.
“I love you more than my pride. More than my fear. More than any title, I never wanted.”
Her heart swelled until she thought it might burst.
“Then prove it,” she said.
His brows shot up. “Now?”
She tipped her head towards the bed. “There is a perfectly respectable bed there. I should like to… redeem it.”
His eyes darkened in a very familiar way as he picked her up and carried her toward the bed.
He groaned when she nipped at his ears and kissed his neck. “You will ruin me.”
Blaise kissed her again, quickly and fiercely, and held her tightly in his arms.
Iris clutched at his shoulders.
“I have been imagining carrying you to a bed for quite some time.”
Her arms tightened around his neck. “I have imagined you on every piece of furniture,” she admitted, and Blaise looked at her in utter surprise.
Iris blushed but did not regret her confession.
“It seems I have a lot of work to do.”
He set her gently on the bed, and the mattress dipped under her weight. Blaise stood for a moment, just admiring her. The candlelight gilded the hard planes of his face and softened his scar. Iris had the sudden urge to trail a kiss on it.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered.
Iris drew a breath that shook a little.
“I want you to undress me,” she said. “Slowly. As if we have all the time in the world. I want you to look at me and not pretend I am anything but what I am. Not an angel, not a saint. Just…” She swallowed. “Just Iris.”
His eyes burned. “You are so much more than ‘just’ anything.”
“Then show me,” she whispered.
He did.
Blaise came to the bed and sat beside her, fingers deft but careful as he unfastened the ties of her gown. Each brush of his knuckles against her skin sent a shiver through her. He peeled the fabric away inch by patient inch, as if unwrapping something precious.
Iris moaned when he bared her shoulders and bent to press his lips there.
“Iris,” he murmured against her skin. “You are mine.”
He undressed her until she lay before him completely naked. She trembled, resisting the old urge to cover herself and hide.
He caught her hands gently when they moved to her breasts.
“No,” he said. “Let me see all of you. Do not flinch away from what I adore.”
Adore.
She forced herself to be still. To lie back, bare, under his gaze.
Blaise let his eyes travel slowly down her body. A flush rose up her neck, but his expression held no mockery. Only hunger and awe.
“You are perfect,” he said hoarsely.
“That is a dangerous word,” she whispered, though a foolish, pleased warmth spread through her.
“Then allow me to be reckless for once,” he said.
He stripped then, shrugging out of his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt. When he bared his chest, the candlelight caught in the ropes of muscle there.
She reached for him without thinking, her fingertips tracing the taut skin.
Blaise groaned and moved over her, balancing his weight on his forearms so as not to crush her.
This, too, was new—the carefulness and tenderness.
He touched her as if each brush of his hand were a question, and her responding shiver, her breath, her soft sounds were the answers.
When he finally slid inside her, it was with a slowness that made her arch and open up for him. Iris bit her lip against every cry as Blaise watched her face the whole time.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
She forced her gaze to stay on his as he filled her completely, and pleasure bloomed hot and sweet and terrifyingly intense. There was nowhere to hide. And, she realized with a jolt, nowhere she wanted to.
They moved together, building a rhythm that felt like a conversation their bodies had been waiting to have in this quiet room. His hand found hers and laced their fingers together, pinning her hand above her head.
“Iris,” he whispered again and again, like a litany. “Iris. Iris.”
When she climaxed, it tore through her in bright, shuddering waves.
She did not try to swallow the sounds it dragged from her.
She let them spill, raw and helpless, into the dark.
His name broke from her lips in a gasp, and she felt him shudder inside of her.
She heard his own rough groan as he followed, burying his face against her neck.
They lay tangled afterward, breath ragged, limbs heavy. Her cheek rested against his chest, the steady thud of his heart beneath her ear. His hand stroked her hair absently, as if he could not quite stop touching her.
“Iris,” Blaise said her name like a soft and sweet prayer.
“Yes, Blaise?”
He lifted her chin gently so that she was looking into his deep blue eyes.
“Marry me?” he whispered.