“Damned child is only responding days later,” he muttered under his breath.
He searched the table for any signs of delicate feminine handwriting, but to his dismay, Iris did not write. She had chosen to vanish instead. A second letter lay waiting. He picked it up, if only because doing nothing felt worse than doing the wrong thing.
The contents were brief, businesslike, almost cheerful in their lack of awareness that the house they discussed had once been the axis of a woman’s world.
Hentley House: the work is complete. Carpentry, paint, and new furnishings. Everything is ready to his specifications. The men wait only for approval on the final accounts.
He sighed and let that letter fall atop Marcus’s.
“Of course it is.”
* * *
The house looked both wrong and exactly as he had imagined.
Hentley House smelled of fresh paint and beeswax, with an undernote he could not name. Then he saw the tall blue-and-white vase in its usual niche, overflowing with pale daisies, and he understood that this place would always smell likeher.
The renovations were almost complete, but Iris was still there in every stubborn detail the workmen had missed or preserved. He shrugged off his greatcoat carefully, handing it to the footman, as though his world had not shifted. The hall seemed brighter, all the plaster was repaired, and the cracks were gilded. And a new navy runner carpet masked all the creaking boards on the stairs, but Iris’s signature flowers were all over the place.
Blaise cleared his throat. “They misunderstood my instructions.”
“Your Grace?”
Mrs. Henkings appeared from the corridor, her sturdy frame as immovable as a column. Her eyes, usually sharp, softened with concern.
“Mrs. Henkings.” His voice was soft; he was glad to see her there. “I see you decided to stay.”
“My lady gave me no choice, Your Grace.” She curtsied briskly, but he did not miss the sadness in her voice. “I had tea set in the morning room. I thought you might need it.”
He quirked a smile. “Do I look so in need of consolation?”
She met his gaze calmly. “No, Your Grace.”
Blaise’s spine stiffened as Iris’s loyal housekeeper looked at him with gentle, pleading eyes.
“Thank you, Mrs. Henkings.” He motioned to dismiss her.
Perhaps he was in need of consolation.
What is happening to me?
Blaise made his way to the morning room, which faced the small back garden. New curtains, new chairs, and pale green walls greeted him. He was surprised to see three squat terracotta pots lining the sill, bursting with bright pink geraniums.
Iris would have loved those.
He froze before he lowered himself into a sturdy blue chair, feeling like a trespasser in his own home. The porcelain clinked as a maid poured his tea. And he noticed that even the tea was the preferred shade Iris enjoyed.
He curled his fingers around the cup and allowed the heat to anchor him.
“Consolation tea,” he murmured into the cup before taking a sip.
He did not notice how much he knew about Iris until she left. Even then, he had expected to hear her light footsteps returning in the hallway. Just as her thoughts became unbearable, Blaise got up.
“Is there something you need, Your Grace?” the young maid asked.
“No. I have to go to her,” he responded simply, as if she would understand the intensity of his feelings.
But she would not understand. Only Iris would, and Blaise had to tell her how he felt before it was too late. He set down his cup roughly, causing the tea to slosh. But when he turned to leave, a knock at the door stopped him, and a footman appeared.
