Mrs. Henkings shifted and turned her back on them. “I will get some tea, my lady.”
Iris was too lightheaded to concentrate on her. The room tilted, and all the years of careful scrimping and small, stubborn pride collapsed beneath a few offhand words from a man who built pleasure rooms for sport.
“I do not have time for this,” she hissed at him.
The duke looked down at her, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth, and a far more dangerous look in his eyes.
The man does not even care.
His Grace leaned across and whispered seductively in her ear, “I am afraid, Little Blossom, that this behavior cannot continue unpunished.”
CHAPTER 3
Her fingers clenched at her sides. “Get. Out.”
Amusement slid through Blaise, but he was not in the habit of being ordered from his own property, least of all by a woman who plagued his dreams the night before.
“Alas, no.” He turned away from her and instantly wanted to go back.
Blaise surveyed the drawing room and settled onto the chaise. Taking his time as he looked around.
“I find I rather like this place. So, I think I shall stay.”
She stared at him, speechless.
“You are beautiful when you do not backbite.” He knew his words would press her.
“If you stay, I will call the constables!” she spoke authoritatively.
“Do as you like. But I do not believe that the late viscount would be very happy about that decision.”
The corners of her mouth tightened when he mentioned the viscount.
So, this is cousin Hentley’s mysterious widow.
He had imagined her thin and peevish, with pinched lips and a mind full of accounts. Certainly not the attractive woman who crept into pleasure rooms and turned the pages of indecent sketchbooks with shaking fingers.
“How did you know the viscount?” she asked him with a lifted chin.
Blaise realized that she truly did not know who he was to her husband. Although he paid no mind to Hentley and laughed when he heard that his cousin had died in the most inconvenient fashion imaginable, he would, at the very least, expect the man to tell his wife about his estranged family, who was also the heir to his property.
“That does not matter,” he said plainly.
It was true. Hentley had owed half of London, and his death had been his only efficient act. This house could have landed in the wrong hands if Blaise had not stepped up.
The viscountess opened her mouth, no doubt to unleash another righteous tirade, when Mrs. Henkings appeared at the door with an expression like a rabbit that had stumbled into a dogfight.
“Leave us,” the viscountess said sharply.
“Mrs. Henkings,” Blaise said at the same moment.
A heavy silence fell between them, and he thought about how fun it would be to mess around with the stubborn, yet infuriatingly stunning, viscountess.
Blaise smiled at the housekeeper. “Thank you for the tea. I will have whatever else your kitchen can produce in haste. I am not particular.”
Mrs. Henkings looked at the viscountess, who shook her head, lips pressed thinly together.
“You will do no such thing,” she said. “You will not encourage this man.”
