“What is the rush?” Iris asked at last, her voice was unsteady, but her defiance did not leave her expression. “Why must everything be decided tonight?”
He took a slow drag of his cigar, letting the smoke curl upward before answering. “Because my nephew will live here once the house is in better condition.”
Her eyes widened with hurt. “Yournephew?”
“Yes.”
“And he will live here? With me?”
“With us, until you move into your own home.”
She stared at him blankly.
Why can she not see that this is a blessing in disguise?
“If you are the second son. Then… your nephew is the true duke?”
Blaise both admired and felt wary of her honest observation. He stubbed his cigar, letting the smoke flow freely intoherstudy before he strode toward the fireplace.
“I do not need to explain the details of my private life to you,” he said calmly without looking at her. “But my nephew cannot inherit anything as things stand.”
“Why not?” She sounded genuinely curious.
“Because our family considers him a bastard.”
She frowned. “That is a strange way to say someone is illegitimate.”
“It is the way they termed it,” Blaise replied. “And I am merely repeating it.”
But she was not finished. He could sense it in the rebellious lilt of her voice. She was not going down without a fight, and that excited him, but he would not discuss his family with her. All she cared about was this house, anyhow.
“How convenient then,” she said softly, “that you were next in line to inherit the title.”
Blaise chuckled darkly and stood in front of the fireplace. He felt the fire blaze behind him, outlining his frame in a heat that mirrored his growing agitation toward her. He must have looked terrifying because Iris gulped audibly as she stood near a bouquet of handpicked flowers on the side table. The delicate blossoms matched her softness, a stark contrast to the fire that burned behind and within him.
“If you keep playing with fire too much,” Blaise spoke slowly, watching with satisfaction as her body reacted to the hum of his voice. “You will get burned, like the fragile little blossom you are.”
Her lips parted, and she bit her lower lip. That unconscious gesture drove him insane and always struck him with surprising force.
“Stop doing that,” his voice boomed.
She looked surprised and asked innocently, “Stop doing what, Your Grace?”
“Stop biting your lip,” he growled.
She released it at once, but Blaise was already stepping toward her.
“You think you have a strong exterior,” he said lowly. “But I can see right through you.” Her breath hitched as he continued to stalk toward her. “You want to appear as someone who has everything under control. Someone who manages every detail, every crisis, and every burden without faltering.”
He stopped a few feet from her. Close enough that the warmth of her body tempted him.
“But I know that you are tired of carrying it all alone.”
Her eyes widened.
“You want to let go of this prison of duty and propriety,” he continued. “You want to breathe. To rest and to stop fighting every battle by yourself.”
“Stop,” she muttered breathlessly.
