He sat in companionable silence with his cousin, who eyed him suspiciously for several minutes, sipping the fine liquor as the salon’s atmosphere wrapped around them. Soft laughter rippled from nearby tables where other gentlemen entertained themselves with the available women. One curvaceous blonde finally caught Alistair’s attention, her fingers trailing teasingly along the back of a nearby chair, but he held back.
“You look like hell.” Alistair’s sharp gaze settled on Blaise’s face. “That scar of yours is standing out tonight. Redder than usual. You still letting it eat at you, or are you merely blushing?”
“What do you think?” he asked dryly.
Blaise’s fingers rose almost unconsciously to trace the jagged line that ran from his left brow, slicing viciously across his cheekbone before ending near his jaw. The skin there remained slightly tender, a permanent brand from that fateful day.
“Lighten up, Blaise. I am just jesting.”
“I know. This scar is a blessed reminder,” he spoke so lowly that Alistair had to bend to hear him over the ambient murmurs.
“You should not hold on tothatmemory.”
“I have to remember what I did,” Blaise argued.
Alistair leaned on his elbows, his expression turning serious. The playful glint in his eyes all but faded.
“You would rather let the whole damnedtonbelieve you murdered your own brother in some cold-blooded grab for the title. Why the bloody hell do you keep feeding that rumor? A few words from you, and the whispers would die. You could clear your name just like that.” He snapped his finger.
Blaise stared into the swirling depths of his brandy, the firelight reflected in the liquid like blood on wet leaves.
“Iamresponsible for his death, Alistair. In every way that truly matters. Let them whisper their scandals. I prefer to carry the weight of my brother’s death. It is mine to bear.”
The memories of his brother’s final moments flickered unbidden in his mind and heart. Blaise shoved them down, taking a swig of the brandy to burn away the taste of regret.
Alistair sighed heavily but respected his boundaries, as he always did. He knew when to push and when to retreat.
“And young Marcus? How is the lad faring with all this upheaval?”
“Young? Marcus is a man now, and he prefers staying at Oxford,” Blaise replied, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his lips despite the heaviness in his chest. “Stubborn as his father ever was. He buries himself in books, I suspect, to avoid thinking about any of it. I would not be surprised if he blames me, too.”
“For what? You practically raised him!” Alistair’s voice rose.
“I do not know, Alistair. Perhaps he blames me for Benjamin’s death, for the years of distance, and for the shadow that is always lingering over him. The boy was convinced that he was unwanted. And now he truly believes that he is a bastard because of his own father’s neglect.”
Blaise hated that his brother had died before reconnecting with his son, leaving the boy lost and alone.
Alistair’s brow furrowed deeply. “You still plan to drag him to London regardless?”
“Of course. In one month,” Blaise confirmed, his tone hardening with unyielding resolve. He set his glass down with a decisive clink.
One month with Iris.
His skin prickled, and he could still taste her on the tip of his tongue.
Blaise cleared his throat. “By then, Hentley House will be fully repaired. The workmen start tomorrow. It will be a proper home for Marcus. And I will have a suitable bride arranged for him. A match with genuine character, one that bolsters his position and silences the vicious whispers about his legitimacy once and for all. He would not spend another day feeling like an unwanted shadow or an inconvenience born of his father’s grief. Not while I have the power to change it.”
Alistair studied him for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. “You are overstepping, man. Marcus might resent your grand intervention. He has been grieving in his own way for the last six months and carving out his own path. Does that not sound familiar?”
Blaise’s jaw tightened, the scar pulling taut. Alistair made a good point, but his plan was already in action.
“I do not care if he resents it at first. I will not let him live with that emptiness. Not if I can prevent it.”
His dear cousin leaned back against the velvet booth, crossing his arms over his chest. “You have a god complex, Blaise.”
Blaise chuckled as the alcohol began to warm him up. “But I always thought of myself as a devil.”
“You just look like a devil, but you want to save everyone even though you cannot. Especially those who do not want to be saved. Some wounds run too deep, and forcing your solutions only makes them fester.” Alistair gulped the rest of his drink.
