The accusation grated against Blaise’s pride. He had never liked being painted as some benevolent savior; it implied weakness and sentimentality he had long outgrown in the brutal world of business and survival.
“Save everyone?” A dark, humorless chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Hardly. In fact, I plan to throw a certain penniless widow out onto the streets any day now.”
Alistair’s eyebrows shot upward in genuine surprise; then he threw his head back and laughed, rich and unrestrained. “Ah, yes. The infamous Widow Hentley. Word travels faster than racehorses in these circles. Have you already commandeered her house? Bold moves, even for you.” Alistair raised his glass, then frowned. “Now that I think about it, I have never seen her, not once. The wedding was a blur, too.”
Blaise’s thoughts immediately drifted to Iris, her flushed cheeks in the firelight, the defiant lift of her chin, the way her body had melted against his during their searing kiss.
“I did not even bother to attend Cousin Hentley’s wedding.” Blaise scoffed, and Alistair chuckled.
Blaise knew damn well that Iris had not truly meant her reckless offer. It had been a desperate gambit, a shield thrown up to buy herself time in the only home she had clawed into existence over seven long years. But that knowledge only fueled his curiosity. He wanted to see how her plan would unfold, how long her stubborn pride would hold against the undeniable pull between them.
“Poor cousin Hentley, did he...” Alistair whispered and leaned closer. “Did he really dieduringhis wedding night?”
Blaise held back his laughter as he signaled for another drink. “Apparently, the bride did not even warm his bed when he was discovered.”
Alistair let out a peal of laughter, clutching his drink in one hand and slapping his knee with his other.
“Do not laugh at the dead, Alistair!” But Blaise could not help himself either, as he chuckled along.
“That is quite despairing, at least not for the widow,” Alistair said, wiping away the tears that fell.
Blaise’s jaw clenched; he did not want to imagine Iris with any other man but himself.
“Yes, the arrangement with this particular widow is… intriguing, to say the least,” Blaise admitted, his voice dropping to a husky timbre laced with dark promise. “She wants to repair the housebefore Marcus’s return, and she offered to help me find a bride for him in exchange for her surrender.”
It was a half-truth, but Blaise could not bring himself to tell even his most trusted confidant about Iris’s scandalous offer.
Alistair nearly choked on his brandy. “Why would she wantthatresponsibility?”
Blaise shrugged. “I asked her the same thing, but she is a determined woman. So, I allowed it.”
Heat coiled tight and low in his groin as he remembered her other promises. Blaise had to admit that he admired her tenacity.
“She sounds clever,” Alistair pointed out.
“She thinks it is a clever strategy—a way to delay the inevitable displacement. But I see through every layer of it. Perhaps I do need her help navigating thetonfor Marcus’s bride; she knows their true characters better than I ever could these days. Not that I would admit that weakness to her face. As for the rest of our deal... I will savor watching her unravel.”
One month of her fire, her blushes, her hidden hunger. Then she will be mine to claim thoroughly in my red room…
“You are playing with fire,” Alistair warned, though his eyes danced with amusement. “This only proves my earlier point. Youcontrol every situation under the noble guise of helping. First, your nephew; now, this widow. What happens when she calls your bluff and refuses to leave?”
“She will not,” Blaise said with quiet confidence, though a thrill of anticipation coursed through him. “By the end of the month, she will be out on the street, begging to stay under my roof.”
And in my bed.
“I doubted you, cousin. Perhaps you are an evil bastard after all.” Alistair shook his head, signaling to the curvaceous blonde who had been casting heated glances his way all evening.
The woman approached with swaying hips, her hand trailing lightly over Alistair’s shoulder in clear invitation. He grinned, rising smoothly to pull her close against his side.
“Duty calls, Blaise,” Alistair said with a wink. “Try not to brood too deeply over your fiery widow or the forbidden past.”
Blaise watched his cousin and the courtesan disappear into a curtained alcove, their laughter fading into the noise. Alone now, he let his gaze sweep slowly across the salon. Normally, this was where his artistic inspiration struck him: a particular tilt of a woman’s head, the elegant curve of a hip, the spark of defiance in a glance that made him itch to sketch her, to bind her wrists in silk, and explore every sigh and shudder until she came apart under his skilled hands.
Tonight, however, every face blurred and faded, and all he could envision was Iris, naked and glorious on the velvet chaise in his red room. Her long, curvy body stretched out languidly, honey curls spilling like liquid gold over her shoulders and across her full, heaving breasts. He imagined the elegant arch of her spine as she surrendered to him, the flush creeping from her neck down to her tight, rosy nipples begging for his mouth. His charcoal would capture the subtle tremble in her thighs as he secured her to those iron rings, the way her untouched core would glisten with arousal, pink and perfect, waiting for him to?—
“Your Grace?” Blaise had not realized that the raven-haired courtesan approached him again. “Would you like to go somewhere more private?”
Blaise’s shaft throbbed against the confines of his trousers, heavy and insistent but for a different woman entirely.
