He waited until she turned to leave before lifting the cup. One sip told him everything. The tea was weaker than his morning cup, little more than stained water, and there were no sugar cubes on the tray. Not even a slice of lemon. A deliberate slight, no doubt orchestrated by the lady of the house. Blaise’s lips twitched with dark amusement, but he said nothing. He simply took another sip, letting the insipid brew coat his tongue.
“Mrs. Henkings,” he called before she could disappear. The housekeeper froze in the doorway. “Where is Lady Hentley?”
The faithful servant hesitated, her fingers tightening on the handle.
Blaise leaned back in the chair, keeping his voice even. “I only wish to speak with her about the house. Nothing more.”
The older woman’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, though her loyalty to Iris remained evident in the careful set of her mouth.
“She is in the gardens, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” Blaise said smoothly. “That will be all.”
He rose once the door clicked shut, rolling his shoulders. It was time to find his reluctant hostess.
As he strode down the corridor toward the front of the house, movement through the half-open library door caught his eye.
Iris was seated at a small writing desk, poring over ledgers with focused intensity. A soft chuckle escaped Blaise’s throat. Mrs. Henkings had lied for her.
How charming.
He leaned against the doorframe for a long moment, watching her. Her hair was pinned neatly, though a few rebellious curls had escaped to frame her face. She chewed on her lower lip in concentration as her quill moved steadily across the page. Blaise remembered exactly how that very lip tasted. The light touched her profile, highlighting the elegant line of her neck and the subtle rise and fall of her breasts beneath her modest gown.
Admiration stirred in his chest and surprised him. This woman had kept a dying estate afloat for seven years with nothing but stubborn will and clever accounting. She was no fragile blossom.
Blaise cleared his throat, and Iris’s head snapped up, her eyes widening for the briefest second before she schooled her expression into polite neutrality.
“Your Grace,” she said, setting her quill down. “I did not realize you were there.”
Blaise smiled and shook off his growing admiration for her; he had to stick to his plan to unsettle her.
“I thought we might take a tour of the house and grounds,” Blaise said, stepping fully into the room. “You can show me the changes you were planning, and perhaps we can come to an agreement for each change before the workmen arrive. I would like to understand your vision.”
Iris rose gracefully, but he noticed the subtle change in her breath whenever he was near her.
“Of course, Your Grace. Shall we begin with the drawing room?” she said, too politely.
“Iris, we have been through this. Call me Blaise.” His tone changed, and he watched as her skin burned deliciously under his gaze.
She nodded, then led him silently with the poise of a perfect hostess, though he could sense the tension humming beneath her skin. As they entered the faded but well-kept space of the drawing room, she began explaining her plans.
“I planned to purchase new draperies in a practical fabric, and fresh paint, perhaps in a soft cream, for the peeling walls. The plasterwork is in need of minor repairs, as you can see.”
Blaise listened, then deliberately expanded on every suggestion. “The draperies should be heavy velvet; I believe deep emerald would suit the drawing room. And the walls, perhaps a rich burgundy with gold accents. We will commission new furniture from the best makers in London. No sense in half measures.”
“I cannot afford that?—”
“I will provide the finances.”
Her jaw tightened.
“It is not necessary; I believe the best décor is simple.”
She was stubborn, and he liked that about her, but he could be difficult, too.
“Simple is not enough for a duke.”
Iris’s nostrils flared, and never before had Blaise felt such a strong pull toward such an infuriating woman.
