The heavy fabric she had mended and cleaned so many times over the years was yanked from the rods with careless force and tossed into a heap on the floor like rubbish. Dust swirled in the air as the painter held up a hideous bucket of burgundy paint to show her.
“My lady, I?—”
“Careful with those!” she called out sharply, stepping away from the painter and toward a burly man who carried the small mahogany coffee table she loved in one arm. “That can still be used for the servants’ quarters or?—”
Before she could finish, the door opened, and Blaise strode in. His dark curls were slightly tousled, as if he had run impatient fingers through them while overseeing the chaos.
“What is going on in here?” he demanded loudly, causing everyone to stop suddenly.
Three days.It had been three long, restless days since he had fully taken over Hentley House.
Iris’s nights had become a torment she could scarcely admit even to herself. Knowing he slept just a door away, his long, strong body stretched out in what used to be her husband’s bedchamber, had left her tossing and turning. Every morning her skin felt feverish beneath the sheets, and every night her dreams betrayed her.
“Your Grace, her ladyship is not happy with the paint.” The painter exposed her.
Damn him!
“Iris?” Blaise called her name sternly, and she felt her body react.
Damn me!
In her dreams, Blaise would call her name as he pushed open their connecting door. He would stalk toward her with dark eyes and finish what they had started in the study. Thoselarge, calloused hands pinning her wrists, his mouth claiming hers again, deeper this time, while he whispered filthy promises against her throat. Every morning she awoke aching and empty, her thighs pressed together in shameful need, cursing both him and her own treacherous imagination.
“Iris!” he hissed her name again.
Thinking of the devil.
She rolled her eyes as he approached her.
“Blaise?” She tilted her head up at him and smiled.
She noticed the sharp intake of breath he took before he stopped a few feet away from her. Iris thought that perhaps she affected him, too.
One of the laborers, the burly one, held up a pot of the soft cream paint Iris had carefully selected.
Where did he dump my table?She looked around frantically.
“His Grace said burgundy for the walls, my lady. Not this.”
Iris’s temper flared. “Ichose the cream. It is practical and brightens the room. I think you should proceed with that.”
The man looked at the duke helplessly.
Blaise’s deep voice cut through the air. “The burgundy, asIinstructed, will make the room look far classier. Perhaps the viscountess should learn what true elegance means before issuing these orders.”
Iris turned to him, appalled. Heat rushed to her cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and fury.
“Classier?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You want to turn it into some gaudy display like some kind of… of… gentleman’s club!”
Without waiting for his reply, she spun on her heels and stomped away. She cussed when she heard the sound of his boots following closely behind.
“Iris,” he called her name again, but this time it sounded like a warning.
She ignored him, hurrying down the corridor, but the duke caught up easily. A strong hand closed around her upper arm, firm but not bruising, pulling her to a stop just outside the library.
“Let go of me,” she hissed, whirling to face him.
Blaise did not release her immediately. His dark eyes bored into hers as he held onto her.
