Raph shrugged nonchalantly. “It is just a rumor.”
Around them, every conversation stuttered, then hushed.
“That must be him!” Camelia whispered excitedly, and Iris followed her gaze.
The crowd around them began to whisper, and a shadowy figure entered from a set of double doors at the far end of the room. The sisters watched the duke’s grand entrance, flanked by two footmen holding tall candelabras. Iris saw him first as a silhouette. He was tall with broad, muscular shoulders and strong legs that flexed with each step. When he stepped fully into the ballroom’s light, the sound seemed to thin even more around them.
Iris gasped, and Camelia whispered, “Raph, what happened to him?”
The man was strikingly handsome but not in the delicate way of some lords. His jaw was strong and framed with the darkest hair she had ever seen. It curled carelessly as though he had once run impatient hands through it and not bothered to smooth it after.His mouth held the ghost of a smile that suggested he found everything amusing and did not mind much if the world knew it.
But one thing stood out the most for Iris.
“How did he get that scar?” she overheard someone whisper, and Iris very much wanted to know the answer to that, too.
The scar was ragged and ran from the duke’s left brow in a clean, vicious line, slicing down across his cheekbone and ending near his jaw. It was still red, not yet faded into the pale silver of old wounds. Against his otherwise chiseled face, it was a raw, deliberate slash as if fate had tried to mark him and he had refused to hide it.
Feminine gasps fluttered through the room like the sudden beating of wings.
“He looks dangerous,” the young Lady Petunia murmured behind them. She was making her debut this Season, and Iris was jealous of her youth and hopefulness.
“More fascinating than dangerous,” another woman replied huskily. “That scar… it only adds to his charm, well… that is what I think.”
Iris swallowed. She could not deny that there was something compelling about him. His eyes looked dark, but she could not see their true color clearly from where she stood. Iris was tall enough to see him, and as she drank in his body, she found himstaring straight into her eyes. Heat enveloped her skin; it was as though he had felt her scrutiny and answered it with his own.
Surely, he cannot be looking at me.
But there was no mistaking that he was staring deep within her soul until his lips parted and he began his speech.
“Ladies and Gentlemen.” His voice was low and smooth; it wrapped around Iris’s skin and carried easily to every corner of the ballroom. The scarred duke’s eyes never left hers as he continued to talk. “I am Blaise Vale, the Duke of Knoxford…apparently.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd, but Iris stood transfixed under his gaze. Her breath caught when he smirked at her.
“I thank you all for gracing my house this evening,” he continued. “The house, the title, and the obligation to host a ball are all new to me yet familiar.”
“He does not speak like a man bred on ceremony.” Camelia leaned toward Iris.
“I agree. His words are simple and shaped with a slight humor. I… did not expect that.” Iris, like the other ladies around them, found it hard to peel her eyes away from the towering, scarred man.
“Iris,” Camelia whispered, “does he not look like a murderer?” Iris turned to her sister, who was staring wide-eyed with curiosity like a cat.
Iris studied the scar on his face. Despite the dangerous look it gave him, she could not imagine him as a murderer.
“I have, however,” the duke went on, “enjoyed success in other ventures. And as a businessman, whenever I find myself with a problem, I acknowledge it plainly and proceed to solve it immediately.”
What problems could a duke possibly have?Iris wondered spitefully.
“But my newest problem requires some assistance from all of you,” he said, motioning toward a group of blushing ladies, and his mouth curved faintly as his gaze swept the room, lingering on Iris for a tad bit longer. “I find myself in need of a duchess.”
The murmur that followed surged like a tidal wave.
Camelia’s eyes nearly popped out of her head, and Iris’s breath caught in her throat while Raph choked on his wine.
“He is not wasting any time,” Raph muttered.
The duke raised a hand, and the sound subsided, drawn back to him as though he held the room on a string. Iris’s pulse picked up when she saw his strong, veiny hand, and a part of herimagined that his touch would feel rough and calloused against her smooth skin. Her body reacted immediately and without warning.
“I shall be frank,” he said. “I will be in London for one month. During that time, I intend to meet, observe, and perhaps even admire many of the unmarried ladies. At the end of that month, I will choose my duchess.”
