“Marcus, wait—” she called out, but he was already striding toward the entrance hall.
As Marcus reached the doorway, Pamela rushed in from the opposite direction, arms full of books and sketches, clearly coming from one of her tutors. Iris gasped as she collided with Marcus, who instinctively caught her by the arms to steady her. However, her books and parchment went into the air and fell around them.
Pamela blushed deeply, looking up at the tall young man.
“Oh! Thank you, my lord,” she said politely and curtsied as best she could while still in his grasp.
Already irritated and distracted, Marcus released her rather abruptly. “I am not a lord, and next time, watch where you are going,” he muttered rudely before brushing past her and storming out the front door without another word.
Pamela stood frozen, her cheeks flaming with humiliation.
“I am so sorry,” Iris said quickly, hurrying forward. “He is going through a difficult time. Please forgive his manners.”
Pamela’s eyes flashed with offense. “Difficult time or not, that was inexcusably rude. Who does he think he is?”
Iris placed a comforting hand on her niece’s shoulder, but her mind was elsewhere. As she watched Marcus disappear, a quiet doubt began to creep in about Blaise. He was so determined to arrange Marcus’s future without consultation, so forceful in claiming what he believed was his.
Is Blaise truly a good man, or is he simply another aristocrat who sees people as pieces to be moved on a board for his own purposes?
The thought unsettled her deeply. For the first time, Iris began to question whether the man who had awakened such intense desire in her was someone she could truly trust with her heart or even her future.
CHAPTER 18
Blaise dismounted from his carriage in front of Hentley House as evening shadows lengthened across the driveway. The journey from Surrey had been long and exhausting, but the crisp night air helped ease some of the tension from his shoulders. A footman hurried forward to take the reins as Kennedy joined his side.
“Welcome back, Your Grace,” the young man said, bowing. “Shall I have your bags brought in?”
“Yes,” Blaise replied curtly. “And see that the horses are properly rubbed down. They pushed hard today.”
He strode towards the house without waiting for a reply; his boots crunched loudly on the gravel, and he briefly wondered if he should go see Iris first. The butler opened the front door before he reached it.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” he said, taking his coat and gloves. “We were expecting you this morning.”
“Plans changed,” Blaise said, already heading towards the study. “Has Lady Hentley retired for the night?”
“I believe she is still awake. Shall I have Mrs. Henkings inform her of your arrival?”
“No need.” Blaise waved him off. “I will see to my own affairs first.”
The study was quiet and warm when he entered. The fireplace burned, and he sank into the chair, pulling a stack of correspondence toward him. There were breeding reports, investment ledgers, and urgent notes from his stewards in Yorkshire that he needed to sift through, and he did not want any distractions. For nearly an hour, Blaise worked in focused silence; the only sound was the scratch of his quill on the parchment until a soft knock interrupted him.
“Enter,” he called out roughly.
A footman stepped in, carrying a silver tray with a letter atop it. “This arrived for you earlier today, Your Grace. From Lord Vale.”
Blaise’s hand paused mid-signature. He set the quill down and took the letter, dismissing the footman with a nod. Breaking the seal, he read:
Uncle,
I received word of your efforts on my residence, the prospective bride, and the arrangements concerning my relocation to London.
I am aware of your actions and wish to express my disapproval. I have no interest in acquiring the title, responsibilities, or the lifestyle you are attempting to impose upon me. I respectfully request that you relinquish these demands and allow me to pursue my life according to my own choices after Oxford. I refuse to become another pawn in the perpetual tragedies of the Vale family.
Marcus
Blaise crumpled the letter in his fist, jaw clenching until the scar on his face pulled tight. Stubborn boy. Just like his father.
Just like me.
