Iris straightened her spine in instinctive defense, the way she always did when faced with a creditor or a condescending matron.
“If you mean to cast me out of your house, Your Grace,” she said, trying for composure, “pray, do so quietly, as my sister is enjoying your ball.”
He studied her for a heartbeat that stretched longer than was comfortable.
“Cast you out?” he repeated. “Whatever for? That would make me a bad host.”
Her brow creased. “I have invaded your privacy.”
“Have you?” His gaze dropped briefly to the open drawer, then slid back to her face. Interest flickered in his cold eyes. “You look more curious than invasive. Perhaps you would like a personal tour of my… library?”
Iris felt heat rushing to her cheeks again. “I am most certainly not curious about this… this…” She looked around at the ropes, furniture, and mirrors. “Tortureroom.”
His Grace let out a deep laugh that both surprised and unsettled her.
“Oh, but I think youarecurious.” His tone was gentle, but there was steel beneath it. “Besides, if you did truly believe that this was a torture room, you would be screaming, or fainting, or at the very least running for your life.”
“Well, I considered all three,” she snapped, then bit down on her tongue.
His Grace let out another startling, rich laughter.
“Excellent,” he said. “I was beginning to fear London women had lost their capacity to surprise me.”
He opened the sketchbook as he stepped a little closer. He was taller than she had thought in the ballroom.
When did he get so close?
Iris tilted her head back to meet his gaze. The scar bisected one dark brow; it was impossible not to look at it, and impossible not to imagine the force that had laid it there.
His eyes dipped to the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she fought to steady her breathing. Her knees felt treacherously loose.
“Tell me,” he said so low it seemed to settle along her bones. “Was there a particular drawing you liked best?”
“I did not like—” Her protest tangled itself and died.
He leaned in a fraction, enough that the scent of him enclosed her.
“Would you like me to draw you as well?” he asked.
CHAPTER 2
“Ibeg your pardon?” The captivating woman angrily whispered.
Blaise watched the shock bloom across her pretty face.
When he stumbled upon her in his not-so-secretlibrary,he could not help but stand still and watch as her doe-like eyes widened, her lips parted, and color surged from the fragile hollow of her throat to the tips of her ears. She looked ravishing and almost ethereal in her pale blue gown and flushed skin.
Now that he stood in front of her, it was unmistakable that she was filled with curiosity just as much as he was.
“You heard me,” he drawled.
Anger flashed in her amber eyes, and he enjoyed every second of teasing her. Blaise had drawn a dozen women in this room and had seen every variation of hunger and coyness, both feignedand real. But this tall, honey-haired woman intrigued him like no other.
“I saw you,” he said, suddenly remembering her in the crowd. “In the ballroom.”
Her throat worked. “There were many women in the ballroom.”
“Yes, but you are difficult to miss,” he said seductively, but she looked offended. “May I draw you?”
