Blaise’s mouth curved as he leaned back in the chair, the letter held loosely between his fingers.
Perhaps Iris should come with him to Knoxford House to help with the decor.
* * *
“That one,” Iris said, laying her gloved fingers upon the length of fabric before Blaise could dismiss another choice.
“No.” The word fell between them with the clean finality of a blade.
Iris did not remove her hand. The material was warm from where it had lain in a spill of afternoon. Iris had thought, foolishly perhaps, that Blaise might appreciate the restraint of it.
“No?” she repeated.
His dark blue eyes moved from the fabric to her face. The scar running from eyebrow to jaw pulled slightly when his mouth curved, not quite into amusement. She was tempted to kiss him then and there.
“It is too simple.” He stood across the table, and his very tall, broad shoulders made the quiet room seem narrower than it was. Knoxford House felt strange. Iris could not deny it. Even the air seemed different, as if accustomed to the command of its master.
She shivered thinking about the red room that was not far away. Iris protested about being here. And yet when he had asked her to help, she simply could not deny it.
Blaise touched the edge of the rejected material with one finger, then pushed it aside. “It would not do.”
“It will make a garden party habitable.” Iris countered.
“For whom? Only Marcus matters.”
“Did he even confirm that he is attending?”
His mouth moved again. This time, the amusement arrived. “Iris.”
She hated the way he said her name when he wanted her to yield to him. He said it softly and patiently. As if he had already seen the end of her resistance and was merely waiting for her to join him there.
“No,” she said, borrowing his own word and finding some satisfaction in it. “Do notIrisme as though I am a skittish mare refusing a gate. You asked for my opinion, and now you refuse it.”
“I asked for your eye.” He pointed out.
“My eye is attached to my opinion.”
“How unfortunate.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric with pure frustration and something even more intense. “Why ask for my help if you had no intention of listening?”
The question rang sharper than she had intended. She heard, beneath the annoyance, the hurt she had meant to keep hidden. It embarrassed her at once. She did not care about the material. Not truly.
Or not only.
She cared that she found herself arranging her time around him.
Blaise’s expression altered as he watched her, and he immediately stopped teasing. His gaze lowered to her hand on the cloth. “There is no need to fret; I am listening.”
“You would just disagree with uncommon speed again.”
She should have laughed to lighten the mood. Instead, she withdrew her hand and looked away. She felt Blaise’s eyes on her.
“Why did you bring me here, Blaise?”
She heard him shift behind her. “Why did you not give me your letter, Iris?”
The question was so abrupt that Iris could only stare at him, utterly confused.
