Blaise did not smile; he was not in the mood to banter. “If I am looking for someone, it is most definitely not you.”
Alistair stepped into his line of sight, blocking the view of the lawn. The Duke of Skelton was dressed perfectly, as always.
“You did not come for my assistance again for this grand party,” Alistair said. “Although with this décor I am beginning to wonder if the rumors were true and if you had become respectable.”
“I had some help, and I have been occupied,” Blaise responded curtly.
He searched the gardens for one person only, but he could not find her anywhere. Blaise’s mind traveled to the red room thatwas just inside. The week and month were over, and he could not stop imagining what he would do if he could have Iris in there again.
“Tell me. Were you occupied by the help? And have you rid yourself of her yet?” Alistair’s voice interrupted his search again.
Blaise stared at the pale wine. “Rid myself of who?”
“The widow at Hentley House.” Alistair’s eyes glittered. “Did you toss her out personally? Or did you delegate to the servants? I should like the details.”
Blaise hated how casually his cousin asked about Iris. It simply did not sit right with him, and he could not understand why.
“She is still there,” Blaise said eventually.
“Good God, man,. You have never been so inefficient in your life.” Alistair tutted, as if disappointed.
Blaise took a swallow of wine, but he did not taste any of it. The memory of Marcus’s flung words echoed unpleasantly in his mind.
“It is… complicated,” he said.
Alistair studied him. “You do not usually allow complications to stand between you and what you have decided must be done. Has London misjudged the infamous Duke of Knoxford?”
“I said I have been occupied.” Blaise was getting beyond annoyed with Alistair.
“Occupied with who exactly? Because there is a certain raven-haired beau who keeps calling your name at all the gentlemen’s clubs.” Alistair winked at him.
“That woman bores me now.”
“She never bored you before, and her talents are legendary.” He glanced at Blaise’s face, searching. “You have not had a woman since you moved into Hentley, have you?”
He suspects nothing.
“I have had no time,” Blaise lied.
“You always made time! You do not even have a discreet mistress, Blaise?”
The honest answer rose before he could shape it into something glib:None.
He had not lain with anyone since that first day in Hentley, with dust in the air, his temper frayed, and a woman with amber eyes standing before him, refusing to move.
“You are unusually interested in my bed, Skelton,” Blaise jested.
“I am merely interested in why you are in such a foul mood.” Alistair’s easy expression had gone thoughtful. “You snarl at everyone, bark at your servants, and now you glower at your own garden party as though it has personally offended you. There can only be three possible causes: money, which I know is not it; politics, which you avoid; or women.”
“Not women,” Blaise said. “One woman, perhaps, but not in the manner you think.”
“Ah.” Alistair’s voice brightened with interest. “So, thereisa woman at the root of this after all. Let me guess. The inconvenient widow who will not vacate your house and refuses to be bought off with a cottage in Surrey?”
Blaise did not dignify that with a reply.
“She must be remarkable,” Alistair continued. “You, of all men, undone by a widow.”
“I am not undone.”
