“Thank you, Your Grace,” Iris said, a touch breathless, and then she whispered, “At least you did not disgrace yourself.”
“I live to meet your exacting standards, my lady.”
Her mouth twitched. “You may yet manage it. If you can remain charming when surrounded by young ladies.”
“I have no experience in such harrowing conditions.” He glanced over her shoulder deliberately, toward the cluster of pale gowns, fan-feathers, and curious eyes. “You must lead the charge.”
“That was the plan.” A faint flush colored her cheekbones. “Where is your nephew?”
She looked around, but Blaise already knew the truth.
“He must be late,” he lied.
“Well, then we would have to speak on his behalf.” Iris led the way confidently.
They set off towards the gazebo, where the youngest ladies and their chaperones had gathered in a garden of white muslin and flowers.
Marcus,damn him, had not shown up, but Blaise would deal with that later.
“Lady Hentley,” one of the matrons simpered as they approached. “You are looking radiant.”
“You are kind, Mrs. Dalrymple.” Iris inclined her head. “May I present His Grace, the Duke of Knoxford. He has a nephew who is?—”
The word “duke” did its usual, effortless work for Blaise. The circle moved as one, fans fluttering, and eyes widened toward him. Blaise offered a slight smile.
“Ladies.” He bowed just enough. “I have been pressed into service tonight.”
“Into service?” a pert blonde in white and blue asked. Lady Petunia, he believed, was her name.
“Yes, for my nephew,” Blaise said.
“Your nephew?” another girl said. “Is he here tonight, Your Grace?”
“He is not. But he will attend the next social event.”
“He is quite a charming young man,” Iris added.
But the young ladies began exchanging troubled looks.
“Which title will he inherit?” a dark-haired girl asked, leaning in. Her pearls glowed against her throat.
Blaise smiled easily. “Is it not enough that he is a duke’s nephew?”
His words dropped into the circle like a pebble in a shallow pond. The ripples were small, but he felt them.
“He will have no title then?” Petunia asked suddenly.
“A pity for him,” said a brunette with a pointed chin, her voice light. “What does he do, then?”
“He studies and reads at Oxford,” Blaise said.
“Does he have an estate?” another girl put in, brown eyes sharp. “Land of his own?”
“Not yet.” Blaise let his gaze drift toward Iris for the barest moment, a private reference only they shared. “But I intend to remedy that.”
There was a subtle recoil.
Iris held herself very still beside him. He felt the stiffness in her arm beside him.
