“Lady Hentley.”
The moment the words left her lips, Blaise’s scarred brow lifted slightly in recognition.
“Hentley,” he murmured. “The widow whose husband died on their wedding night under rather… mysterious circumstances. The one society has quietly shunned ever since. I did not realize I had suchnotoriouscompany wandering my halls.”
Blaise noticed the way her spine straightened defiantly.
“How charmingly you phrase it. Tell me, Your Grace, does your past bear such perfection? I doubt it does.”
Blaise’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile. He stepped closer until her scent wrapped around him, ignoring the sting of her words.
“My past is far from spotless. But that is a story for another time. Right now, you intrigue me more than anything I have to say.” It was the truth, and he had many questions for her, but he kept them at bay.
Wrong time and place.
“Why would a widow intrigueyou?” Her question cut through his thoughts.
“You survived your husband’s sudden death, society’s judgment, and still possessed the courage to attend a ball. How is that not intriguing?” Blaise was impressed that she did not back away from him as he closed the distance; instead, she challenged him with a stubborn stance.
She was not at all what he had imagined. Many spoke of Hentley’s wife as a quiet, shell-like woman. But the viscountess before him possessed a fiery look that made him doubt every rumor.
“If we are to speak of intrigue, perhaps you could explain why adukeneeds such…toolsin such a room. Perhaps your past did trouble you so, and only torture can satisfy you.”
Blaise’s eyes darkened, but the smirk remained. “Careful, Little Blossom. Some questions lead to answers you may not be ready to hear.”
Her lips parted, and Blaise allowed the silence to lengthen, closing another fraction of space between them. He did not expect his night to end this excitedly. She tilted her head back to glare into his eyes, stubbornly refusing to retreat.
Beautiful.Andso damned proud.
“Do you know the difference,” he asked softly, “between a tool used to harm and a tool used to please?”
“I did not even know there were tools,” she admitted and instantly looked ashamed.
Blaise felt a sudden, unexpected softness toward her. She seemed innocent, but he learned never to assume the characteristics of a woman.
Or an animal.
Reality settled into his bones, and he shook away the lust that deterred his thoughts.
“You are honest; I like that.” He eyed her long, curvy body and felt his manhood twitch stubbornly against his thigh.
Blaise lifted a hand, very slowly, and the blossom flinched, but she did not step back.
“Are you afraid of me?”
“No,” she answered too quickly.
“You should be.” He stopped a hair’s breadth from her cheek, feeling the heat of her skin in the narrow space between them.
“As I mentioned before, if you were truly outraged, Little Blossom,” he murmured, “you would have fled long before I arrived. You would have dropped the book and run shrieking down the corridor until some poor gentleman rescued you from your own imagination.”
Her breath caught as he leaned nearer, his mouth close enough to feel the ghost of his words along her jaw.
“Instead,” he went on, “you lit a candle, looked around, and turned every page of my sketch book. If I were any other man, I would assume that you are a spy?—”
“I am not a spy!” Her expression proved she was telling the truth.
She bit her lower lip in frustration, and the action seemed unintended, but it struck Blaise low in the gut, causing him to growl.
