“You tried to save him,” she said quietly.
Heat prickled behind his eyes, and he swallowed.
“But I did not. You did not see him, Iris. I told him Marcus was ill, and it was like he had been dead for years and suddenly woke up. Then the boar appeared and—” His voice broke. “I should not have taken him hunting.”
Iris slid her delicate fingers into his hair. “Blaise, you did not push him in front of the beast.”
“No. I only?—”
“—tried to help,” she finished for him.
Blaise laughed bitterly, remembering his cousin’s accusations about how he liked to play God.
“That is my sin, then? Always trying to help?”
“It is not a sin,” she said simply. “And it is not your burden to carry, just as you said; my father’s mistakes were not my burden.”
Blaise studied her a moment.
She continued gently, “I believed for seven years that if I suffered quietly, paid every debt myself, and never asked for help, then I might redeem my family’s misfortunes. I believed my worth was how much I could carry without breaking, and if I were a spotless little angel,” her smile turned wry—“someone might finally see me.”
His breath left him. “Iris…”
“I recognize the same sense of martyrdom in you. You think if you fix everything, you will finally be worthy.” Color rose in her cheeks. “And you did fix something. You helped me let go. You cannot know what that means, and I truly appreciate it. Thank you, Blaise.”
Blaise felt odd as Iris spoke. It was as if she were saying goodbye, and he was not ready to let go.
“Iris, you trusted me. I should be thanking you.” His hand cupped her neck as his thumb brushed her hair away. He resisted pulling her close and kissing her again.
“Let me keep helping you,” he said softly. “It would be a tragedy to stop now.”
“Blaise,” she moaned his name softly.
Her lips parted for a moment, and Blaise thought she might laugh, but instead, she slid from his arm and began to sit up.
The warmth from her languid body left him.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
She braced herself on his chest. The contact made his pulse jump.
“Getting dressed,” she said.
He stared at her pale back, the loosened laces of her corset, the sheer chemise clinging to her spine. “Why? Did you not say?—”
“I did,” she said, reaching for her stays. Her fingers fumbled the laces before finding the rhythm. Her movements were too careful.
“Stay. No one will come. They do not know this room exists.”
Although he wished he had made love to her in the privacy of his chamber.
“Blaise.” She looked over her shoulder, and the moonlight traced her profile, her flush on her cheeks, and her teeth biting her lip briefly. “I chose you to help me live again and to stop my shame from holding me. You understand that. But you are the kind of man who has a room like this.” Her gaze flicked to the cuffs, bed rings, and the drawer with his sketchbook. “You are not the kind of man who becomes a husband, right?”
Blaise looked into her hopeful eyes, and he knew the answer she wanted to hear, but the words refused to leave his mouth.
“I can marry,” he said stiffly. “In the abstract.”
“Do not mock me.”
