A ripple of higher-pitched laughter sounded from near the gazebo, where a cluster of very young ladies had formed their own little constellation. White and rose and primrose yellow, it was an orchard of debutantes, and instinct told him to avoid it as their lace umbrellas blocked him from their view.
But he turned his steps toward them anyway.
If Marcus hoped to find a bride from amongst their number, Blaise ought to begin taking note of which mothers were the most calculating, which daughters the most malleable, or the most likely to eat the boy alive. As he drew nearer, a fragment of conversation drifted to him, clear as a bell beneath the general hum.
“…and can you imagine, positively clinging to the house as if her very life depended on it,” a high, sugary voice declared. “Refusing to leave, and refusing to see reason. So, unbecoming in a widow.”
“Lady Petunia,” another young lady whispered, half-scandalized, half-delighted, “you ought not?—”
“Oh, nonsense, Lady Scarlet. Everyone is saying it. The poor Duke of Knoxford, trapped with some obscure viscountess who will not budge an inch. A man must have his freedom. I should die of embarrassment to be so grasping.”
Hot fury flared up in Blaise’s spine. He had been prepared for whispers about his scar, his fortune, and his sudden title. But he had not been prepared to hear Iris’s name being continuously reduced to a greedy obstacle or a weed in his path. His steps slowed, and for one absurd instant, he considered turning away, allowing the insipid creatures to have their gossip.
His throat tightened, and he cleared it. The sound cut through their tittering like a knife, turning their heads towards him. Lady Petunia blinked as if she were imagining him. A faint line appeared between her perfect brows as comprehension dawned.
“Your Grace?—”
“Have you not learned from your friend’s mistake after gossiping about Lady Hentley earlier?” he spoke sternly.
The other girls scattered like starlings startled from a lawn. A few dipped curtsies mid-flight; one squeaked a greeting; another cast him a gaze of terror as she retreated. In the space of two heartbeats, Lady Petunia stood almost alone, with only one friend lingering behind her, pale as milk.
She did not curtsy immediately. For a moment, her eyes swept over him, assessing his height, the broadness of his shoulders, the cut of his coat, and the scar. Then she gave a deep curtsy, enough to emphasize the curve of her bosom.
“Your Grace.” Her voice lost that sharp gossiping edge; it turned breathy, faintly husky, and practiced. “I sincerely apologize; it is just news that I have heard elsewhere. And we feared we had lost our host to the viscountess.”
“I assure you, Lady Petunia,” Blaise said, letting ice bleed into his tone, “the viscountess makes better conversation and barely speaks ill of any of you.”
A small silence bloomed. The girl behind Petunia’s shoulder jerked, as if she had been kicked.
Lady Petunia only laughed, though the sound trembled at the edges. “You are cruel, Your Grace. But we ladies deserve it, do we not, when we chatter so?”
“When you chatter about the weather, perhaps,” he said coldly. “Or musical preferences. Or the inestimable merits of bonnets. But when you chatter about a lady you do not know, in a house that is not your own, without the courtesy of ensuring herprotector is out of earshot, then I confess, I find you and your friends less charming.”
Color rose high in her cheeks as she glanced at her friend, then back at him. Her fan snapped open, then shut again.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I did not mean... We were only?—”
“Gossiping,” he supplied. “Carelessly.”
She swallowed. “Everyone speaks of it. That is all I meant. We were only wondering why a widow should be so determined to stay on in your house, when it cannot be...” She broke off, perhaps realizing that the sentence could not possibly end well. “That is to say, we spoke without thinking.”
“You spoke without kindness,” Blaise corrected, his voice low enough that those nearest had to lean in to hear. “That disturbs me more than your lack of thought.”
Blaise had never imagined himself sermonizing to a gaggle of debutantes about kindness. And yet he did not regret it.
“I have always found,” he went on, “that those who clutch most eagerly at reputations are the first to tear others’ apart. I do not like hypocrites, Lady Petunia. They bore me. And they disappoint me.”
Her chin lifted a fraction.
“I was not being a hypocrite,” she protested politely. “I only said what I thought. Is it not unusual for her to refuse to leave the house? People wonder, and they pity you; that is all. You must want your independence.” She took a half-step closer, until he could see the faint dusting of powder along her nose. “I know I should be very happy, were I invited to relieve you of such burdens.”
Blaise nearly laughed, remembering the word on Iris’s lips and how it felt less like an attack coming from her.
He eyed the young lady before him, who was trying to seduce him with her eyes. She was petite and calculating. Iris was around her age when she had married Hentley, the man who had promised comfort and delivered chains instead. His stomach turned.
“Your solicitude for my freedom is touching,” he said. “Truly. But on the subject of the viscountess, you are misinformed.”
“It is only natural to assume?—”
