He didn’t move closer, but the way he looked at her—God, it unraveled something in her. The way his coat hung loose over his frame, the flush of wind on his cheeks, the way his gaze dipped momentarily to her lips before catching itself.
Blanche swallowed, but it did little to steady her. Her fingers ached to touch him—not for reassurance, but for the releaseshe’d denied herself since the last time they stood alone in a room and let silence speak first.
She stepped forward. Just slightly.
He didn’t reach for her.
He didn’t have to.
Blanche’s gaze dropped to his hand. His glove was still damp from the ride. His breathing uneven. He’d ridden through fog and anger and uncertainty for her.
Her pulse fluttered, she looked up again and smiled. Just barely.
Blanche stood with her hand still resting on Heath’s sleeve, the morning sun just beginning to seep through the tall parlor windows behind her. He hadn’t let go—not fully—and she hadn’t asked him to.
She turned to the others. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”
There was no protest.
Even Lady Gooldwer managed a clipped nod, her pugs trotting obediently behind her as she departed with a rustle of silk and faint indignation.
Heath followed Blanche into the old study, the one with the carved walnut shelves and the ridiculous blue-green chair that had always reminded her of a parrot mid-prayer.
Once the door clicked shut behind them, it was just the two of them, and the silence that had lived between them far too long.
She turned to him, heart fluttering like tissue in a breeze. Her hands were around his neck before she could even think twice.
He pressed her back against the stacks and let his lips give in to her kiss.
She needed him.
She needed him like he was water and she was dying of thirst.
He rolled his hips against hers, and she felt all she needed to know that he was starved for her as well.
“You came,” Blanche said, between kisses.
He leaned back, his eyes adjusting to her nearness. “I had to.”
Her lips trembled into a smile. “But… You were angry.”
“I still am,” he admitted. “But not with you.”
She looked away. “You had every right. I said things I didn’t mean…”
“I know,” he said. Then, more quietly, “But even if you had meant them, I’d still be here.”
“You, Blanche, have never owed me anything but the truth. And you gave me that when no one else dared.”
She stared at him, and for once, let her heart show plainly on her face.
He took a breath. “I love you,” he said.
The words were not dramatic. They didn’t need to be. They weren’t rushed or baseless, but full of warmth.
Her fingers lifting to touch his cheek as if to ensure he was real.
“I love you, too,” she said, voice shaking. “I think I have for a while. I just… couldn’t see it. Not until I came back and realized this house isn’t my home anymore.”
