“Your Grace!” Fanny hissed through clenched teeth, snatching the linen from him with such ferocity that Lord Murchison, watching from beneath the tree, flopped over in alarm.
Blanche turned toward Heath, lips twitching.
“They’re either moments away from murdering each other or from eloping with tragic fanfare and a duel at dawn.”
Heath raised his brow. “My money’s on the duel. Though if she pulls a pistol from her reticule, I’m intervening.”
Blanche leaned into his shoulder, laughing softly. “Do you think they’ll manage?”
He looked toward the scene—Fanny trying to dry herself with one hand while delivering a monologue of barbed sarcasm, Percy nodding along as though consulting a treaty. Then back to her.
“If they don’t set the parlor curtains on fire first… possibly.”
She sighed, contented. “Well, I suppose it’s only fair. We did have our moments.”
He drew her closer. “And ours, unlike theirs, didn’t require a change of clothes.”
She elbowed him gently. “Yet.”
He gave her that look—the one he reserved for moments when he wasn’t entirely sure whether to kiss her, laugh, or offer to duel the nearest man for the privilege.
“Come with me.”
He guided her through the glittering corridor and up the familiar staircase, away from music and mischief, until the sounds of laughter faded like lanterns in the fog.
Inside their chamber, the fire had been stoked. The snow beyond the windows glowed softly in the moonlight, haloing the dark panes in silver.
Heath crossed to the escritoire and opened one of the smaller drawers with care. For a moment, he hesitated—then drew out a slender velvet box, worn smooth at the corners.
She blinked. “What’s that?”
He turned to face her, something softer than mischief lingering in his eyes now. “Something I should’ve given away long ago,” he said. “But I wasn’t ready.”
He placed the box in her hands. When she opened it, her breath caught.
Inside lay a hair comb—simple, elegant, with tiny pearls nestled along a filigree of gold vines. The kind of piece not made to dazzle in parlors, but to be cherished in quiet mornings. The kind of gift chosen not by station… but by memory.
“I bought it when I was eighteen,” Heath said quietly. “I intended it for my mother. I’d planned to give it to her at Christmas.”
Blanche looked up, heart folding into itself.
He nodded. “She died before I could.”
Silence stretched for a beat.
“I’ve kept it ever since. Not out of guilt, but… because it was the last thing I chose with her in mind.” He swallowed. “And now I’d like it to be something I choose for you.”
She reached up and touched his cheek, light as breath.
“You don’t have to part with this,” she whispered.
“I do,” he said. “Because you’re part of everything now. Every room. Every moment. Every piece of who I am that still wants to become something better.”
Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted the comb from its case. “May I?”
He nodded.
She turned to the mirror, slid the comb gently into her hair, securing the mistletoe in place. When she turned back around, Heath was watching her like he might never recover from the sight.
