Heath met his eyes, unyielding. “Lady Blanche Waldron.”
A beat of silence.
“The—Gooldwer’s daughter?” Percy echoed, incredulous. “Since when?”
Heath smirked, lifting his drink once more.
“Since three days ago.”
The impact was instant.
Lord Chancellor’s composure faltered, his lips parting slightly in surprise before he masked it with a tight, forced chuckle.
For a fleeting moment, Percy’s face was a picture of bewilderment, mirroring the outrage of the three lords seated before them.
Heath saw it immediately—the sheer incredulity in his friend’s expression—and knew he owed him an explanation.
Eventually.
For now, he merely relished Percy’s unfiltered reaction, for it had served his purposes brilliantly. With calculated ease, Heath turned his attention to Lord Chancellor, his gaze steady, assessing.
“Perhaps you’re right, my lord,” he murmured, swirling the last remnants of scotch in his glass. “Perhaps these matters are best handled discreetly, without troubling the Prince Regent. Say, at the next informal gentlemen’s meeting?”
The meaning was unmistakable. Lord Chancellor hesitated—but only briefly.
With reluctant stiffness, he dipped his chin. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“So, it is settled,” Heath said smoothly. “We will discuss the details at the next gathering—after my wedding. To toast the happy event.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” said Lord Chancellor, watching Percy and Heath stroll out of the room.
Satisfaction was on the Duke’s features.
Victory—Heath reflected as they stepped into the fading afternoon light—tasted even sweeter than he’d imagined.
Five
“You look as though you’ve agreed to be sent to the gallows rather than wed a duke,” Fanny murmured, her brush gliding over the canvas with absent strokes.
Blanche did not look up from her book. The letters blurred slightly—her mind too restless to focus.
“I simply find it… difficult to fathom.”
Outside, the sun was beginning its slow descent, casting warm streaks of light through the tall windows of their modest sitting room. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden glow, the quiet hum of the afternoon pressing in around them.
Lady Gooldwer, comfortably reclined upon the settee, barely spared them a glance as she stroked the ears of one of her prized pugs. “You must learn to embrace your new reality, Blanche. A duchess cannot afford hesitation.”
Fanny frowned slightly, dipping her brush into the paint. “She should be allowed a moment to adjust, Mother.”
Lady Gooldwer scoffed. “Nonsense. There is no time for doubts. A man like His Grace must be kept intrigued—captivated, even. You must be exceptional.”
Blanche exhaled slowly. Exceptional. As though she were a commodity to be polished and presented for display.
She turned another page, though she had scarcely processed the words upon the last.
Fanny hesitated before speaking again, her voice quieter. “It happened so quickly…”
Blanche met her gaze—the subtle crease of worry upon her sister’s brow.
