“How glorious this shall be!” she declared. “A proper wedding gown, jewels fit for a duchess—it is precisely as it should be.”
Lady Blanche inhaled sharply. “That is wholly unnecessary.”
Lady Gooldwer scoffed. “On the contrary, it is essential.”
Fanny, seated opposite them, watched her sister with measured contemplation.
“Blanche,” she ventured, voice quieter, more careful. “Would it truly be so terrible? To dress as a bride ought, to have a gown that reflects the moment?”
Blanche did not answer immediately.
Instead, she kept her focus upon the streets—the passing faces, the fleeting sense of separation between herself and the world beyond the carriage walls.
Then, almost absently—so quietly it was barely audible—she muttered, “A gown is hardly what makes a moment.” Heath observed her, catching the shift in her tone, the slight furrow of her brow. His smirk lingered.
“Ah,” he murmured, “but a gown makes a statement. And this, Lady Blanche, is a statement you cannot evade.”
Blanche turned her gaze to him at last, eyes flashing with something unspoken.
It was not surrender, not acceptance.
It was resistance—sharp, unyielding, a silent warning that she was far from done fighting him on the matter.
Heath welcomed it.
“There it is,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his tone edged with unmistakable satisfaction. “That stubborn streak of yours.”
Blanche inhaled slowly. “You speak as though it amuses you.”
“It does.”
Her fingers tightened slightly over the edge of her seat, but before she could formulate a proper retort, Lady Gooldwer sighed dramatically.
“You must learn to take a compliment, Blanche.”
Blanche exhaled through her nose, visibly reining in her irritation.
Fanny, sensing the precarious balance of the moment, intervened with measured ease.
“At the very least, think of the experience,” she encouraged. “You could be the heroine of one of your novels—a romantic vision stepping into a gown fit for an exquisite tale.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Blanche’s features—subtle, fleeting.
And then, just barely, the slightest flush crept up her neck.
Heath noticed the shift in her color, the way she looked away too quickly.
He let the realization settle, let the corner of his lips curl just so—but he said nothing.
Instead, he turned his attention toward the approaching storefront. The grand display of silks and lace gleamed beneath the afternoon light, the pristine glass framing the interior’s opulence with perfect precision.
Lady Gooldwer leaned forward eagerly, practically brimming with delight.
“Ah, splendid! The very finest establishment in all of London.”
The carriage slowed, the footman already in position to assist. Heath stepped out first, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with deliberate ease before turning. He extended his hand toward Blanche, and she hesitated.
The moment stretched, charged with unspoken calculations. But after the briefest pause, her fingers found his palm.
