But, as soon as she had the chance, Blanche nervously pulled her hand away from Heath’s in a gesture meant to appear serene. Yet, he could read her emotions in the expression on her face.
Enjoying the scene, she followed the ladies into the establishment, noting that Lady Gooldwer seemed to be strutting about like a queen.
The heavy oak doors swung open, allowing the soft hum of London’s bustling streets to fade into the opulence of the boutique. The air held the scent of fresh linens and lavender polish, a testament to the establishment’s dedication to refinement.
Heath stepped in first, his presence commanding attention before he uttered a single word.
A woman, tall and elegantly dressed in deep burgundy silk, approached with swift precision, her calculating eyes lighting with pleasure at the sight of him.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, dipping into a practiced curtsy, her voice lilting with admiration. “What an unexpected delight.”
Heath inclined his head slightly, more an acknowledgment than a pleasantry.
Lady Gooldwer, on the other hand, wasted no time in stepping forward, brimming with excitement.
“Mrs. Montfort,” Lady Gooldwer greeted with a knowing smile. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
The proprietress barely concealed her intrigue, though she schooled her expression into polite composure. The recognition was swift—undoubtedly, she had already pieced together the significance of Heath’s presence—but she chose discretion over commentary.
“Lady Gooldwer,” she acknowledged smoothly. “It will be my honor to attend to you and your daughters.”
“Of course it will,” Lady Gooldwer replied, casting Heath a glance infused with something almost affectionate. “We come in celebration, and as such, require only the finest. Everything must be perfect.”
Mrs. Montfort inclined her head, sharp eyes flickering with silent questions, though she kept them unspoken.
“Naturally, my lady,” she assured, signaling to her attendants with a practiced motion.
Blanche barely suppressed a sigh, shifting her stance ever so slightly as the weight of the moment pressed around her while Mrs. Montfort clasped her hands together, a gleam of satisfaction settling in her expression. “You need not worry, Lady Gooldwer. I have precisely what you seek.”
She turned toward her assistants, who immediately began pulling silks and lace from carefully arranged cabinets, presenting an array of gowns fit for nobility.
Heath glanced at Blanche, catching the rigid line of her shoulders, the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides.
“Lady Blanche,” he murmured, voice edged with something knowingly insistent. “Tell me—how will I have the pleasure of seeing you dressed?”
Blanche’s eyes snapped toward him.
“You will not.”
His lips curved slightly. “No?”
“There is no need for excess.”
His smirk deepened. “Then I shall have the tailor fit me for mourning, for it would be a tragedy indeed if my future wife arrived in rags.”
Fanny bit back a laugh. Lady Gooldwer merely waved a hand, dismissing Blanche’s protest entirely.
“Enough of this nonsense. She will be fitted properly.”
Blanche clenched her jaw but ultimately relented. As the assistants guided Lady Gooldwer and Fanny toward the measuring stands, Heath allowed himself a moment to survey the shop’s collections.
And then—his gaze halted.
A coral hair comb, intricately carved, its fine craftsmanship unmistakable. Something flickered in his expression—brief, unreadable.
Blanche, noticing his sudden distraction, followed his gaze.
“It is exquisite,” she remarked softly.
