Heath studied her for a moment longer before reaching for the comb. “Try it,” he murmured.
Blanche hesitated. “Your Grace?—”
“Humor me, just this once.”
A quiet exhale. And then—her fingers reached forward, taking the comb without another word.
Heath watched. It suited her far too well.
The coral nestled against her dark locks, striking in contrast yet seamless in placement.
For a brief, fleeting moment, his mind drifted to another comb, long untouched. The last gift was meant for a mother who had never received it. His own mother.
His jaw tightened, though he made no outward sign of distraction.
Until—“Well?” Blanche’s voice broke through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present.
She adjusted the comb slightly, then turned to him with a pointed look. “How does it look?”
Heath, recovering without pause, arched a brow. “Passable.”
Blanche scoffed. “Passable?”
“For a wildcat? Absolutely.” Her glare was immediate.
Heath smirked, leaning slightly closer, eyes gleaming with unspoken challenge.
“Though, I must admit,” he continued, tone dipped in unmistakable amusement, “it is rather endearing to see you attempt refinement.”
Blanche inhaled sharply, no doubt ready to hurl some thoroughly dignified protest—but Heath merely let the moment stretch, lingering just a fraction too long, his gaze fixed upon her with something entirely unreadable.
It was a fleeting thing, the quiet pull between them—so delicate it could have been ignored, so sharp it was impossible to dismiss.
Blanche, standing before the gilded mirror, remained impossibly still. A single breath—a fraction deeper than necessary—was all it took for him to catch it.
The distance between them had lessened imperceptibly. Just enough for Heath to be acutely aware that if he so much as inclined his head, if he so much as reached for her?—
Blanche inhaled, her lips parting slightly, as if she sensed it too.
Heath’s fingers twitched at his side. It would be easy. A tilt forward, the briefest brush against her skin?—
His jaw tightened, though his body did not yet obey the instinct to move away.
Blanche was looking at him now, her gaze steady, her breath just slightly uneven.
And then?—
“What are you two doing over there?” Lady Gooldwer’s voice cut through the moment, shattering it with impeccable precision.
Blanche turned so sharply it was as if she had been jolted from sleep. The flush was immediate, blooming across her cheeks, unmistakable.
Heath exhaled slowly, controlled, steady, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as if the interruption had been of no consequence. And Blanche—nervous, startled, utterly disarmed—was more beautiful now than she had been the entire evening.
He let the thought linger, just briefly—then, with perfect ease, he took a measured step back.
“Nothing, Lady Gooldwer,” Heath murmured smoothly. “Merely admiring your daughter’s attempt at refinement.”
Blanche exhaled—too quickly, too deliberately—as she stepped away from him, creating the distance she had not moved to claim earlier.
