Heath did not stop her.
Instead, his gaze flickered back toward the coral comb, still gleaming beneath the soft glow of the boutique’s lanterns. With careful ease, he reached for it once more.
Tracing the delicate carving between his fingers, he allowed himself a brief moment of indulgence—of remembrance.
And then—he let it go.
With a decisive motion, he set the comb back in its place, his fingers curling slightly before withdrawing altogether.
Straightening, his gaze found Blanche once more.
She was still affected—he could see it, though she hid it well. The flush of her cheeks remained, the lingering breathlessness carefully restrained, though not entirely concealed.
She was beautiful like this.
Heath exhaled slowly, forcing the thought from his mind as he turned toward the waiting attendants.
It would not happen again.
But some things—he knew—were inevitable.
Six
“The Duke’s hand traced the delicate curve of her cheek, his touch lingering—firm yet reverent. He did not speak, yet his gaze held all the promises words could never convey…”Excitedly, Blanche read the most thrilling passage in her book.
Blanche exhaled softly, letting the words settle as she reclined beneath the shade of the great oak by the lake. The afternoon stretched lazily around her—sunlight dappling the water, birdsong weaving through the murmur of the park.
Fanny sat nearby, flicking idly through her own book, while their mother muttered to herself about the tragic state of their affairs. But Blanche paid them little mind. Her focus remained on the page, on the novel’s duke that had ensnared her attention so completely.
The Duke of Blackmore—cold, calculating, yet impossibly tender—held his beloved in an embrace so intoxicating, so exquisitely reverent that Blanche felt a shiver ripple through her.
She read on, breath hitching as the heroine yielded beneath his touch, as his whispered confessions brushed her throat, as his lips—warm, insistent—found the pulse beneath his lover’s ear.
And somehow, as the words blurred slightly beneath her gaze, she realized she had imagined his name differently. For just a fleeting instant, the Duke of Blackmore seemed to transform in her mind into…
Heath.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the book.
No. That is not his name…
And yet…
A slow, deliberate sigh escaped her lips as she turned another page, eyes flickering over the descriptions, tracing each tantalizing detail.
She ran absent fingers along the edge of the page, then higher—brushing her collarbone in idle contemplation. The touch was light, fleeting. But something about the novel’s descriptions lingered in her mind, coaxing her into her own silent musings.
The Duke, whispering against the hollow ofherthroat, his breath stirring the curls at the nape ofherneck, his fingers tracing the sharp line ofherjaw.
Her lips parted slightly, and without realizing, she lifted a hand, brushing the pad of her thumb against her lower lip as she imagined the warmth of another’s touch there.
A gentle breeze stirred the air, lifting strands of her hair across her cheek.
A moment passed. Then another. Then?—
Blanche blinked suddenly, shaking herself, the book nearly slipping from her grasp.
What in heaven’s name am I doing?
