Heat rushed to her cheeks as she straightened, forcing her mind back to reason.
It was a book—a novel. A fantasy spun with ink and imagination. And yet, the thought of one particular—and real—duke had invaded it so effortlessly.
It’s only the effect of these pages—nothing more. He is but a fictional character, no one real to affect me.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to return to the words on the page, willing away the pulse that had stirred beneath her skin.
But it was too late. The thought had rooted itself. And no matter how she tried, she could not quite banish it.
Snapping the book shut, Blanche found Fanny studying her curiously. Their afternoon stroll through Hyde Park suddenly felt an ill-chosen moment for vivid imaginings. Her sister’s raised eyebrow confirmed she’d noticed Blanche’s distraction, though propriety prevented comment.
“Everything all right?” Fanny inquired innocently as Blanche fanned her flushed face.
“Perfectly fine… just grown bored with this story,” she lied, pretending sudden interest in passing couples.
“Bored? You look positively feverish!” Fanny teased. “Daydreaming about romantic heroes again?”
“Certainly not!” Blanche feigned indignation while internally screaming,absolutely yes!“Regardless.” Blanche cleared her throat. “This lovely weather begs us to move about, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” Fanny giggled, looping arms without pressing further.
Blanche noted with surprise how Fanny now stood slightly taller. In mere months, her sister had blossomed into society’s ideal—graceful, elegant, turning heads wherever she went.
She sometimes envied Fanny’s effortless beauty, though her own shorter, curvier frame more closely mirrored their mother’s. Lady Gooldwer had been a celebrated beauty in her day, yet Blanche had never felt particularly desired.
Hence, her devotion to novels where heroes saw past superficial charms to cherish hidden depths.
A part of her still yearned for such love, though she’d resigned herself to practicality. Not that getting married to a duke constituted hardship—she simply wished for affection. Or at least attraction. Because, despite her protests, the Duke of Woodrey’s irreverent charm and that devastating smile undeniably affected her.
“You’re unusually pensive today,” Fanny observed, smiling as Blanche’s cheeks pinked further.
“Just wedding thoughts,” she admitted.
Fanny hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the lace trim of her sleeve. “Any… excitement about it?”
Blanche exhaled softly, tilting her gaze toward the rolling clouds above. “I’m thrilled we’ll soon be free of financial worries,” she deflected. “Beyond that, I expect little from our union.”
Fanny’s smile faltered slightly. “I can’t help but feel that I am to blame for all this. If I had accepted any of the proposals I received, you wouldn’t have had to?—”
“Fanny.” Blanche turned to her, voice firm but gentle. “You must not think that way.”
Her sister swallowed, looking down at her hands. “But it’s true, isn’t it? If I had married well, there would have been no need for you to?—”
“To what? To sacrifice myself?”
Fanny said nothing, but the guilt in her expression was answer enough.
Blanche softened, reaching for her hand. “Listen to me, dearest—I would never wish for you to bind yourself to a man you do not love. And I do not resent you for making that choice. In truth, it is the only choice that matters.”
Fanny looked up, her eyes shimmering. “And yet, you do not have that luxury.”
Blanche exhaled, squeezing her hand lightly. “I have made my peace with it. My engagement is not born of love, no—but it is practical, necessary. And I can live with that.”
Silence stretched between them, warm and understanding.
Finally, Fanny spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve more than mere practicality, Blanche.”
A wry smile tugged at Blanche’s lips, though something deep within her trembled.
