“Indeed.” He studied her for a moment, then stepped slightly closer, just enough for his warmth to brush against her. “But it makes the prospect far more enticing.”
Blanche’s breath stuttered.
He is testing me…
As they wandered deeper into the grove, the world beyond softened—rustling branches shielding them from curious onlookers, the distant hum of the city fading into quiet solitude.
Heath’s gaze flickered toward the book clutched so fiercely in Blanche’s hands. “I suspect that must be quite the captivating novel.”
She adjusted her hold, suddenly aware of her grip. “It’s merely something to pass the time.”
His smirk deepened. “I’d wager it belongs to the very category you mentioned before.”
Blanche stiffened slightly. “Perhaps,” she admitted, voice measured.
Heath exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head. “Then surely you can indulge me with a passage?”
Blanche hesitated, fingers tightening around the worn pages. “That would hardly be appropriate, Your Grace.”
“Nonsense,” Heath countered smoothly. “I am eager to understand precisely what literature holds such fascination for you.”
She exhaled slowly, weighing her options. He was determined—charming, insistent in a way that made refusal seem almost impossible.
Finally, with careful deliberation, she turned a few pages, clearing her throat as she read.
“His touch was a slow drag of heat down her bare skin, a deliberate stroke that left her breathless. He didn’t grope or grasp—he worshipped. Every inch he explored was a vow made in silence, a claim staked in the dark. She had been kissed before, had danced with charming men beneath chandeliers, and felt their practiced hands at her waist. But none of them had ever made her ache like this—quietly, deeply, completely. With him, it wasn’t about conquest. It was possession. He looked at her like he knew what she needed before she did. And God help her, she wanted to be known that way.”
The words hung between them, laden with something unspoken, something Blanche wished she had not voiced aloud.
She glanced at Heath cautiously. He was watching her, amused. “A fascinating choice.”
She straightened slightly. “You asked for a passage. I complied.”
His smirk did not waver. “Tell me, Lady Blanche—are these the sort of men who capture your interest?”
Her pulse faltered. She should look away. Deflect. Laugh.
Instead, her gaze held his, chin lifting slightly as she replied, soft but deliberate. “There are certain traits a gentleman may possess that… draw one’s attention.”
“How fortunate for me.” his amusement deepened, unmistakably pleased. “In your novels,” he pressed, his voice low, deliberate, “does passion only exist outside marriage?”
The grove wrapped around them like a sanctuary, shielding them from prying eyes, muting the world beyond its branches.
The air was crisp yet carried a quiet warmth, a lingering scent of damp earth and autumn leaves. And beneath it—just faint enough to be intoxicating—was the unmistakable presence of Heath.
Blanche inhaled sharply, caught off guard.
“No,” she blurted. “But those are just stories.”
A faint smirk curled at his lips.
“Tell me more about your favorite scenes.”
Blanche’s pulse wavered, her heart quickening against her ribs as awareness settled over her with startling clarity.
He was close—closer than any man had ever been. Not just in proximity, but in presence, in undeniable gravity.
Through the fine silk of her gloves, she felt the heat of him where her fingers rested lightly against his arm. It was not touch, not truly, yet it was enough to unsettle her, enough to make her wonder—just for a fleeting moment—how bare skin against bare skin might feel.
