“A test.” Satisfaction colored his tone. “One we both passed splendidly.”
“A test of what?”
“Proof our marriage can be more than mere convenience. As far as desire is concerned, Blanche, we’ve gained more than either expected.”
His meaning crystallized—their kiss had revealed mutual passion neither anticipated. As they rejoined the others, Blanche stole glances at Heath, marveling at how thoroughly one kiss had upended her expectations.
All this time, I believed no pleasure could surpass my novels,she mused, studying his profile.How foolish I’ve been.
But that was precisely why she could not afford to dwell on it.
A fleeting moment was one thing. Allowing herself to indulge in such thoughts is dangerous. Reckless.
She straightened, schooling her expression. She would not entertain foolishness.
Not now. Not with him.
And judging by the Duke’s smug expression, he intended to disprove every assumption she’d ever held—a prospect that left her aching to discover what other surprises awaited her in their marital bed.
Eight
“Blanche, are you even listening?”
Blanche startled, blinking as Fanny narrowed her eyes at her, hands on her hips.
“You’ve been dazed since yesterday. It’s unsettling.”
“I’m fine.” Blanche forced a smile, though the warmth lingering beneath her skin told another story.
Fanny huffed, and—without warning—dipped her fingers into the flour and flicked a delicate cloud of it toward Blanche’s face.
Blanche gasped, blinking rapidly as the fine powder dusted her lashes and nose.
Fanny grinned triumphantly. “There. Now you look as lost as you feel.” Laughter bubbled up between them, breaking whatever tension had begun to form.
Sighing, Blanche looked at the loaf of bread in front of her—their latest baking attempt, if one could call it that. It was hard, uneven, and vaguely tasted of salt despite them never adding any.
“It’s not entirely terrible,” Fanny lied, nibbling on the crust. “Better than the soup disaster.”
Blanche groaned. “Don’t remind me. I still don’t know how I managed to burn broth.”
Beside them, Mrs. Hollis, their steadfast cook, stirred the contents of a simmering pot with practiced ease, pretending not to notice their disastrous culinary efforts.
Blanche wiped the remnants of flour from her face, exhaling slowly.
She wished she could dismiss her distraction as easily.
But how could she, when her thoughts kept circling back—again and again—to the kiss that had stolen her breath, to Heath’s steady hands at her waist, to the fire he had lit within her with nothing more than a touch?
Her fingers twitched, resisting the urge to press them against her lips—to chase the lingering sensation, the phantom warmth of Heath’s mouth against hers.
“Blanche?” She startled again, blinking as Fanny waved a hand in front of her face.
“You’re staring at the bread as though it holds the answers to the universe.”
Blanche forced a smile, brushing flour from her sleeve with slow precision. “Perhaps it does.”
Fanny huffed, though amusement softened her gaze. “Well, if you happen to find enlightenment in our tragic loaf, do share.”
