Heath inhaled slowly, allowing the weight of Percy’s words to settle. His friend was jesting, but behind it lay something else.A quiet concern. A careful attempt to gauge what Heath himself had not yet named.
He had known Percy long enough to realize that all the jesting and feigned indignation veiled something else entirely.
“Drop the theatrics, Percy. You did not come all this way merely to revel in society’s latest gossip.” His voice was even, yet there was an unmistakable sharpness in his gaze. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”
Percy, for all his playful nature, did not waver under scrutiny. Instead, he leaned back, stretching one arm over the gilded frame of the chair, regarding Heath with something akin to measured concern.
“Very well, then. If you insist on robbing me of my entertainment…” His tone remained light, but Heath did not miss the weight behind his words. “You do realize, of course, that no one—least of all me—expected you to take a wife.” Percy paused briefly, allowing the words to settle before continuing. “And certainly not in a manner so… expedient. The question remains, Heath—why?”
Heath smirked slightly, lifting his glass to his lips before replying. “Because it is practical.”
Percy’s brows lifted, incredulity flickering across his expression. “Practical? You speak of marriage as though it were an investment.”
“Is that not what it is?” Heath set his glass down with deliberate ease. “I require a wife of respectable standing. She requires security. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement, nothing more.”
Percy hummed softly, staring into his brandy as if contemplating the logic presented before him. “And you truly believe it is nothing more?”
Heath held his gaze, unwavering, yet somewhere beneath the surface, a memory stirred—the crisp air of the park, the lingering warmth of Blanche’s touch, the way the world had seemed to tilt when their lips met, and as his hands slid around her waist.
He remembered her full, nervous yet eager lips when he kissed her, her warm breath against his own, and the curves of her body in his arms. He wanted to taste every inch of her. Let his hands explore those curves, the feel of her soft skin against his?—
Bloody hell?—
He pushed the thoughts aside. “She knows the terms. There are no illusions between us.”
Percy did not speak immediately. Instead, he watched Heath with an expression so pointedly unreadable that it only added to the simmering tension between them.
“Perhaps,” Percy finally mused, his tone deceptively casual. “But I would wager that Lady Blanche knows far more than you give her credit for.”
Heath arched a brow, unimpressed. “And what precisely do you mean by that?”
Percy exhaled through his nose, swirling his drink absently. “Only that I have never known you to be so thoroughly consumed by mere practicality.” He lifted his gaze, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips. “Thetonmay speak of embroidery patterns, my friend. But I suspect there is something rather more intricate at play here.”
The statement lingered between them like an unspoken challenge. Heath did not answer immediately. Instead, he allowed himself a fleeting pause where his mind wandered.
He desired Blanche. That much was undeniable. But was desire alone enough to justify this arrangement?
He took another sip of his drink, allowing the warmth of the liquor to burn away any doubt.
“As long as the arrangement serves its purpose, I see no reason for concern.”
Percy sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Well then, Heath, I do hope you are right.”
Heath did not respond immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, the weight of Percy’s words settling into the dim glow of the drawing room.
His fingers tightened briefly around his glass before he set it aside, his gaze lingering on the flickering embers in the hearth. The arrangement was practical, necessary. And yet, as his thoughts drifted unbidden to Blanche, he could not escape the relentless pull she had on him—an insatiable fixation, seeping into his very bones.
She consumed him in a way no mere transaction ever should, unraveling him with every lingering memory, every unspoken word.
“You look positively radiant, Blanche!” Fanny’s voice, bright with unchecked excitement, filled the chamber as she clasped her hands together, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
The lace of her own gown trembled as she shifted on her feet, barely containing her joy.
Blanche exhaled, stepping toward the grand cheval mirror in the corner of the room, her silk slippers barely making a sound against the polished wooden floor.
The reflection staring back at her felt foreign—elevated beyond the ordinary into something almost ethereal.
Her gown, a masterpiece of fine brocade and delicate embroidery, draped elegantly over her frame, the rich creamfabric catching the glow of the late afternoon light spilling through the tall windows.
