Her father had vanished—escaped, disappeared into selfish ruin. But Heath had lost his entirely.
Percy studied her for a moment, thoughtful, before exhaling quietly. “It is not my story to tell. But perhaps, in time, you will hear it from him.”
Blanche pressed her lips together, nodding faintly. Some wounds were meant to be uncovered only when one was ready.
A smile ghosted over Blanche’s lips, small but sincere. “At least he counted on you to be his brother… his family.”
Percy’s laughter was quieter this time, tinged with something thoughtful. “Perhaps. I suspect I have caused him many headaches. Heath has been a better friend than I could ever hope to be, and he has also been a much better nobleman than I ever could have been.”
“He must have had little choice,” Blanche remarked, tilting her head slightly. “Running a duchy at such a young age, without guidance—it could not have been easy.”
Percy sighed. “It wasn’t.”
But before the conversation could progress further, Heath’s voice broke through—smooth, deliberate, and entirely unimpressed.
“I do hope you are not filling my wife’s head with nonsense, Percy.”
Blanche barely had a moment to compose herself before Heath took his place beside her, his presence an undeniable force, one that commanded attention with maddening ease.
She felt it—the subtle shift in the air, the quiet command woven into the way he moved, unhurried yet deliberate. There was no need for grand gestures or words. His presence alone shaped the space around him, drawing attention without asking for it.
And worse yet, she felt the warmth rise to her cheeks as his gaze met hers—steady, knowing, as if he could read every unspoken thought that flitted through her mind—a subtle shift in the room’s rhythm, like the hush that follows a drawn breath. Heads turned—not abruptly, but with the quiet precision of attention unwilling to be caught staring.
Blanche felt it, too—the inexplicable pull that lingered in his wake. Her breath caught, just briefly, and she hated the warmth rising to her cheeks.
And now—now he is mine. My husband.
Heath’s gaze held hers for a moment longer, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the edges of his lips before he reached for her hand.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it—his fingers brushing lightly over hers as he brought her knuckles to his lips, letting the brief kiss linger just enough to cause her breath to hitch.
Percy let out a low chuckle, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Well, Heath, marriage rather suits you.” His gaze flickered toward Blanche, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
Blanche arched a delicate brow but said nothing, merely allowing the weight of the words to linger between them.
Heath did not release her hand immediately. Instead, he turned toward Percy with a slow, measured smile—one that carried an edge of something unmistakable.
Percy caught it, smirked, then exhaled dramatically. “Ah, but I shall not intrude on wedded bliss. It seems I am needed elsewhere—whether for another drink or, perhaps, the company of a willing lady.”
He offered Blanche a wink before stepping away, disappearing into the sea of guests with the ease of a man who had long mastered the art of vanishing at precisely the right moment.
And just like that, they were alone—or as alone as one could be amid a crowded room, beneath the watchful gazes of London’s elite.
Blanche turned back to Heath, the warmth of his fingers still steady against hers.
His gaze lingered, tracing the contours of her expression with a quiet intensity before his lips curled, slow, deliberate.
“Tell me, Duchess,” he murmured, “do you recall our first kiss?”
Her pulse quickened slightly, though she tilted her chin with practiced poise. “I recall that you were insufferably pleased with yourself afterward.”
Heath chuckled, brushing his thumb absently over the back of her hand. “And yet, despite all protestations, you seem to tolerate me still.”
Blanche huffed a quiet laugh. “For now.”
The sharp clip of heels on marble announced an arrival. “Your Grace,” came the lilting voice of Lady Imogen, smooth as velvet, and every inch as deliberate.
Heath turned with practiced ease, offering a courteous smile that revealed nothing and invited little. Blanche, still beside him, kept her posture regal—though her fingers closed slightly.
