Lady Imogen’s smile widened as she reached them. “How striking you look this evening,” she said, her gaze drifting rather boldly across the line of Heath’s shoulders. “I was beginning to think the Season would pass without even a glimpse of you.”
Heath offered a brief bow. “I regret disappointing you, Lady Imogen. Though it appears I’ve corrected the offense.”
“Entirely.” Her gloved hand brushed lightly against his sleeve. “And your lovely wife—how fortunate she must feel.”
The words were kind. The tone was not.
Blanche smiled politely. “Indeed. I find fortune smiling on me daily.”
The exchange might have ended there—should have ended there—but Lady Imogen persisted, her voice dropping into something meant to sound coy.
“I was just recalling the winter ball at Carroway. Do you remember, Your Grace?”
A pause.
Heath’s smile didn’t flicker, but something cool edged into the corners of his eyes. “You’ll excuse us, Lady Imogen,” he said smoothly, guiding Blanche with the lightest pressure at her back. “I believe my duchess requires air—and something far less perfumed.”
Once they were a few paces clear, Blanche spoke without turning to him.
“Who is she? Do you know her well?”
Heath arched a brow. “Jealous, Duchess?”
She stopped. “Should I be?”
Heath studied her a beat longer than necessary. “Not unless you mean to challenge her for boldness.”
Blanche’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Heat, low and unfamiliar, curled in her chest.
And then, before she could gather her thoughts, Heath pulled her closer, lowering his head until the world around them blurred, until his lips met hers in the first proper kiss they shared before all of London.
It was measured, careful—just enough to be undeniable, just enough to ensure every watching eye understood one thing with certainty: She belonged to no one. But she had chosen him.
Heath’s lips curved—slow, deliberate, as though she had unknowingly stepped into a game he had long mastered. “Lady Imogen is nothing. No one. A mere fading interest of years gone by. Now, does that satisfy your curiosity, or do you wish for… more?”
Blanche felt the warmth rise to her cheeks, though she refused to waver. “You should have introduced me, that’s all.”
Heath caught the movement, his gaze lingering for half a second before he spoke again, his voice quieter, but no less commanding. “She’s not worth your time, or mine, in fact. I could call her back over?—”
Blanche’s hand shot up to grip his right as he lifted it as if to call the woman over.
“Good. Now thatthatis settled, tell me, Duchess,” Heath murmured, the trace of a smirk lurking beneath his measured expression. “Are you too intimidated to meet a few men who believe themselves to be the rulers of this country?”
Blanche met his gaze fully now, searching for the challenge hidden beneath the words, for the flicker of amusement that so often accompanied his remarks.
And then, with all the elegance expected of a duchess, she allowed the cool strength of his fingers to close over hers.
“Lead the way, Your Grace.”
Heath’s fingers tightened slightly over hers, his expression unreadable.
And as Blanche stepped forward into the unknown, into a world that had only ever existed on the periphery of her imagination, she realized—this was only the beginning.
Eleven
“Those men believe themselves to be the architects of England’s fate,” Heath let out a quiet breath, the faintest trace of amusement threading through his voice. “Truthfully, they are nothing more than old wolves clinging to their influence with brittle teeth.”
Beside him, Blanche rested her fingers lightly over his arm, her touch a quiet, grounding presence amid the sea of nobility.
