Lord Chancellor considered Heath for a moment, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with deliberate ease. Beneath the polished civility of his demeanor lay something else—calculation, the quiet deliberation of a man who knew precisely when to retreat and when to press forward.
Heath met his gaze, unwavering, patient.
“Perhaps we should discuss it,” Lord Chancellor finally mused, his tone carrying the languid confidence of a man determined to appear unconcerned. “A meeting at The Velvet Rose, say, Tuesday evening?”
Heath inclined his head with measured satisfaction. “I will be there.”
Something was gratifying about it—the way influence could be wielded without force, the way men who once tested his resolve now bent, however reluctantly, to the inevitability of his presence.
Before Heath could fully settle into the satisfaction of the exchange, the conversation took an expected—yet no less irritating—turn.
“A most unfortunate situation for Her Grace,” Lord Redgrave murmured, swirling his brandy with idle precision. His gaze swept over Blanche with the detached curiosity of a man discussing the weather. “No woman should suffer the vices of a man.”
Blanche blinked, her fingers tightening slightly against Heath’s arm. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”
Lord Chancellor exhaled lightly, adjusting his cuff with practiced ease. “He refers, of course, to your father’s rather… sudden absence.”
Heath’s grip on his glass remained firm, his expression carefully composed as Blanche straightened beside him.
Blanche stiffened imperceptibly, but Heath caught the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled just slightly against the fabric of her gown.
He had expected this.
Lord Redgrave swirled his drink absently, his tone laced with the detached certainty of a man who thrived on speculation. “Though, given Lord Gooldwer’s recent associations, perhaps the result was rather foreseeable.”
A flicker of something sharp passed through Heath’s gaze. He could see it—see the restraint in Blanche, the quiet war she fought against the need to respond. He had seen the same control in himself more times than he cared to count.
Without hesitation, his fingers brushed lightly against hers—barely there, but enough. Enough to remind her that he saw. Enough to remind her that she was not standing alone beneath the weight of judgment.
His voice was deliberate, carrying just enough authority to carve through the conversation. “It would be unwise to make assumptions in the absence of a man’s own defense.” A pause—pointed, measured. “Honorable men reserve judgment until all truths are known.”
Blanche inhaled, steadying herself. But when she spoke, her voice was calm, razor-sharp beneath its elegance.
“Fascinating, is it not?” she mused, tilting her chin slightly. “How easily some men are forgiven while others are condemned, depending on the convenience they provide.”
The remark landed with precision, sharp and deliberate.
Heath resisted the urge to tense, masking his reaction with practiced ease—but the flicker of surprise was undeniable.
She had said it in front of them. In front of men who had spent years wielding power with calculated precision. In front of those who had learned to keep him close, not out of trust, but out of necessity.
Heath let out a slow breath, his grip tightening just slightly around his glass.
Silence. A stunned, unsettled sort of silence.
Several nobles exchanged brief glances, their expressions laced with disapproval, their composure disturbed by the audacity of a woman daring to wield truth like a blade.
One of them cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I would encourage you to… discipline your wife.”
A quiet sigh escaped him—almost amused by the absurdity of it. “I expect my wife to speak her mind freely,” he stated, his tone carrying a quiet finality that left no room for argument.
The men shifted, awkward but unwilling to press further. Their apologies were formal, but hollow—polite dismissals masquerading as civility.
Heath offered them a sharp, measured nod before turning toward Blanche, his palm pressing gently against the small of her back. “Come, Your Grace. We have other introductions to make.”
As they moved through the gathering, Heath’s grip on her hand tightened slightly—firm, controlled, though not harsh.
He leaned in, voice low, meant only for her ears. “Perhaps you do need discipline, Duchess.”
