She shot him a sharp glance, surprise flickering beneath the surface. “I merely spoke the truth.”
Heath smirked, measured, and calculated. “You didn’t just challenge them. You challenged me.”
His influence, his control—the carefully curated balance he had spent years perfecting.
His gaze flickered downward, catching the faint tightening of her fingers against the fabric of her gown.
“But you defended me.”
Heath exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “I preserved decorum.”
Her features shifted, processing the weight of his response. A flicker of indignation sparked in her eyes—small, controlled, but unmistakable.
Her fingers curled slightly, tension visible in the way she held herself. “I will not allow my father to be condemned without answer.”
Heath resisted the urge to sigh, schooling his features into something composed. “And I will allow no one to undermine me in my home.”
The challenge hovered between them—unspoken yet unmistakable.
Heath wasn’t blind to her fire, to the quiet resilience woven into every word she spoke. He admired it, even. But admiration was one thing, recklessness in the presence of men who ruled society was another.
Blanche parted her lips—ready to retaliate, ready to push. But before the words could escape, Heath moved. His hand slid from her wrist to the curve of her lower back, his touch firm.
“Not here,” he murmured, his voice low, carrying just enough weight to remind her that some battles were better fought behind closed doors.
He could feel it—the tension coiling beneath her composure, the frustration settling into the stiffness of her posture.
Dangerous, the way her presence stirred something sharp beneath his skin, something undeniable, and yet, none of it mattered—not now, not here. Heath moved with deliberate purpose, leading her away from prying eyes.
Only when the air thickened with quiet, when the hum of conversation faded into the background, did he press his palm against the heavy mahogany doors, guiding her forward.
And only then did he realize where he was leading her.
His bedroom.
Twelve
The door shut behind them with a quiet finality, the soft click of the latch reverberating through the silence of the grand chamber. Blanche turned swiftly, eyes narrowing as she met Heath’s gaze.
“We should not be here,” she stated, her voice steady despite the simmering frustration coiling in her chest. “There are still guests downstairs.”
Heath merely shrugged, moving toward the sideboard where an elegant array of crystal decanters awaited. “The guests will manage without us.”
The quiet finality in his tone sent a clear message—he had no intention of indulging her protest.
Blanche inhaled sharply as he poured himself a measure of brandy, the golden liquid catching the light as he lifted it to his lips with maddening ease.
She knew she had overstepped earlier.
She had seen the flicker of judgment in the eyes of the noblemen, felt the weight of Heath’s restraint beside her. What she had said had been bold—perhaps even improper—but she had not meant to humiliate him.
Only to defend the one person who could no longer defend himself.
“I see,” she murmured, folding her arms as she studied him.
“As much as I enjoy your endearing wildcat defiance,” Heath said with a smirk, “you must learn to control it in public.”
“So much for your duchess speaking her mind.”
