Heath’s gaze flickered toward her, unreadable.
But she could feel it—his control, the quiet restraint laced beneath his demeanor, the intent behind the distance he kept between them.
Heath turned, his eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement.
“Ah, but I admire that about you,” he murmured, taking a measured step toward her. “Your charm, your audacity—your unruly habit of challenging men who have spent decades ensuring women remain in silent compliance.”
Blanche tilted her chin, refusing to waver despite the undeniable awareness prickling through her skin. “And yet, here we are—apparently, I am to be taught restraint.”
Another step.
He was close now, too close, the warmth of him barely inches from her as he lowered his voice just enough for the words to settle deep into the air between them.
“There is a time and place for rebellion,” he murmured, fingers grazing the edge of her sleeve—light, but deliberate. “And in public is not one of them.”
Blanche inhaled, her heartbeat betraying her composure as his presence closed in, unrushed yet undeniably intentional.
“You will be the perfect wife they expect you to be.” His voice was calm—too calm. “As I will be the perfect husband they expect me to be.”
There was no question of what he meant. No question of who, exactly, needed to be reminded of her place.
“And behind closed doors?” she challenged, forcing steadiness into her voice.
A slow smirk traced Heath’s lips, his gaze dipping to her lips, lingering—knowing. “Then, Duchess, you may do as you wish.”
Something coiled deep within her, something dangerously exhilarating, something entirely unwise.
She exhaled, tension simmering between them, unrelenting. “And my ‘ideal husband’—” she murmured, voice edged with quiet defiance, “will he carry on with his rakish ways behind those same closed doors? Still meeting his mistresses?”
Heath’s expression darkened, the amusement in his eyes shifting into something deeper—something less playful, more perilous.
Blanche pressed forward, her own recklessness unraveling beneath the weight of his gaze. “Should I do the same, then?” she mused, voice laced with teasing provocation. “Have a few lovers of my own? In discretion always, of course.”
Silence.
Heath did not move, did not speak—only watched her, the air between them thick with challenge. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in.
“Tell me, Wildcat,” he murmured, his voice low, silk, and steel entwined. “Why would you need lovers? Do you not think you could do those things with me—those things you imagine in your books?”
Blanche remained perfectly still, refusing a single movement that could concede victory to Heath.
He stood before her, watching—waiting—his eyes unreadable, yet laced with something unrelenting.
“Perhaps,” Blanche admitted, her voice steady despite the quickened pulse beneath her skin. “But such behavior would hardly suit a duke’s wife, wouldn’t it? Not exactly what one expects from a perfect wife.”
Heath exhaled lightly, taking a measured step closer, the space between them narrowing until the heat of him was undeniable.
“I’ve already told you,” he murmured, his gaze dark with suggestion. “Perfection takes many forms.”
His voice was silk and sin, laced with quiet amusement as he studied her, the flicker of challenge dancing in his eyes.
“In public, you will behave as expected. But behind closed doors…” His fingers ghosted just above her skin.
A slow, provocative smile traced his lips, certainty unwavering but laced with something deeper.
“That is where I expect you to let go.”
Blanche inhaled, steadying herself against the undeniable pull of his presence.
