Heath sat back in his chair, fingers resting idly against the cool surface of his glass, satisfaction settling deep within his bones.
He had won.
The lords had accepted him, and soon enough, they would see that their careful balance of influence was shifting toward him.
Yet, for all his victories, something gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Percy, lounging opposite him with effortless ease, let out a low chuckle. “I must say, I expected you to look far more triumphant, Heath. A man does not walk away from bending the wills of England’s most obstinate gentlemen only to sit here brooding into his brandy.”
Heath exhaled lightly, swirling the liquid absently. “A victory secured does not mean a war won.”
Percy tilted his head, watching him with interest. “This war, I presume, has nothing to do with politics.”
Heath met his friend’s gaze, irritation flickering behind his eyes before he let out a quiet sigh. “Blanche…” The name itself felt heavier than he liked. “She is… impossible.”
Percy’s lips twitched with barely concealed amusement. “And yet, you are thoroughly fascinated, aren’t you?”
Heath huffed a quiet laugh—more breath than sound—shaking his head as he took another measured sip of brandy.
“It isn’t just that.” His voice was thoughtful now, his irritation woven into something heavier. “This is my first time being married, my first time sharing space—sharing a life—with someone who refuses to yield at every turn. She challenges me in ways I did not expect.”
Percy lifted a brow. “She refuses to yield? Or you refuse to let her win?”
A smirk tugged at Heath’s lips. “Is there a difference?”
Percy chuckled.“Perhaps not. But go on—what is it about her that unsettles you so?”
Heath exhaled, leaning back slightly, gaze fixed on the amber glow of his drink. “She rejects me, defies me, pushes back when any other woman in her position would have simply accepted the terms of our arrangement. And yet, despite that—despite the frustration she breeds—I cannot bring myself to dismiss it. Or her.”
Percy studied him for a moment, then shook his head in quiet amusement. “Attraction, irritation, and intrigue—all tangled into one. Quite the predicament.”
Heath’s smirk was slow, edged with something dangerously close to resignation. “Yes. Quite the predicament indeed.”
Heath rolled his shoulders, casting a glance toward the far end of the establishment, where a group of courtesans lounged, laughter spilling from their lips like invitations wrapped in silk. Once, such company had been an easy remedy—an indulgence with no consequence.
Now, the thought of entertaining it felt hollow.
Percy followed his gaze, then smirked knowingly. “Perhaps, my friend, you require distraction?”
Heath let out a quiet chuckle—deep, amused, though something sharper lurked beneath it.
“Distraction?” He turned back to his drink, lifting it to his lips. “I require nothing.”
But as the warmth of the brandy settled, his mind betrayed him—lingering on soft skin beneath his fingertips, the intoxicating pull of lips that had challenged him even as they surrendered.
She was fire.
And for the first time in his life, Heath did not know if he could master it.
The estate was grand—far grander than anything Blanche had ever called home.
She was accustomed to navigating spaces of wealth and refinement, but the sheer magnitude of this place unsettled her. It was Heath’s domain, his world, and each corridor seemed to echo that truth with quiet finality.
She moved through its corridors with measured grace, careful not to seem out of place, though in truth, the sheer enormity of it all left her slightly breathless. Which was precisely why she had spent the past days perfecting the art of avoidance.
Dodging him in the halls was manageable—his routines were predictable enough. But escaping the inevitability of shared meals required a far more refined strategy.
Blanche had spent the better part of the morning contemplating potential solutions, absently tracing the embroidered edge of her sleeve as she paced through the corridor.
