Lost in thought, she nearly collided with one of the housemaids—Margaret, if she recalled correctly—who carried a small tray stacked with linens and a neatly folded menu for the day’s meals.
A perfect opportunity.
Blanche hesitated for the briefest moment, adjusting her posture, willing herself to embody the composure expected of a duchess rather than a woman scrambling for avoidance. She was not some uncertain girl lingering on the periphery of his home—this was her residence now. She had a right to dictate her own affairs.
She inhaled, steadying herself.
“Would it be possible to have my breakfast served in my chambers?” Her tone was light, carefully composed. She feigned interest in the lace at her sleeve, as though the request were merely an idle preference. “And supper as well, if it would not be too much trouble.”
The maid blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Of course, Your Grace, though… is there a particular reason?”
Blanche smiled, serene and unwavering. “I prefer solitude.”
The explanation was plausible enough—no one would question a duchess who valued privacy.
However, before the maid could accept the request, another voice cut through the conversation.
“Solitude—or merely the wish to evade me?” The heat rose to her face before she even turned.
Heath. Of course.
He stood leaning against the doorframe, watching her with the precise expression of a man who had long suspected such tactics and had only been waiting for confirmation.
“I must admit,” he continued, crossing his arms, “your dedication is rather impressive. An admirable effort, yet, I fear, a fruitless one.”
Blanche lifted her chin, refusing to be rattled. “I had no intention of being evasive. Merely efficient.”
“Efficient?” Heath let out a quiet chuckle, taking a single, measured step forward. “Because sharing a table with me is a waste of time?”
“Because sharing a table with you is an unnecessary distraction.”
Heath tilted his head, studying her with a curiosity that felt far too perceptive. “Unnecessary… or dangerous?”
Blanche pressed her lips together.This. Man.
“Should I take that as a compliment?” he mused, his tone laced with casual amusement—but his eyes held something else entirely.
Blanche inhaled, slow, measured. “You should take it with understanding.”
“Ah, but that would be far too simple.” And before she could plan a proper retort, he shifted—closing the space between them just enough, lowering his voice just slightly.
“Dinner. Eight o’clock.” His gaze lingered, unwavering. “And this time, I shall not entertain excuses.”
Blanche held firm. “Then I hope you possess patience, Your Grace.”
Heath’s smirk deepened, edged with quiet satisfaction. “I do not. But I have time.”
Heath held her gaze for a lingering moment, the smirk playing at the edges of his lips unmistakable. “Do try not to miss me too much, Duchess.”
Blanche exhaled sharply, resisting the impulse to roll her eyes. “You are insufferable.”
His chuckle was low—satisfied. “And yet, strangely difficult to avoid.”
With maddening ease, he turned and strode down the corridor, leaving her standing amidst the quiet hum of her own thoughts.
She stared at his retreating form for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before shaking herself free of whatever foolishness had momentarily seized her.
He is impossible. Absolutely, infuriatingly impossible.
