She moved through the hallway with purposeful strides, resolute in her need to devise a proper strategy. He was far too perceptive—too attuned to the quiet shifts in her composure, too skilled at slipping beneath her defenses before she even realized they had weakened. Avoidance was the only logical course of action.
And yet, she missed him. More than that, she missed home.
Her family. The warmth of familiarity, the ease of existence without expectation, without scrutiny.
That is what I need to focus on. Not Heath. Certainly not the way he unsettles me…
Fanny’s laughter, the warmth of familiar voices, even the absurd presence of her mother’s beloved pugs—things that had once seemed trivial now settled into her chest with a weight she could not ignore.
She chose to dwell on that kind of longing—the one tethered to familiarity, to the comfort of home—rather than the one Heath ignited within her. She refused to acknowledge the truth, to admit that she missed the sharp, exhilarating exchanges, the mischief woven into his words, the undeniable pull of his kisses, and the thrilling discovery of his touch.
Fourteen
Distracting herself, Blanche wandered through the halls until something halted her steps—a portrait, large and striking, framed in ornate gilded detail.
The former Duke and Duchess of Woodrey…
Blanche studied them.
The late Duke carried the same air of authority Heath wore so effortlessly, his posture sharp, unyielding. But it was the Duchess—her elegance, the piercing blue eyes—that struck Blanche most.
Heath’s eyes.
She had seen them countless times now, the cool precision, the unrelenting sharpness, but there was something else.
Something softer.
The presence behind her made her turn.
Mrs. Talbot, the estate’s housekeeper, stood a few paces away, her gaze resting upon the portrait with quiet reverence. She was a woman of measured composure, but beneath the formality lay the quiet warmth of someone who had served long enough to understand the unspoken burdens of those who called Woodrey home.
“The late Duke and Duchess,” she murmured, voice smooth with a touch of nostalgia. “Fine people. Greatly loved.”
Blanche traced the familiar blue of the Duchess’s gaze, a quiet thought settling in her mind. “Heath looks like her.”
Mrs. Talbot exhaled lightly, nodding. “Indeed. Her features, her mannerisms—though I daresay the young Duke inherited his father’s temper.”
Blanche let out a soft chuckle, surprising herself.
She had never considered what losing them had been like for Heath.
“It must have been difficult for him.”
The housekeeper studied her for a moment before offering a slight, knowing nod. “It was.”
She hesitated only briefly, then added, “I recall, when he was very young, Her Grace would always insist that he take a few moments before retiring for the night to stand beneath the stars and listen. ‘The world is bigger than any man,’ she would say. ‘But you, my dear boy, are limitless.’”
A quiet pause settled between them, heavy with unspoken sentiment.
Blanche’s gaze lingered on the portrait, tracing the features so familiar yet distant, as if Heath carried ghosts within him that refused to fade.
Mrs. Talbot exhaled lightly, eyes briefly flickering toward the window, where the evening sky stretched endlessly beyond the estate walls.
“He never looks at them anymore.”
Blanche turned to him, brows knitting slightly. “The stars?”
Mrs. Talbot nodded, his voice lower now, quieter. “Not since the night they were lost to him.”
