Blanche felt something tighten in her chest, an ache not entirely her own.
“He used to linger beneath them, even long after the household had gone to rest,” the housekeeper continued, tone threaded with quiet reverence. “But grief has a way of stealing such rituals. When the Duke and Duchess passed, His Grace stopped looking at the night sky.”
Blanche swallowed, her fingers grazing the golden frame before her.
She had known Heath to be unyielding, had seen the sharp edges of his confidence, the effortless command in his presence.
But this was something softer. Something sorrowful.
And for the first time, she wondered what it meant to lose everything before one had the chance to truly grow.
Blanche inhaled, a quiet warmth pressing against something deep within her chest.
Perhaps I had been too harsh with him?
Heath had been nothing but honorable with my family, ensuring their comfort, their security…
Blanche lingered in the corridor for a moment, tracing a fingertip absently over the carved edges of the doorframe.
She had spent days—perhaps even a week—avoiding meals with Heath, ensuring that their interactions remained brief, distant, inconsequential.
Now, as the hour of dinner approached, she found herself standing at the threshold of change.
“The Duke has been different since your arrival, Your Grace.” She turned at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice. Mrs. Talbot was watching her with the quiet observance of a woman who had seen generations unfold before her.
“Different?” she echoed, tilting her chin slightly.
Mrs. Talbot nodded. “There is a weight he carries, and yet… I dare say it has shifted. Your presence holds influence, Your Grace.”
Blanche said nothing. She only exhaled softly, watching as Mrs. Talbot inclined before retreating, leaving her alone in the hall.
Realizing she had perhaps been too harsh with Heath, Blanche considered making amends.
A compromise—one that might serve us both.
It wasn’t an entirely reckless notion. Certainly not the worst she had entertained. Their marriage was, after all, a pact of convenience, a carefully constructed arrangement with expectations to uphold.
So she resolved to wait until dinner. When Heath returned from his meetings, she would seek him out.
And then, they would talk.
The glow of candlelight bathed the grand chamber in golden warmth, casting soft reflections upon the polished surface of the table. Heath sat at its farthest end, his posture effortless, his gaze lifting the moment she entered.
Blanche swallowed.
He was too handsome in the dim light—too composed, too aware.
For a fleeting moment, her mind betrayed her, recalling the heat of his lips, the weight of his hands against her skin, the undeniable pull that had left her breathless and wanting.
She forced the thought aside and stepped forward, settling into the chair directly across from him.
Heath regarded her with interest—no smug amusement, no wicked glint in his eye.
“I have been thinking…” she began, tone measured, precise. “About what transpired last time.”
His expression did not shift, but she felt the subtle shift in the air between them.
“I believe we might find a resolution to our arrangement.”
