Blanche stiffened. “Mother, I hardly think?—”
“Naturally,” Heath interjected smoothly, his smile polite but undeniably pleased. “I would be delighted.”
Blanche’s gaze snapped toward him, her expression unreadable to anyone but Heath.
With that, they began their walk through the estate, Heath leading them down the grand corridor lined with portraits of his ancestors.
Lady Gooldwer’s commentary was relentless—every molding admired, every chandelier questioned in its excess, every aspect of Woodrey deemed either unnecessarily extravagant orprecisely what she had always envisioned for her daughter’s future.
Fanny listened with quiet amusement, her occasional glances toward Heath almost apologetic.
Blanche, however, remained measured in her responses, offering well-placed remarks where necessary while keeping a keen awareness of Heath.
They reached the section of the corridor where the portraits lined the walls with quiet authority, faces of the past gazing down upon them with an air of solemnity.
“Your lineage is quite impressive, Your Grace,” Lady Gooldwer remarked, pausing before a particularly grand depiction of a late duke.
Blanche tilted her head slightly, studying the portraits, but when she finally spoke, it was not to echo her mother’s sentiments.
“The staff speak of them often. Of how the former Duke was unwavering in principle but generous in his affections, and how Her Grace always ensured that the house was filled with light.”
Heath stilled.
Blanche had spoken the words with ease, as though they were merely fragments of history, details she had gathered likeany other piece of knowledge. And yet, Heath found himself momentarily caught, pulled into the quiet gravity of memory.
His mother’s voice—soft, firm, certain.
The world is bigger than any man, but you, my dear boy, are limitless.
Blanche’s gaze flickered toward him, her expression thoughtful.
He exhaled lightly, letting the moment settle before stepping toward her, lowering his voice just enough so only she could hear.
“You seem rather well-informed.”
She met his eyes, unbothered. “It is only natural to learn of one’s home, is it not?”
His lips curved—slow, sharp, edged with something unreadable. “My past is not for your entertainment, Blanche.”
She did not flinch, nor did she look away, but Heath saw it—the faint rise of color in her cheeks, the way she gripped the fabric of her gown just slightly tighter than necessary.
Satisfied, he stepped back, casting a glance toward Lady Gooldwer, and when they arrived at the library, he did not intend to disappoint.
He opened the doors with effortless ease, allowing his guests to step inside. The scent of parchment and bound leather filled the air, the towering shelves lined with centuries of carefully preserved knowledge.
Lady Gooldwer gasped. “Your Grace, you are hoarding half the wisdom of England in this very room!”
Blanche exhaled, shaking her head. “Mother, it is a library.”
“A grand one,” Lady Gooldwer countered, “and I hope you make proper use of it.”
Heath let out a quiet hum. “Indeed, she does,” he remarked, stepping toward the shelves with casual interest. “Tell me, Lady Gooldwer, do you believe fiction to be a reflection of one’s desires?”
Her grin was immediate, pleased with the direction of the conversation. “Oh, undoubtedly. There are certain truths one cannot simply speak aloud.”
Heath plucked a particular volume from its place—one familiar, well-worn.
Blanche tensed.
