Blanche shot him a look—sharp, warning, though the warmth rising beneath her skin betrayed her entirely.
Beyond them, Lady Gooldwer had latched onto a new fascination, waving a hand toward a particularly ornate clock mounted above the fireplace.
“Now this is what I call craftsmanship! Tell me, Heath, does it chime with a melody or merely announce the hour?”
Fanny stepped forward to study the details, while Heath shifted closer—just enough that Blanche would feel the quiet weight of his presence.
“I imagine a skilled lover would be rather familiar with timing,” he mused, his voice an exquisite whisper between them. “Or is that not what your novels suggest?”
Blanche inhaled, steadying herself. “I imagine a skilled woman would know when a moment is best left to the imagination,” she countered, her voice smooth, a whisper of victory curling through her tone.
Heath’s smirk was slow, indulgent. “Ah, but imagination makes the anticipation all the sweeter.
Blanche parted her lips, but before she could say a word, she was interrupted.
“Blanche!” Fanny’s voice rang clear, cutting effortlessly through the moment, breaking the invisible thread that had woven itself between the couple.
She turned sharply, blinking once, regaining the composure she had nearly lost. “Yes?”
Fanny smiled gently, gesturing toward the gilded frame of a book laid out for display. “You must see this. It is remarkable.”
Blanche exhaled, apparently, grateful for the interruption—or irritated by it—he wasn’t quite certain.
Heath, thoroughly amused, stepped back, inclining his head toward the ladies with effortless grace.
“If you would excuse me,” he said. “I shall see to your refreshments.”
Lady Gooldwer merely waved a hand, distracted, while Fanny gave him a knowing glance—nothing direct, nothing overt, just enough to suggest that she saw far more than she let on.
Heath stepped into the corridor, exhaling lightly as the echo of the ladies’ voices faded behind him. The weight of the exchange of Blanche’s fleeting breaths, of her near-surrender—lingered in the still air, refusing to dissipate.
The soft click of footsteps drew his attention before he turned, finding Mrs. Talbot standing a few paces away, her hands neatly folded before her.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, dipping her head in quiet acknowledgment.
He inclined his own, ever measured. “Mrs. Talbot.”
She hesitated only briefly before allowing her gaze to flicker toward the grand hall beyond them.
“A fine woman, Her Grace,” she said with a knowing warmth. “She takes great care to listen when we speak of Woodrey, asks after the late Duke and Duchess with an attentiveness I had not expected.”
Heath exhaled, tilting his head slightly.
“Does she?”
Mrs. Talbot nodded. “Indeed. She spoke kindly of them just this morning, expressing sympathy for their passing, remarking on how the house still holds their presence.”
She paused, studying his expression before adding, “You are fortunate, Your Grace. She has done well to make herself part of this place.”
Heath let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting toward the far end of the corridor.
A challenge. That was what Blanche had been to him. Fierce in her defiance, unwilling to yield, reluctant to become another dutiful wife lost to circumstance.
He had not anticipated this.
Had not foreseen how effortless her presence would become, how she would weave herself into the fabric of Woodrey without ceremony, without force.
She had unsettled him.
