Fanny scoffed. “Not in the slightest. I have, however, refined my method of rejection to an art form. Truly, it is becoming a skill.”
Blanche smirked. “You ought to document your techniques, dear sister. A guide to polite dismissal.”
Fanny grinned. “Perhaps I shall. But, in truth, I have been far more occupied with my painting than anything else. I have taken on new lessons.”
Blanche glanced at her, noting the brightness in her expression, the way her entire demeanor softened at the mention of her craft. “Then tell me everything.”
And so, as they moved through the grand hall, Fanny described her latest works, and Blanche listened, allowing herself, for just a little while, to be lost in the familiarity of her sister’s excitement.
Fanny grinned, eyes alight with the kind of knowing curiosity only a sister could possess.
“And what of you, then?” she mused, tilting her head slightly. “Has the elusive Duke of Woodrey proven to be the epitome of husbandly virtue?”
Blanche hesitated only briefly before offering a measured smile expected of a woman in her position. “It is precisely as it should be.”
Fanny studied her carefully, unperturbed by the practiced response. “Which is to say… complicated. But you seemed fine when I saw you both last?”
Blanche merely hummed, turning her gaze toward the garden beyond the window, watching as the breeze rustled the ivy along the stone walls.
Fanny exhaled, leaning in slightly. “Come now, sister. We are alone, and if there is one person in this world with whom you need not perform, it is me.”
Blanche hesitated.
Not because she did not trust Fanny—she did, wholly, in ways she could not always articulate—but because voicing the truth meant confronting it.
And yet, silence was no better.
She exhaled, measured, thoughtful. “I expected simplicity.”
Fanny arched a brow. “Simplicity?”
Blanche nodded, her gaze still fixed upon the garden. “A marriage of convenience. A man occupied with his own affairs, a wife tending to the necessary proprieties. An arrangement, not an entanglement.”
Fanny tilted her head. “And yet, you find yourself entangled.”
Blanche exhaled again, slower this time. “He is… impossible.”
Fanny let out a quiet hum, the barest hint of amusement threading through it. “I imagine Heath would be rather pleased by that assessment.”
Blanche narrowed her eyes. “Do not encourage him.”
Fanny laughed softly. “I need not encourage him. I believe he does quite well on his own.”
Silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, merely contemplative—before Fanny spoke again, voice gentler now.
“You are drawn to him.” Blanche stilled. She had not admitted it aloud. Had not shaped the words with her own voice, despite knowing them to be true.
Fanny watched her carefully, gauging the hesitation, the unwillingness to confirm what they both knew.
“You fear what yielding to it might mean.”
Blanche swallowed. “I fear…” She hesitated, shaking her head slightly, as if the thought alone was too much. “If I surrender to it, I will mean nothing more to him than any other woman.”
Fanny leaned back, thoughtful. “And has he given you reason to believe that?”
Blanche blinked, considering.
Heath was a man accustomed to indulgence—she had known that from the beginning. But he had not strayed, had not made careless pursuits of passing temptations since their marriage.
