Blanche hummed, her fingers brushing against the silk of her gown absently. “At least his manners are intact. More than can be said for some.”
Fanny’s lips twitched, and though she said nothing, her glance carried something quietly knowing—something that made Blanche feel as though she had revealed more than she intended.
The faint relief Blanche felt upon escaping Lord Chancellor was short-lived. It barely had time to settle before a voice eclipsed it—pompous, dripping with self-satisfaction—cutting through the air as they strode toward the Duke of Woodrey.
“Lady Blanche.”
Oh, no, not him!
“I meant—Your Grace. It has been far too long,” said Lord Bromley. His voice was thick with exaggerated familiarity. “Our last conversation was… regrettably tense. I would like to rectify that unfortunate misstep. Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”
Blanche inhaled slowly, suppressing the exasperation curling at the edges of her patience.
This ball is brimming with insufferable men!
Blanche had never found Lord Bromley’s insistence charming, and tonight was no exception.
“Surely, Your Grace, you will not refuse me again?” Bromley’s voice was thick with self-satisfaction, his smile practiced, his posture too confident for her liking.
She exhaled, polite yet measured, keeping her composure intact. “Lord Bromley, I?—”
“I wish only to reconcile, Your Grace,” he interjected, offering his hand, an unmistakable expectation gleaming in his eyes. “Allow me this dance and let us put past misunderstandings behind us.”
Blanche flicked a glance toward Fanny, who offered the faintest shrug of sympathy.
It was either accept or endure a continued spectacle. So, with a composed sigh, she relinquished her sister’s hand and placed hers into Bromley’s, hoping to escape quickly.
As they stepped onto the dance floor, Blanche kept her movements precise, distanced, careful not to linger longer than absolutely necessary.
“I must admit,” Bromley began, guiding them into a practiced step. “I was most offended when you rejected me, Your Grace.”
Blanche inhaled, praying for patience. “It was nothing personal, I assure you…”
Bromley exhaled in mock consideration. “So I believed at first. But then, I realized it was not I you were rejecting. You were merely… preoccupied with His Grace.”
Her grip tightened imperceptibly against his shoulder. “That is a rather dramatic interpretation, my lord.”
“Not at all,” he declared. “I am a reasonable man, Your Grace. And I do not fault myself for losing to a duke. In fact, I would argue it elevates me.”
Blanche could not decide if the statement was ridiculous or merely insufferable.
Still, Bromley remained unrelenting. “You must introduce me to him, Your Grace.” His smile widened, indulgent and coaxing. “A man in his position surely requires allies. It would be splendid to do business together.”
Blanche fought the urge to step back entirely, swallowing her irritation.
She was about to offer a diplomatic refusal when they were interrupted. “I believe you have wasted enough of Her Grace’s time.”
The words, calm yet edged with quiet authority, sliced through the conversation like a perfectly sharpened blade.
Blanche inhaled sharply. Heath stood beside them.
His presence was effortless, commanding, his blue gaze unwavering, locked entirely on her.
He startled, straightened instinctively, then—recovering—plastered on a grin, eager to appease. “Your Grace,” he drawled. “A pleasure, as always.”
Heath said nothing. His attention never wavered.
Instead, with deliberate ease, he extended his hand toward Blanche, his fingers open, waiting, offering.
