The viscount, ever persistent, found his opportunity, flashing a self-satisfied smirk. “I daresay, Your Grace, we are not so different, you and I.”
Heath barely inclined his head. “A regrettable assumption.”
Bromley faltered, but Heath did not allow him the dignity of recovery.
“Nor should you mistake your failed pursuit of my wife as any indication of shared taste.” His words were smooth, controlled, but unmistakably dismissive.
Blanche felt the warmth rise to her cheeks, her pulse thrumming in quiet betrayal.
With a measured breath, she placed her hand in Heath’s, feeling the firm, steady grip of his fingers curling around hers.
Lord Bromley, sensing dismissal, attempted a final pleasantry, but Heath did not offer even the courtesy of a response. Instead, with perfect composure, he guided Blanche away, leaving the man in their wake.
As they stepped through the ballroom, Heath cast a glance at their surroundings—the prying eyes, the eager whispers, the expectation that hung thick in the air.
He turned to her, his lips tilting ever so slightly in a knowing smirk. “Shall we give them what they want, Duchess?”
Blanche inhaled, finding herself momentarily lost in the chiseled elegance of his features—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his dark lashes framed those impossibly blue eyes.
With a quiet, unreadable smile, she placed her free hand lightly upon his shoulder. “Lead the way, Your Grace.”
Every eye followed them. And Blanche—against all better judgment—felt herself surrender to him, if only for this moment.
Seventeen
“Tell me, Wildcat, do you intend to defend my honor with such fervor at every gathering?”
Heath’s voice was low, edged with amusement, barely above a murmur as he guided Blanche onto the dance floor.
Heath hadn’t heard her words, not precisely. The ballroom had been too crowded, too loud, the murmur of voices weaving through the space like an intricate web of influence and scrutiny.
But he hadn’t needed to. Lord Chancellor’s smirk had been telling enough when Heath had passed him moments ago, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he remarked, “Quite the devoted wife you have, Your Grace. It seems she has taken it upon herself to safeguard your reputation.”
Heath had merely lifted a brow, offered the man a measured glance, and continued on his way. But now—watching the faintflush on Blanche’s cheeks, the undeniable flicker of defiance in her eyes—he knew.
She had defended him.
And for reasons he could not yet name, the knowledge settled into his chest with quiet satisfaction.
Blanche inhaled sharply, her eyes lifting to meet his as his fingers curled gently around hers. The ballroom had quieted—subtly, instinctively—as every watchful eye followed their movements.
Yet Heath saw only her.
“And how, exactly, do you know that I have defended you with fervor?” Blanche asked, tilting her chin ever so slightly, her gaze sharp despite the flush dusting her cheeks.
Heath chuckled, slow and knowing, guiding them effortlessly through the waltz. “The evidence is rather damning, Duchess. That charming blush of yours is one indication.”
Blanche exhaled, attempting—rather unsuccessfully—to will the warmth from her skin.“And the other?”
“Lord Chancellor, of course.” He smirked, leaning in just slightly, his voice dipping into something deliberately indulgent. “He seemed quite… amused by your efforts.”
Blanche stiffened, irritation threading through her posture.
“I did not realize I had made such a spectacle,” she murmured, voice steady, though the faint pink that dusted her cheeks betrayed her.
“Oh, but you did,” Heath countered, a smirk tracing the edge of his lips as he led her into the first step of the waltz.
She fit against him perfectly, her presence seamless, her form delicate yet unyielding under his guidance.
