Heath exhaled lightly, resting an elbow against the frame of the carriage. “How I spent most of the evening watching other men relentlessly pursue you.”
Blanche scoffed, rolling her eyes as she straightened her gloves. “You exaggerate, Your Grace.”
“Do I?” Heath mused, tilting his head, studying her with deliberate ease. She met his gaze then, her expression carefullyneutral—though the faint pink that dusted her cheeks did not escape his notice.
He smirked. “It is fortunate, then, that you are unbothered by such attention.”
Blanche inhaled lightly, her posture immaculate, but there was something in the way she lingered before responding—something in the way her fingers curled against the lace of her gown as if grasping for composure.
Heath leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dipping into something smoother, quieter.
“You know what? I think it’s about time. The world should know, Blanche.”
Her breath hitched, her pulse thrumming against the quiet restraint she fought so fiercely to maintain. “Know what?” she asked, though the answer was clear before he spoke it.
Heath’s smirk deepened, wicked and deliberate, his voice a mere breath above the hush of the carriage. “That the Duchess is mine.”
The words settled between them, a statement wrapped in the weight of something unspoken, something undeniable.
And in the flickering glow of the carriage, Blanche felt herself fighting a losing battle against the inevitable.
She should have had a reply.
She should have scoffed, should have met his challenge with that well-practiced composure she had carried through the evening.
But she said nothing.
Because Heath was watching her—watching her in a way that made the air feel heavier, that made the flickering candlelight seem warmer against her skin.
“I need other men to understand,” Heath murmured, his voice dipping lower, edged with something both possessive and teasing.
Blanche inhaled sharply, her fingers curling against her lap, betraying her restraint. The carriage swayed gently, the space between them narrowing—not because she moved, but because Heath did.
“To understand what, exactly?” she asked, the words barely above a whisper, though she already knew the answer.
Heath exhaled, slow and deliberate, his gaze steady, unwavering. “That they must not touch what is mine.”
And then—before she could argue, before she could find a sharp retort, he kissed her.
It was not demanding. It was not rushed. It was deliberate. Measured. And entirely, devastatingly consuming.
His lips met hers with a devouring tenacity. Their need was expressed through that all-consuming kiss.
Through their touch, Blanche could feel the hunger that the Duke had struggled to contain for weeks. It was the same hunger that tormented her, and perhaps that was why she gave in so easily.
Her mouth opened for him in the midst of a delicious prelude, and her hands clung to the back of his neck as he drew her slowly closer to his body.
His hands moved up to her hips, clutching her against him in a way that seemed to affirm what his mouth had declared earlier. She belonged to him. And there was nothing she could or would do to change that.
The carriage swayed gently, the rhythm of the road a quiet backdrop to the unspoken energy between them.
Heath, ever serene, watched her between the pauses of each kiss, with that same unreadable amusement—the kind that unsettled her as much as it intrigued her.
“You are quiet, Wildcat.” His voice was low, teasing against the soft skin of her neck, edged with something knowingly indulgent. “You’ve had your tongue eaten out?”
Clearly, he was making fun of her.
Before she could respond, the Duke brought his lips close to hers. His tongue tasted hers before his teeth gently bit her lower lip, making Blanche let out a slight, desire-laden moan.
