Heath did not answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows resting against his knees. “I can’t tell her about this until I know for sure. I need to find him myself.”
Percy chuckled, shaking his head. “You do realize, Heath, that this is not your problem to solve?”
Heath narrowed his eyes. “She’s my wife. Her problem is my problem.”
“But she’s made it clear that it’s not a problem for her. She’s content with the situation.”
“She deserves the truth,” Heath said, his voice rising slightly.
Hours passed in silence before he decided to leave. Percy departed long before with the twins on either arm, leading them upstairs.
The clock in the hallway of Woodrey House struck two.
Heath was leaning against the cold stone of the kitchen hearth, brandy in hand, brooding and wide awake. The damn place creaked like it was haunted, or maybe he just was.
Then the door swung open, and there she was.
Barefoot, wrapped in a shawl, curls a bit of a mess—and entirely too tempting for two in the bloody morning.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t take you for a midnight marauder.”
Blanche blinked, her eyes adjusting to the low light. “I could say the same. Or are you always lurking around kitchens like a specter?”
Heath chuckled. “Only when haunted by bad decisions and worse women. Which one are you tonight?”
She padded toward the hearth with the poise of a woman fully in control—and fully aware she was being watched. “You’ll have to narrow it down. Am I the bad decision, or the worst woman?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he poured another glass and slid it toward her.
She ignored it. “Brandy at this hour? Something troubling you, Your Grace?”
He leaned in, his voice low. “Only the fact that you still flinch every time we’re in the same room for more than ten seconds.”
She smiled, but it was all teeth. “I don’t flinch. I pace myself.”
“Why? Afraid you’ll wear me out?”
Her eyes glittered. “You’re assuming you can keep up.”
Heath set down his glass, closing the space between them in two strides. “Darling, if I ever got my hands on you again, we’d see who begs first.”
Blanche’s smile didn’t falter, but her breath caught. Barely. He saw it.
She tilted her head, maddeningly calm. “Is that why you’ve been sulking around brothels instead of your own wife’s bed?”
So she knew. Or guessed.
“I go where the answers are,” he said. “You, of all people, should understand strategy.”
She arched a brow. “And kissing me senseless in the corridor last week—what part of the strategy was that? Diversion tactics?”
He stepped closer, almost flush against her now. “No, that was weakness. Mine.”
Her gaze flicked to his mouth. “You don’t seem particularly weak now.”
He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He let the tension stretch until it nearly snapped.
Then he whispered, “Say the word, Blanche, and I’ll ruin you right here on this prep table.”
