She gave a quiet laugh, stepping back just enough to be infuriating. “Such gallantry. You really do know how to woo a girl.”
“Who said anything about wooing?”
She met his eyes. No fear. No blushes. Just that infuriating confidence.
“I’m not a prize to be won, Heath.”
He closed the gap once more, voice ragged. “You’re not a prize. You’re a war.”
Then—finally—he kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was months of hunger, resentment, and heat igniting like a match to oil. She kissed him back with equal fire, her fingers digging into his shirt, his hands claiming her waist, her hips, her throat like she belonged to him—and always had.
She gasped when he lifted her onto the table, and he groaned against her mouth.
But before it could spiral, she pulled back just enough.
“Still think I’ll beg first?”
He grinned, panting. “You’ll beg. But not tonight.”
Her legs slid from around his waist. She smoothed her shawl, eyes wicked.
“Then goodnight, Your Grace.”
He didn’t try to stop her.
But when she reached the door, he said, “You’ll dream of this. I will, too.”
She didn’t look back. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
But he heard the smile in her voice.
Twenty
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
Blanche stood near the landing, her spine straight despite the subtle tension in her hands. She had not slept well, but she would never show it. The quiet unrest of the previous evening still lingered in her chest—like a bruise not yet fully colored.
Heath stopped on the threshold, one gloved hand still resting on the lapel of his coat. The morning light filtering through the high windows struck his profile with an infuriating elegance.
He looked infallible, which only made her feel more foolish.
He was leaving.
He raised a brow, entirely unreadable. “Good morning to you, too, Duchess.”
She said nothing. The air between them stretched taut, filled with all the unsaid things that neither dared to speak aloud.
He removed his gloves slowly, methodically, then looked up again. “If you must know, I did. Very much so.” A pause, then the faintest curl of his mouth. “I always enjoy myself when it comes to you.”
Blanche exhaled, a breath that was far too sharp to be casual. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she replied coolly.
“You asked if I enjoyed myself.” Their eyes met. He stood several paces away, and yet she felt that maddening closeness again—that impossible stillness in his gaze that both unsettled and pulled her toward him.
He stepped forward, unhurried. “Are you asking because you thought I was with someone else last night before coming home to you?” He asked, but it wasn’t a question.
Blanche drew herself up. “Your history, Your Grace, does not exactly lend itself to trust.”
