His expression didn’t shift, not quite. But something in his eyes sharpened.
Not anger.
Not even offense.
Amusement, perhaps—but the quiet kind, the kind that came wrapped in challenge.
“Then allow me to offer a rare moment of reassurance,” he whispered. “Last night, I drank more than was wise, lost a round of cards, and resisted Percy’s suggestion to sneak into the kitchens for brandy. I assure you that’s the extent of my scandal. Then I was back here. In the kitchens.”
He paused, gaze steady. “Truth be told, I haven’t been able to think—let alone get close—to another woman since I met you, Duchess.”
Blanche turned her face slightly away, attempting composure—but she hated the warmth in her cheeks, hated that he could still do this, still make her feel childish and exposed. The words fell into silence, softer now. Heath glanced toward the staircase, then back at her.
“It seems we are both very good at being difficult.” Blanche hesitated. Her fingers flexed at her side, restless. “You called me a war last night, but I do not wish to be at war with you,” she admitted, her voice low.
“Then let’s call a truce.” Her eyes narrowed, skeptical.
“Just like that?”
He offered a mild shrug. “We make the rules, wife. We could even mark it with a ball. Something suitably grand to remind society of what we are… together.”
She studied him for a long moment before finally—finally—allowing the faintest ghost of a smile to reach her lips.
“You would host a ball for the sake of appearances?”
“No,” he said lightly, already turning away, “I would host it for your mother. For your sister. For the sake of your name, which deserves to be spoken with admiration—not pity.”
Her smile faltered, but didn’t fade. And if her heart thundered faster at his words, she’d never admit it aloud.
And despite herself, she felt it again—that rush of maddening fondness tangled with irritation, with curiosity, with… everything.
Everything he shouldn’t make me feel.
Blanche did not immediately reply. She remained still, watching him with a cautious gaze, her fingers curling slightly against the silk of her gown. The notion of a ball—gracious, glittering, public—should have felt like an empty gesture. And yet…
“A truce marked by a ball,” she echoed, her voice even. “How very diplomatic of you.”
Heath paused in the doorway. “You disapprove?”
“I did not say that,” she replied, stepping forward. “Only that such affairs rarely remain diplomatic. They reveal far more than one intends.”
He inclined his head slightly, as though conceding the point. “That is rather the charm of them, is it not?”
Her gaze flicked over him—his posture so effortlessly composed, the faintest shadow of amusement at the corner of his mouth. She hated that a part of her was curious. That part of her wanted to see how far this truce would truly reach.
“Very well,” she said, her chin lifting. “Let us have your ball.”
Was that flicker in his eyes—almost too swift to name—pleasure? Approval? She couldn’t be sure.
“But,” she added, stepping just a fraction closer, “if we are to make a spectacle for society’s sake, then perhaps we might extract something worthwhile from it as well.”
Heath’s brow rose. “Meaning?”
“Perhaps someone among your illustrious guests might be inclined to speak about my father,” she said deliberately, softly, but with enough steel to test him.
There was the briefest pause—elegant, calculated. He did not flinch. “If such a thing is possible, then I should think a ball will be an excellent opportunity.”
Their eyes met again, but this time something shifted beneath the surface. The air had changed, thickened—no longer bristling with old wounds, but humming with something warmer, heavier.
