Heath moved then, barely a step, but close enough that she could see the faint trace of sleep beneath his eyes, the way morning light caught the golden thread at his collar. His hand brushed against hers—barely a touch, but it struck like a bell beneath her skin.
Her breath stilled.
He said nothing. Neither did she. And yet, in that silence, she felt everything: the heat she didn’t want to feel, the memory of his lips against her skin, the treacherous ache of longing she thought she’d buried.
She turned her face away again, but not before he had seen it—that flicker of vulnerability.
He stepped back.
“I shall speak with the steward,” he whispered, smoothing the sleeve of his coat. “Arrangements will be made.”
It was so calmly spoken, so perfectly mannered, that it almost undid her.
He was already at the door when he paused, glancing over his shoulder.
“Try not to worry, wife. The evening will be everything you wish it to be. Leave it to me.” Then he was gone, and she stood alone in the silence of the hallway, her pulse quickened, and her cheeks flushed.
Her hand still burned from the ghost of his touch. How small her hand looked in his. His smell drew her in. His eyes gripped her.
Her stomach fluttered, traitorous and alive, as if it hadn’t learned the danger of wanting him.
A truce, he had said. But there had been nothing peaceful in the way he looked at her.
He had made war feel so deliciously tempting.
Twenty-One
Another night, Heath could not sleep. The house was quiet at that hour—too quiet. Even the wind outside seemed to hush itself, as if unwilling to disturb the weight of the night.
Heath moved through the darkened corridor with practiced steps, the candle in his hand casting long, flickering shadows against the paneled walls.
He pushed open the door to the sitting room, expecting solitude.
Instead, he found Blanche.
She sat by the hearth, feet curled underneath her, wrapped in a shawl, her hair loose around her shoulders.
She turned, startled. “I…” Her voice caught. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Nor I,” he whispered, setting the candle down. “Seems the house conspires against rest.”
Softly, Blanche sighed. “I’m tired, Heath.”
He frowned. “You should rest.”
“No,” she whispered as she stood. “Not that kind of tired. I’m tired of pretending. Of holding back. Of acting as if I don’t feel what I feel every time you walk into a room.”
He felt the words like a blow and a balm all at once. His chest tightened.
“Blanche, where is this coming from?”
“I know it’s foolish,” she went on, her voice trembling. “I know we’ve fought and hurt each other and made a mess of everything. But I miss you. Even when you’re standing right in front of me, I miss you.”
He reached for her before he could stop himself, his hand brushing her cheek. “You’re not the only one who’s tired,” he said. “I’ve tried to stay away. To be sensible. But I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re always on my mind.”
She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes.
“It’ll pass,” she said, and the corners of her lips tugged upward.
