Lord Gooldwer said nothing.
Heath stepped toward the door, voice lower now, but edged with something undeniable. “She is not the girl you left behind. She is sharp. Unyielding. And she no longer waits for anyone to come save her.”
He paused at the threshold, the wind outside rattling the bare branches beyond the glass.
“What you did left her in ruins. Your entire family. Your daughters’ reputations. Whatshehas become after that—that is entirely hers.”
He did not look back as he stepped out into the night. The wind bit at his coat, but the fire that burned beneath his ribs was hotter still.
The letter would come.
But the reckoning had already begun.
Twenty-Three
She was sitting, back straight, and facing the far wall well after the dinner plates had been cleared. She was still in her walking gown, her gloves discarded on the table setting beside her. A half-empty teacup rested in front of her, forgotten.
She did not make a sound, but let her shoulders tremble slightly as her fingers twisted the edge of her handkerchief.
Heath’s voice rang out, startling her. “Blanche?”
She twisted to face him, and though she tried to smile, her eyes betrayed her. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He crossed the room slowly, uncertain. “You’ve been crying.”
She gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Only a little. It’s nothing.”
He sat beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her, but not yet making an effort to touch her. “It is not nothing if it troubles you.”
She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “I saw a man in the square today, just for a moment. He had my father’s gait. The same way of holding his hat. It was foolish, I know. But it struck me.”
Heath looked like he was trying to swallow a stone, and reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “You miss him.”
“Every day,” she whispered. “Even when I hate him, I miss him.”
He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “You are not alone in that ache.”
She looked up at him then, her eyes shining. “I know.”
The silence between them stretched, thick with things unsaid. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and he felt the shift in the air—like the moment before a storm, when the wind stills and the world holds its breath.
He touched her cheek, gently. “Blanche…”
She leaned into his palm, her lips parting. “Yes?”
He slid his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up until she met his gaze fully. “Tell me to stop.”
She didn’t. Her pulse was thundering in her veins, and in this moment, she wanted this more than anything else.
He kissed her then. His lips stealing the soul from her very body. Unrelenting, crashing into hers as she fisted the front of his shirt, needing more.
“I’ll not beg you,” she said, breaking away.
Heath, undeterred, pressed kisses along her jaw, to her throat, and over the erratic beat of her heart.
“No. Let me take care of you,” he murmured against her skin. “Right here. Now.”
She didn’t answer, but her breath caught when he reached for her waist, lifting her with slow, purposeful hands. She gasped softly as he set her on the table—where just hours ago she had enjoyed a quiet, civil dinner without him. Now, the room buzzed with something wilder.
