“I’ll return shortly,” she said suddenly, offering her mother and sister a polite smile. “There’s something I ought to check with the footmen.”
Her mother waved a hand. “Don’t dally too long, dear. I need someone to prevent Fanny from attempting to climb the pergola.”
“I only said it looked climbable,” Fanny said with faux solemnity. “I didn’t swear an oath.”
Blanche turned down the garden path before her smile could turn into a laugh. Her slippers whispered against the stone as she walked beneath trellises hung with wisteria and light. The air smelled of roses and summer wine.
She scanned the crowd, and then she saw him.
Near the east veranda, Heath stood facing Lady Sophia.
Sophia tilted her head just so, her fingers brushing the edge of Heath’s sleeve in a gesture too familiar to be accidental. Her voice was low—flirtatious. She laughed lightly, her fan fluttering in her hand like a bird on display.
Heath did not laugh. His expression was inscrutable, his posture perfectly civil and perfectly still, but Blanche did not miss that he did not step away.
She stopped walking. Neither of them had seen her.
She stood half-shielded by the edge of a rose-covered archway, the music drifting around her like some distant waltz she could no longer hear clearly. She didn’t move. Not forward, not away. Just stood, watching, and something inside her twisted.
So, this is what it feels like, not to know where one stands at all…
Lady Sophia let her fingers drift lightly along Heath’s sleeve, a gesture practiced and polished, designed to suggest intimacy where none had been earned.
“I must say, Your Grace,” she murmured, her voice dripping with honeyed amusement. “I’ve rarely seen you so brooding. Is it the pressure of married life, or simply the weather?”
Heath did not flinch. He was marble in the half-light—cool, smooth, and utterly unmoved.
“My mood,” he said, his eyes fixed on hers with glacial precision, “is not a matter for polite speculation.”
Sophia’s smile faltered, but only for a breath. She tilted her head, her lashes fluttering like a trapped bird. “Then it must be marriage. A pity, really. So many fine men waste themselves on duty.” She leaned in, her voice a velvet whisper. “Some of us recall how charming you used to be.”
From the shadows, Blanche watched. Her stomach tightened, a slow coil of heat and unease. She had told herself she was not the jealous sort. She had told herself many things.
And yet her fingers curled into the fabric at her waist.
Heath’s reply came slowly. Deliberate. Icy.
“I am still capable of charm, Lady Sophia,” he said, his voice low and sharp as a blade unsheathed.
Then he stepped back, just enough to make the distance noticeable. His gaze did not soften.
“I simply no longer squander it on women who mistake arrogance for allure.”
Lady Sophia blinked. Her lips parted, but no clever retort came.
Heath turned from her without another word, his steps purposeful as he crossed the terrace toward the shadows—toward Blanche.
Sophia’s smile faltered. Briefly. As if someone had turned out a light behind her eyes.
“Well,” she said, too brightly. “I suppose even dukes require hobbies.”
Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the throng with a fan snap and the rustle of silk.
Heath stood still for a breath. Then another, and then he turned.
Their eyes met.
Blanche took a small, instinctive step back from the trellis, heat prickling at the nape of her neck. “I wasn’t spying,” she said quickly.
