But belief, he knew, was a fragile thing. And Gooldwer had never been careful with fragile things.
Heath remained still, distant. He had done what he came to do. What would happen next was hers to decide.
Her father smelled faintly of woodsmoke and old paper.
As he held her, Blanche buried her face against his coat, anchoring herself to the warmth of him—real, tangible, no longer some ghost she argued with in dreams. She thought of every letter she never wrote. Every night she spent watching doorways. Every time she told herself she had moved on.
And now he was here. Papa came back.
Her father exhaled shakily against her hair and stepped back. He looked older than she remembered. Sharper around the eyes. And yet—still him.
“I know,” he said softly. “I owe you an explanation.”
Heath stood silently behind her, a shadow of heat and tension.
Lord Gooldwer cleared his throat. “I… made mistakes,” he began. “You are too young to see it, but everything was unraveling. I was in debt. Deep. Not from vice, not truly. I thought I could win it back. Cards, wagers, investments. I was wrong. So, shamefully wrong.”
Blanche felt her hands tremble. “But why did you leave? Why didn’t you come home?” she asked.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “I had nothing. No honor left. I thought… I thought that if I could rebuild—if I could scrape together enough—I might return as a man again, instead of a beggar.”
A pause. “And what of Clara?” Heath asked, his voice perfectly even.
Blanche turned slightly at the name. Her father tensed.
“She helped me when I had nowhere else to go,” Lord Gooldwer replied after a beat. “It wasn’t love. It wasn’t meant to last. But I was tired. Tired of pretending I could fix a life I’d already broken.”
Blanche stared at him. His words were shaping a version of the truth she could barely hold.
“You should have written,” she whispered.
“I didn’t know how,” he said, looking down. “What was I to say? I’ve squandered your future, but I do hope you’re keeping warm?”
Heath stepped forward.
“There’s a difference between shame and selfishness.”
Lord Gooldwer’s eyes snapped up.
“I visited him,” Heath said, his gaze fixed on Blanche now. “In Richmond Park. Clara was still there. And the brandy was still flowing. He wasn’t preparing to come back. He was comfortable.”
Lord Gooldwer’s face twitched. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
Blanche drew a sharp breath. “Is that why you’re here? Because the money finally ran out?”
Silence. Her father didn’t answer.
And in that stillness, something inside her fractured—not completely, not yet. But enough.
No. Not like this. Not when I’ve waited for something better than this…
She felt her vision prickle—not with tears, but with the aching pressure of unshed expectation.
Heath’s hand hovered near hers. Not reaching. Just… there.
And Lord Gooldwer, her father, stood before her with nothing but apologies he hadn’t earned, and a voice far too practiced to be trusted entirely.
