Twenty-Five
“You brought him into this house?” Her mother’s shrill words rang out like a rifle at dusk—clean, abrupt, and pointed squarely at the heart.
Blanche barely had time to steady herself before Lady Gooldwer descended the stairs with full dramatic force.
Lord Gooldwer remained beside her on the threshold, subdued in posture but not in presence.
Fanny gasped. “Papa?”
She darted forward without hesitation, flinging herself into his arms with a force that startled him—startled everyone.
Lord Gooldwer blinked, uncertain, as if affection were a currency he didn’t remember how to spend. His hands hovered at Fanny’s back before landing there gently, like someone testing water not meant for swimming.
“I knew you’d come,” she whispered fiercely. “I knew it.”
Blanche watched her younger sister clutch their father with a child’s belief, her own stomach folding into knots at the sight. The exact words echoed faintly from memory—I knew you’d come.
Lord Gooldwer’s eyes met hers, tentative. But the warmth did not reach her. Not anymore.
“Fanny, there are things he needs to explain. To all of us.”
Her sister hesitated, her arms still wrapped around his neck. “But he’s here. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Blanche couldn’t answer—not yet. She folded her hands tightly in front of her. The memory of Heath’s expression at the ball flickered behind her eyelids—quiet, unreadable, wounded.
She hadn’t meant to hurt him, not like that. And yet, his silence had folded around her like mist, asking for something she hadn’t known how to give.
She could still feel the chill where his fingers had reached for hers and found only distance.
Now, facing her father, she told herself this was the right decision—he was her father, and he deserved a chance to explain. But another part of her, quieter and more stubborn,wondered why the ache in her chest still pulsed in time with Heath’s absence.
Her mother arrived at the base of the stairs with the gait of a woman entering court rather than greeting kin. Her fan snapped open with a flourish.
“I must be dreaming,” she said. “Either that, or someone failed to warn me that the prodigal charlatan would be dining with my pugs.”
Lord Gooldwer managed a smile—one that didn’t settle. “Katherine, I only wished to see my daughters.”
“You wished for comfort,” she said. “And found it expensive.” Her gaze narrowed. “I see no remorse, Lord Gooldwer. Only convenience.”
“Mother,” Blanche murmured. “Please.”
“No, darling.” Her mother’s voice sharpened like polished glass. “He left. And not just with secrets! He left with our livelihood! With your dowries!”
Lord Gooldwer’s face shifted, his lips barely parting before Blanche cut in, “But he came back. At the very least, we deserve an explanation for why he left us!”
The hallway fell quiet. Even the pugs, eternally indifferent, paused at her tone, and she continued, “You’re here. Withoutwarning. Without apology. Asking for something you haven’t earned.”
He stood there staring at her. His expression was a cross between shame and indignation.
“I want to believe you, Father. I want to believe that you had the right reasons for coming back, but we deserve an explanation. We need to know why you left us,” Blanche said firmly.
“I don’t need it,” his mother stubbornly refuted. “I just need this man out of my house.”
Lord Gooldwer stepped forward. “That isn’t fair.”
He looked at her then—not as a daughter, not as a duchess, but as a gatekeeper. And Blanche understood what Heath had seen so clearly.
She wasn’t being cruel. She was being careful.
