Chapter 4
Four
“Blanche, are you quite well?” Fanny asked, her voice laced with concern.
“Yes,” Blanche forced a smile, squeezing her sister’s hand. “I’m perfectly well,” she lied through clenched teeth, knowing Fanny could see right through her feeble attempt at reassurance.
For three endless days, her life had been turned upside down. She couldn’t yet determine whether this change would prove fortunate or disastrous, but one thing was certain — there could be no turning back now.
When the Duke of Woodrey had proposed marriage, she’d convinced herself it would be a simple transaction, just as he’d implied. She’d told herself she could endure this for her mother’s sake, and most importantly, for Fanny’s.
Yet now, a treacherous part of her mind kept whispering doubts. Not because of anything the Duke had done—quite the contrary. His behavior since their engagement had been beyond reproach. He’d made good on his word to settle the family’s outstanding debts.
No, what gave her pause was her own mother’s transformation. From the moment the engagement was secured, Lady Gooldwer had become insufferable—lecturing Blanche endlessly about proper comportment to please her future husband, while obsessing over every minute detail of the wedding preparations.
“I beg your forgiveness for speaking out of turn, sister,” Fanny whispered as they pretended to examine silk ribbons. “But are you absolutely certain about this decision?”
That afternoon, their mother had insisted they visit the modiste for new gowns to wear at the upcoming ball where Blanche’s engagement would be formally announced.
Though sworn to secrecy per the Duke’s explicit instructions, her mother had been dropping not-so-subtle hints about their miraculous salvation to every acquaintance they encountered.
Former friends who’d shunned them for weeks now flocked to their door, desperate for invitations and details.
“I don’t know,” Blanche admitted quietly, watching their mother argue with the dressmaker about lace trim. “Some moments, I’m plagued with doubts.”
“Then don’t go through with it! The Duke may be handsome and well-endowed, but can all the money in the world change your heart? You turned down Bromley, and he had wealth, too.”
At the mention of the Duke, Blanche’s throat turned inexplicably dry.
“Our circumstances have changed,” she said at last. “You know it was either this marriage or utter ruin and disgrace.”
“So you did it for us? You gave up your ideals because Father has abandoned us? There must be another way!” Fanny declared with more bravery than she felt.
“How? The solicitor made it painfully clear we’d soon be forced to give up the estate. So, I’ll marry the Duke. This way, at least you’ll keep your home. You can continue your art lessons with the finest tutors. Perhaps even visit Paris someday—”
“No privilege in the world is worth sacrificing yourself to a loveless marriage!” Fanny’s eyes brimmed with tears as Blanche grasped her hands fiercely.
“The truth is, women rarely marry for love, dearest. But through this match, I can ensure you might. Perhaps not for me, but I swear to you—one day you’ll wed whomever your heart chooses.”
“I want that same happiness for you,” Fanny whispered, embracing her sister tightly as Blanche fought to maintain her composure.
Inside, Blanche felt like a ship caught in a tempest—terrified yet strangely hopeful. A duke for a husband far exceeded any prospects she’d entertained after five disappointing Seasons.
She reminded herself she needn’t love him—only tolerate his presence. And truth be told, the Duke wasn’t merely devilishly handsome—he possessed a razor-sharp intellect that challenged her own.
Their sparring conversations, though infuriating, stimulated her mind in ways no other suitor had managed. Perhaps that very similarity of temperament explained his unexpected proposal.
This would be a marriage of mutual convenience—his reasons remained opaque, but hers were painfully clear. Most importantly, Fanny would have the choices that Blanche had long relinquished.
“Girls! Must I shout myself hoarse?” Her mother’s shrill voice carried across the modiste’s shop. “The dressmaker requires final measurements, then we’re expected at the jeweler’s, followed by the perfumers! Heavens, the endless preparations!”
Sighing, Blanche looked at her mother, who had not stopped borrowing and running errands, acting on the promise that soon all her debts would be paid off.
For now, her good name and assurance alone had won Lady Gooldwer the favor of the dressmaker, as well as many others. But Blanche knew that such luck could not last long, though there was no putting that truth into her mother’s head.
Fanny clung to Blanche’s hands. “Only promise me you won’t do something you’ll come to regret.”
“I won’t,” Blanche vowed, forcing conviction into her voice. “The Duke seems a man of his word so far. This arrangement will benefit us all.”
“I pray you’re right,” Fanny sighed as their mother’s impatient summons grew more strident. Hand in hand like they’d done as children, Blanche sent up a silent prayer that her words might prove true—that this uncertain path she’d chosen might lead somewhere benevolent rather than catastrophic.
“How exactly did we come to find ourselves in this particular establishment?”
Percy’s question held more surprise than disapproval, his gaze sweeping the dimly lit room with mild curiosity.
Normally, his dearest friend, the Duke of Nightborne, never questioned their meetings at houses of ill repute. However, Percy typically preferred the more fashionable ones near St. James’s—particularly those employing his current mistress.
Heath barely spared him a glance as he swirled his scotch with deliberate nonchalance. “You’ll understand shortly,” he replied.
Percy arched one eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smirk. “How mysterious.”
A particularly comely courtesan approached their table, her silk skirts whispering across the floorboards.
Percy, ever the charmer, wasted no time favoring her with his most dazzling smile, but Heath dismissed her with a curt wave—just as he had rebuffed all such advances these past weeks.
Only one woman occupied his thoughts now.
That infuriating, fascinating Blanche Waldron.
Three days had passed since their engagement, and still, he had not told Percy.
Not yet.
The very notion of it was absurd—him, engaged. Bound to a woman by something other than fleeting pleasure, something that carried expectation, duty. And yet, he had chosen this: a calculated decision, a strategic alliance.
Blanche had been skeptical, naturally—suspicious, wary—but she had accepted. And soon, she would be his.
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Heath exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus on the present. This afternoon, he had work to do—a plan to set into motion.
Percy studied him, the amusement in his expression faltering slightly. “You seem distracted.”
Heath lifted his glass, taking a measured sip. “Do I?”
“You do, which is rare for you. Tell me, what has you so utterly absent?”
Heath smirked, setting his glass down. “Many projects in mind.”
Percy rolled his eyes. “Ah, of course. Your infamous schemes. And will I be privy to these grand plans of yours anytime soon?”
“Soon enough.”
Percy narrowed his eyes, assessing him. “You’re being vague.”
“And yet, you’ll still wait patiently for the revelation.”
Percy huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“You are intolerable.”
“And yet, here you are,” Heath repeated with amusement, noting the impatience on his best friend’s face.
Heath leaned back in his chair, rolling the glass between his fingers.
Enough thoughts of Blanche.
For now, he had business to attend to.
“Really, old chap, you drag me to this den of iniquity, then ignore the merchandise?” Percy muttered as the blonde courtesan perched suggestively on his armrest.
“Perhaps the Duke of Woodrey prefers… alternative companionship?” the woman purred, trailing a finger along Heath’s sleeve.
“He seeks information,” Heath clarified, which made the lady’s eyes sparkle.
“Then you have come to the right place,” the lady added with a chuckle. “You know well what they say. We hear and see all that good men try to hide from the world.”
“And what have your lovely eyes seen?” asked Percy, giving a lovely smile to the courtesan.
The courtesan traced a slow finger along Percy’s sleeve, eyes gleaming with delight at her captive audience.
First, she began to talk about all sorts of gossip that went around the ton, which they probably picked up by listening to the gentlemen talk. Honestly, nothing would catch Heath’s attention in the midst of his waiting until he heard the lady mention a name that caught his attention.
“…Have you heard, Your Grace?” she purred, leaning in conspiratorially. “The Earl of Gooldwer has vanished. Deserted his wife and daughters. Not a penny left behind—nothing at all.”
Heath hummed, swirling his drink lazily. “Tragic, truly. And tell me, what reason does the ever-reliable rumor mill offer for his sudden disappearance?”
She smirked, basking in the attention. “Love, of course. The foolish man has fallen—hopelessly, recklessly—for a woman of my kind.”
Heath’s brows lifted. “A courtesan?”
“A common woman,” she corrected, drawing the word out deliberately. “Not a lady of standing, not a wife of noble expectation—just someone who, I suppose, made him forget all else.”
Heath took a measured sip of whisky, the liquid burning slowly as the implications settled.
He pressed on. “And where, pray tell, does your source place this tragic romance? Have they absconded to the countryside? Escaped to the Continent?”
The courtesan sighed, feigning despair. “Ah, that remains a mystery. Some say France, others claim he never truly left at all.”
Percy chuckled. “How delightfully dramatic.”
The courtesan, ever delighted with her own storytelling, leaned closer. “But it hardly matters where he is, does it? The damage is done. The ladies of Gooldwer are ruined.”
Ruined.