Chapter 5
Five
“You look as though you’ve agreed to be sent to the gallows rather than wed a duke,” Fanny murmured, her brush gliding over the canvas with absent strokes.
Blanche did not look up from her book. The letters blurred slightly—her mind too restless to focus.
“I simply find it… difficult to fathom.”
Outside, the sun was beginning its slow descent, casting warm streaks of light through the tall windows of their modest sitting room. Dust motes drifted lazily in the golden glow, the quiet hum of the afternoon pressing in around them.
Lady Gooldwer, comfortably reclined upon the settee, barely spared them a glance as she stroked the ears of one of her prized pugs. “You must learn to embrace your new reality, Blanche. A duchess cannot afford hesitation.”
Fanny frowned slightly, dipping her brush into the paint. “She should be allowed a moment to adjust, Mother.”
Lady Gooldwer scoffed. “Nonsense. There is no time for doubts. A man like His Grace must be kept intrigued—captivated, even. You must be exceptional.”
Blanche exhaled slowly. Exceptional. As though she were a commodity to be polished and presented for display.
She turned another page, though she had scarcely processed the words upon the last.
Fanny hesitated before speaking again, her voice quieter. “It happened so quickly…”
Blanche met her gaze—the subtle crease of worry upon her sister’s brow.
It was a rare thing, seeing Fanny so openly uncertain.
The weight of it settled between them—unspoken, undeniable.
But before Blanche could respond, Lady Gooldwer suddenly stiffened, her attention snapping toward the window.
And then—
“My heavens!” She all but sprang from her seat, clutching the edge of the windowsill as though it were a lifeline.
Fanny, startled, set down her brush, while Blanche instinctively turned.
Outside, the sleek silhouette of a carriage rolled up the drive, the golden crest upon the door unmistakable even in the fading sunlight.
Lady Gooldwer all but trembled with delight. “It’s His Grace.”
Blanche’s fingers tightened involuntarily around the edges of her book.
Fanny let out a breath, watching the scene unfold with measured contemplation. “How very intriguing…”
Blanche barely had time to steady herself. Fanny, ever composed, smoothed the folds of her skirt, while Blanche did the same, as if adjusting the fabric might settle the unease rising within her.
Lady Gooldwer, however, had no such reservations.
With startling enthusiasm, she surged toward the entrance, her beloved pugs trotting beside her, their eager yips filling the corridor.
The door swung open with an unrestrained flourish.
“Your Grace!” Lady Gooldwer exclaimed, her voice laced with delighted reverence. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
Heath barely acknowledged her greeting. His gaze settled upon Blanche almost instantly, sharp and intent.
The faintest trace of amusement lingered in his expression—knowing, deliberate, a silent provocation she could not quite decipher.
Blanche inhaled, willing herself to meet his eyes without faltering. “What brings you here, Your Grace?”
A slow, lingering smile curved his lips.
“I came to surprise my future wife.”
The wheels of Heath’s carriage rattled over uneven cobblestones, the rhythmic jostle accompanying their journey through London’s bustling streets.
Blanche pressed herself closer to the shadows of the interior, fingers brushing over the heavy folds of the curtain, as she discreetly shifted the fabric, angling it just enough to shield herself from view.
Heath, ever observant, caught the movement at once.
“Are we in hiding, Lady Blanche?” he mused, voice dipped in lazy amusement. “Or have I unwittingly taken you on the run from the authorities?”
Blanche stiffened slightly, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a response.
“Don’t be absurd, Your Grace.”
Heath smirked, shifting ever so slightly, deliberately encroaching upon the space she had carved for herself.
“So, I am to believe this newfound shyness is a mere coincidence?”
Blanche exhaled, fixing her gaze upon the view beyond him—anything to avoid his knowing gaze.
Lady Gooldwer, oblivious to their exchange, released a delighted sigh.
“How glorious this shall be!” she declared. “A proper wedding gown, jewels fit for a duchess—it is precisely as it should be.”
Lady Blanche inhaled sharply. “That is wholly unnecessary.”
Lady Gooldwer scoffed. “On the contrary, it is essential.”
Fanny, seated opposite them, watched her sister with measured contemplation.
“Blanche,” she ventured, voice quieter, more careful. “Would it truly be so terrible? To dress as a bride ought, to have a gown that reflects the moment?”
Blanche did not answer immediately.
Instead, she kept her focus upon the streets—the passing faces, the fleeting sense of separation between herself and the world beyond the carriage walls.
Then, almost absently—so quietly it was barely audible—she muttered, “A gown is hardly what makes a moment.” Heath observed her, catching the shift in her tone, the slight furrow of her brow. His smirk lingered.
“Ah,” he murmured, “but a gown makes a statement. And this, Lady Blanche, is a statement you cannot evade.”
Blanche turned her gaze to him at last, eyes flashing with something unspoken.
It was not surrender, not acceptance.
It was resistance—sharp, unyielding, a silent warning that she was far from done fighting him on the matter.
Heath welcomed it.
“There it is,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his tone edged with unmistakable satisfaction. “That stubborn streak of yours.”
Blanche inhaled slowly. “You speak as though it amuses you.”
“It does.”
Her fingers tightened slightly over the edge of her seat, but before she could formulate a proper retort, Lady Gooldwer sighed dramatically.
“You must learn to take a compliment, Blanche.”
Blanche exhaled through her nose, visibly reining in her irritation.
Fanny, sensing the precarious balance of the moment, intervened with measured ease.
“At the very least, think of the experience,” she encouraged. “You could be the heroine of one of your novels—a romantic vision stepping into a gown fit for an exquisite tale.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Blanche’s features—subtle, fleeting.
And then, just barely, the slightest flush crept up her neck.
Heath noticed the shift in her color, the way she looked away too quickly.
He let the realization settle, let the corner of his lips curl just so—but he said nothing.
Instead, he turned his attention toward the approaching storefront. The grand display of silks and lace gleamed beneath the afternoon light, the pristine glass framing the interior’s opulence with perfect precision.
Lady Gooldwer leaned forward eagerly, practically brimming with delight.
“Ah, splendid! The very finest establishment in all of London.”
The carriage slowed, the footman already in position to assist. Heath stepped out first, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with deliberate ease before turning. He extended his hand toward Blanche, and she hesitated.
The moment stretched, charged with unspoken calculations. But after the briefest pause, her fingers found his palm.
But, as soon as she had the chance, Blanche nervously pulled her hand away from Heath’s in a gesture meant to appear serene. Yet, he could read her emotions in the expression on her face.
Enjoying the scene, she followed the ladies into the establishment, noting that Lady Gooldwer seemed to be strutting about like a queen.
The heavy oak doors swung open, allowing the soft hum of London’s bustling streets to fade into the opulence of the boutique. The air held the scent of fresh linens and lavender polish, a testament to the establishment’s dedication to refinement.
Heath stepped in first, his presence commanding attention before he uttered a single word.
A woman, tall and elegantly dressed in deep burgundy silk, approached with swift precision, her calculating eyes lighting with pleasure at the sight of him.
“Your Grace,” she greeted, dipping into a practiced curtsy, her voice lilting with admiration. “What an unexpected delight.”
Heath inclined his head slightly, more an acknowledgment than a pleasantry.
Lady Gooldwer, on the other hand, wasted no time in stepping forward, brimming with excitement.
“Mrs. Montfort,” Lady Gooldwer greeted with a knowing smile. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
The proprietress barely concealed her intrigue, though she schooled her expression into polite composure. The recognition was swift—undoubtedly, she had already pieced together the significance of Heath’s presence—but she chose discretion over commentary.
“Lady Gooldwer,” she acknowledged smoothly. “It will be my honor to attend to you and your daughters.”
“Of course it will,” Lady Gooldwer replied, casting Heath a glance infused with something almost affectionate. “We come in celebration, and as such, require only the finest. Everything must be perfect.”
Mrs. Montfort inclined her head, sharp eyes flickering with silent questions, though she kept them unspoken.
“Naturally, my lady,” she assured, signaling to her attendants with a practiced motion.
Blanche barely suppressed a sigh, shifting her stance ever so slightly as the weight of the moment pressed around her while Mrs. Montfort clasped her hands together, a gleam of satisfaction settling in her expression. “You need not worry, Lady Gooldwer. I have precisely what you seek.”
She turned toward her assistants, who immediately began pulling silks and lace from carefully arranged cabinets, presenting an array of gowns fit for nobility.
Heath glanced at Blanche, catching the rigid line of her shoulders, the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides.
“Lady Blanche,” he murmured, voice edged with something knowingly insistent. “Tell me—how will I have the pleasure of seeing you dressed?”
Blanche’s eyes snapped toward him.
“You will not.”
His lips curved slightly. “No?”
“There is no need for excess.”
His smirk deepened. “Then I shall have the tailor fit me for mourning, for it would be a tragedy indeed if my future wife arrived in rags.”
Fanny bit back a laugh. Lady Gooldwer merely waved a hand, dismissing Blanche’s protest entirely.
“Enough of this nonsense. She will be fitted properly.”
Blanche clenched her jaw but ultimately relented. As the assistants guided Lady Gooldwer and Fanny toward the measuring stands, Heath allowed himself a moment to survey the shop’s collections.
And then—his gaze halted.
A coral hair comb, intricately carved, its fine craftsmanship unmistakable. Something flickered in his expression—brief, unreadable.
Blanche, noticing his sudden distraction, followed his gaze.
“It is exquisite,” she remarked softly.
Heath studied her for a moment longer before reaching for the comb. “Try it,” he murmured.
Blanche hesitated. “Your Grace—”
“Humor me, just this once.”
A quiet exhale. And then—her fingers reached forward, taking the comb without another word.
Heath watched. It suited her far too well.
The coral nestled against her dark locks, striking in contrast yet seamless in placement.
For a brief, fleeting moment, his mind drifted to another comb, long untouched. The last gift was meant for a mother who had never received it. His own mother.
His jaw tightened, though he made no outward sign of distraction.
Until—“Well?” Blanche’s voice broke through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present.
She adjusted the comb slightly, then turned to him with a pointed look. “How does it look?”
Heath, recovering without pause, arched a brow. “Passable.”
Blanche scoffed. “Passable?”
“For a wildcat? Absolutely.” Her glare was immediate.
Heath smirked, leaning slightly closer, eyes gleaming with unspoken challenge.
“Though, I must admit,” he continued, tone dipped in unmistakable amusement, “it is rather endearing to see you attempt refinement.”
Blanche inhaled sharply, no doubt ready to hurl some thoroughly dignified protest—but Heath merely let the moment stretch, lingering just a fraction too long, his gaze fixed upon her with something entirely unreadable.
It was a fleeting thing, the quiet pull between them—so delicate it could have been ignored, so sharp it was impossible to dismiss.
Blanche, standing before the gilded mirror, remained impossibly still. A single breath—a fraction deeper than necessary—was all it took for him to catch it.
The distance between them had lessened imperceptibly. Just enough for Heath to be acutely aware that if he so much as inclined his head, if he so much as reached for her—
Blanche inhaled, her lips parting slightly, as if she sensed it too.
Heath’s fingers twitched at his side. It would be easy. A tilt forward, the briefest brush against her skin—
His jaw tightened, though his body did not yet obey the instinct to move away.
Blanche was looking at him now, her gaze steady, her breath just slightly uneven.
And then—
“What are you two doing over there?” Lady Gooldwer’s voice cut through the moment, shattering it with impeccable precision.
Blanche turned so sharply it was as if she had been jolted from sleep. The flush was immediate, blooming across her cheeks, unmistakable.
Heath exhaled slowly, controlled, steady, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as if the interruption had been of no consequence. And Blanche—nervous, startled, utterly disarmed—was more beautiful now than she had been the entire evening.
He let the thought linger, just briefly—then, with perfect ease, he took a measured step back.
“Nothing, Lady Gooldwer,” Heath murmured smoothly. “Merely admiring your daughter’s attempt at refinement.”
Blanche exhaled—too quickly, too deliberately—as she stepped away from him, creating the distance she had not moved to claim earlier.
Heath did not stop her.
Instead, his gaze flickered back toward the coral comb, still gleaming beneath the soft glow of the boutique’s lanterns. With careful ease, he reached for it once more.
Tracing the delicate carving between his fingers, he allowed himself a brief moment of indulgence—of remembrance.
And then—he let it go.
With a decisive motion, he set the comb back in its place, his fingers curling slightly before withdrawing altogether.
Straightening, his gaze found Blanche once more.
She was still affected—he could see it, though she hid it well. The flush of her cheeks remained, the lingering breathlessness carefully restrained, though not entirely concealed.
She was beautiful like this.
Heath exhaled slowly, forcing the thought from his mind as he turned toward the waiting attendants.
It would not happen again.
But some things—he knew—were inevitable.