Chapter 7 #2
His tone was maddening—amused and knowing, all the worse for the way he watched her, drinking in her guarded expression.
“You enjoy tormenting me,” she accused.
“Endlessly,” Heath agreed without shame.
She scoffed, shifting as if to step away, but he caught her wrist—gently, firmly, as though daring her to continue resisting.
“You push,” Heath murmured, voice lower now, “but tell me, Wildcat—will you let me push back?”
Blanche swallowed.
The silence between them stretched, charged, the weight of the air pressing close.
And then, as though unable to contain himself, Heath acted—his grip tightening just slightly, his free hand reaching for her waist, pulling her forward in a single, reckless motion.
And before she could object—before she could think—his lips found hers.
Not sweet. Not gentle. Not tentative.
It was the kiss of a man who had waited long enough.
And despite every protest she had carefully constructed—despite every attempt to deny the way he unraveled her—Blanche did not pull away.
Their breaths mingled, warm and uneven, as his lips brushed hers—once, twice—soft, teasing, fleeting. The hesitation made her heart pound, the featherlight touches more intoxicating than any firm embrace.
And then, with quiet certainty, he claimed her mouth fully.
Blanche rose on tiptoe, drawn to him like a tide pulled by the moon, her fingers clutching his shoulders for balance. His warmth seeped into her, steady and grounding, his strength tangible beneath her trembling hands.
She barely breathed as Heath’s fingers traced the delicate curve of her nape, his touch featherlight yet impossibly steady. A shiver rippled through her spine, heat pooling beneath her skin as the warmth of his presence surrounded her.
Her pulse thrummed wildly—too fast, too loud—as if her very body was struggling to contain the quiet thrill unraveling within.
The world beyond them faded, lost to the soft whisper of his closeness, the silent promise in the way his hand lingered against her.
She had never been held like this, never known the weight of a touch so gentle yet so utterly consuming. And in that moment, as his breath stirred against her cheek, she realized—perhaps for the first time—that resisting should have been easier than it was.
He moved with calculated ease, his tongue tracing the seam of her lower lip, coaxing—testing.
A shiver ran through her spine, the unfamiliar sensation unraveling something deep within.
When she tentatively reciprocated, mirroring the gentle pressure, heat flooded her veins, silencing all lingering doubts.
The moment stretched, delicate yet searing, a newfound awareness blooming between them.
But all too soon, he withdrew, composed as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.
Blanche remained frozen, breathless, her pulse hammering against her ribs.
The world felt uneven beneath her feet, the air too thin, too charged.
Heath, ever the enigma, merely lifted her hand, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles—a stark contrast to the fire that had just burned between them.
The shift was too sudden, too stark. She swallowed, willing herself to steady, but the dizziness persisted.
Heath’s gaze flickered to her, sharp yet amused. “Are you well?”
Blanche inhaled, exhaling slowly. “Yes. I only need a moment.”
Before he could respond, hurried footsteps approached.
“Blanche,” Fanny’s voice, hushed yet urgent, broke through the charged silence. “Mother is right around the corner.”
Blanche jolted upright, any lingering haze of the moment vanishing instantly.
Heath merely sighed, as though mildly inconvenienced but hardly surprised.
“Of course she is.”
Fanny shot her sister a knowing look before turning swiftly, disappearing back down the path.
Blanche, pulse still erratic, dared one last glance at Heath.
He was watching her—unreadable, amused, as if committing every detail of her reaction to memory.
And then, just as seamlessly, his expression shifted—composed, indifferent.
“It seems we must part ways for now, Lady Blanche.”
Blanche barely managed a nod before stepping back.
She let herself linger—just for a breath, just long enough to seal this fragile instant into her thoughts.
Then, carefully, she straightened, regaining herself. Heath watched her, the faintest flicker of a smirk curving his lips.
“Your Grace, what was that?” she asked, her voice quieter now.
“A test.” Satisfaction colored his tone. “One we both passed splendidly.”
“A test of what?”
“Proof our marriage can be more than mere convenience. As far as desire is concerned, Blanche, we’ve gained more than either expected.”
His meaning crystallized—their kiss had revealed mutual passion neither anticipated. As they rejoined the others, Blanche stole glances at Heath, marveling at how thoroughly one kiss had upended her expectations.
All this time, I believed no pleasure could surpass my novels, she mused, studying his profile. How foolish I’ve been.
But that was precisely why she could not afford to dwell on it.
A fleeting moment was one thing. Allowing herself to indulge in such thoughts is dangerous. Reckless.
She straightened, schooling her expression. She would not entertain foolishness.
Not now. Not with him.
And judging by the Duke’s smug expression, he intended to disprove every assumption she’d ever held—a prospect that left her aching to discover what other surprises awaited her in their marital bed.