Chapter 9
Nine
“Ido hope you intend to explain yourself, Heath.”
Percy’s voice carried through the grand drawing room of Heath’s Mayfair residence with effortless amusement, the faintest trace of mock indignation curling at its edges.
He sat sprawled in the chair nearest the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other, swirling his brandy with idle elegance.
Heath paused in the doorway, barely allowing his gaze to flicker toward his friend before discarding his gloves onto the polished mahogany side table.
The lingering chill of the evening still clung to the edges of his coat, but it was not the brisk London air that unsettled him—it was something else. Something he refused to name.
The drawing room, adorned in the finest gilt molding and thick velvet drapes, held an air of restrained grandeur. Crystal sconces cast flickering pools of amber light upon deep oak paneling, illuminating the smooth marble hearth that framed the roaring fire.
A place built for power. For legacy. And yet, it felt no less imposing with Percy lounging in it as though he owned it.
Behind Heath, Mr. Granville—his butler and loyal servant to the Woodrey family—entered with quiet efficiency. His stiff posture barely revealed the disapproval he reserved for Percy’s habit of making himself at home uninvited.
He set down a fresh glass of brandy before his master, offering a slow glance toward Heath. “Shall I have supper prepared, Your Grace?”
“No need,” Heath replied, finally stepping forward to take a seat opposite Percy. He accepted the drink with a nod, waiting until Mr. Granville had retreated before turning his attention to his friend.
“Now, Percy. Enlighten me. What grave offense have I committed this time?”
Percy exhaled with exaggerated patience, lifting his glass before speaking. “It is nothing, really. Only that the entirety of London’s esteemed gossips have been made privy to the details of your engagement long before I—a man who has tolerated your many insufferable qualities—was informed.”
Heath merely raised a brow, though his fingers tightened momentarily around the crystal rim of his glass.
“You were at The Velvet Rose when I made the announcement.”
“Ah, yes, but the announcement was merely that—a declaration void of sentiment. Lady Chatsworth, however, has managed to obtain a rather more colorful interpretation of your courtship. Tell me, is it true that your betrothed has already taken a liking to the drapery in your future residence?”
A flicker of dry amusement passed through Heath’s expression. “I expect Lady Chatsworth has more pressing matters to concern herself with.”
“I sincerely doubt it.” Percy’s smile was condescending, yet charming. “In fact, you seem to have become the gossip of the Season. And I, your best friend, can’t even savor the juicy details of it.”
“Maybe that’s because there are no juicy details to savor,” Heath reasoned.
Percy leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp beneath his playful tone. “Perhaps. But I rather suspect she is not the only one trying to decipher this match of yours.”
Heath inhaled slowly, allowing the weight of Percy’s words to settle. His friend was jesting, but behind it lay something else. A quiet concern. A careful attempt to gauge what Heath himself had not yet named.
He had known Percy long enough to realize that all the jesting and feigned indignation veiled something else entirely.
“Drop the theatrics, Percy. You did not come all this way merely to revel in society’s latest gossip.” His voice was even, yet there was an unmistakable sharpness in his gaze. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”
Percy, for all his playful nature, did not waver under scrutiny. Instead, he leaned back, stretching one arm over the gilded frame of the chair, regarding Heath with something akin to measured concern.
“Very well, then. If you insist on robbing me of my entertainment…” His tone remained light, but Heath did not miss the weight behind his words.
“You do realize, of course, that no one—least of all me—expected you to take a wife.” Percy paused briefly, allowing the words to settle before continuing.
“And certainly not in a manner so… expedient. The question remains, Heath—why?”
Heath smirked slightly, lifting his glass to his lips before replying. “Because it is practical.”
Percy’s brows lifted, incredulity flickering across his expression. “Practical? You speak of marriage as though it were an investment.”
“Is that not what it is?” Heath set his glass down with deliberate ease. “I require a wife of respectable standing. She requires security. It is a mutually beneficial arrangement, nothing more.”
Percy hummed softly, staring into his brandy as if contemplating the logic presented before him. “And you truly believe it is nothing more?”
Heath held his gaze, unwavering, yet somewhere beneath the surface, a memory stirred—the crisp air of the park, the lingering warmth of Blanche’s touch, the way the world had seemed to tilt when their lips met, and as his hands slid around her waist.
He remembered her full, nervous yet eager lips when he kissed her, her warm breath against his own, and the curves of her body in his arms. He wanted to taste every inch of her. Let his hands explore those curves, the feel of her soft skin against his—
Bloody hell—
He pushed the thoughts aside. “She knows the terms. There are no illusions between us.”
Percy did not speak immediately. Instead, he watched Heath with an expression so pointedly unreadable that it only added to the simmering tension between them.
“Perhaps,” Percy finally mused, his tone deceptively casual. “But I would wager that Lady Blanche knows far more than you give her credit for.”
Heath arched a brow, unimpressed. “And what precisely do you mean by that?”
Percy exhaled through his nose, swirling his drink absently.
“Only that I have never known you to be so thoroughly consumed by mere practicality.” He lifted his gaze, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips.
“The ton may speak of embroidery patterns, my friend. But I suspect there is something rather more intricate at play here.”
The statement lingered between them like an unspoken challenge. Heath did not answer immediately. Instead, he allowed himself a fleeting pause where his mind wandered.
He desired Blanche. That much was undeniable. But was desire alone enough to justify this arrangement?
He took another sip of his drink, allowing the warmth of the liquor to burn away any doubt.
“As long as the arrangement serves its purpose, I see no reason for concern.”
Percy sighed, shaking his head slightly. “Well then, Heath, I do hope you are right.”
Heath did not respond immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, the weight of Percy’s words settling into the dim glow of the drawing room.
His fingers tightened briefly around his glass before he set it aside, his gaze lingering on the flickering embers in the hearth.
The arrangement was practical, necessary.
And yet, as his thoughts drifted unbidden to Blanche, he could not escape the relentless pull she had on him—an insatiable fixation, seeping into his very bones.
She consumed him in a way no mere transaction ever should, unraveling him with every lingering memory, every unspoken word.
“You look positively radiant, Blanche!” Fanny’s voice, bright with unchecked excitement, filled the chamber as she clasped her hands together, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
The lace of her own gown trembled as she shifted on her feet, barely containing her joy.
Blanche exhaled, stepping toward the grand cheval mirror in the corner of the room, her silk slippers barely making a sound against the polished wooden floor.
The reflection staring back at her felt foreign—elevated beyond the ordinary into something almost ethereal.
Her gown, a masterpiece of fine brocade and delicate embroidery, draped elegantly over her frame, the rich cream fabric catching the glow of the late afternoon light spilling through the tall windows.
Every stitch, every fold spoke of luxury—of a life that did not quite feel like hers. Yet now it belongs to me all the same.
The diamonds around her neck, a wedding gift from Heath, sparkled in stark contrast to the soft, understated grace of her features. But it was her hair—arranged in an intricate cascade of curls, woven with pearls—that made her breath hitch.
She had never considered herself particularly beautiful. Yet at this moment, standing before the mirror, she could not deny it.
Fanny sniffed, wiping at her cheeks. “I should not cry, should I? Oh, but you are the most beautiful bride!”
Blanche turned slightly, her lips curving into a quiet smile as she reached for her sister’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I am glad you are here, Fanny.”
Before Fanny could respond, the door swung open, and in stepped Lady Gooldwer, one of her prized pugs cradled in her arms.
“Heavens, everything must be just so… there must not be a single detail out of place!” The older woman’s voice carried its usual commanding presence, her elaborate mauve gown adorned with enough jewels to rival a crown.
Fanny leaned in toward Blanche, whispering with a teasing lilt. “I believe Mother intends to upstage the bride.”
“She probably feels she deserves it after all the effort she has put into making this wedding perfect.”
Suppressing a laugh, Blanche straightened, watching as her mother bustled about, adjusting nonexistent creases in her sleeves, ensuring not a single strand of her perfectly arranged coiffure dared stray from its place. But then, suddenly, her mother stilled.
Her sharp gaze landed on Blanche, and for once, there was no critique—no instructions, no restless adjusting—only quiet admiration.
“You look…” Mother hesitated, something rare for a woman so decisive. “You look exquisite.”