Chapter 10
Ten
“It appears Mother is the true bride today,” Fanny murmured, her voice laced with quiet mischief.
Blanche bit back a smile, watching as Lady Gooldwer basked in the endless stream of admiration, her elaborate gown a cascade of silk and ornaments.
Compliments surrounded her, praises for the wedding, for the arrangements, and—as Lady Gooldwer was keen to remind everyone—for her most dutiful and well-raised daughter.
“She has endured great hardships, you know,” Fanny continued, adjusting the delicate lace at her wrist. “Arranging such a splendid match. A most taxing experience, I am certain.”
Blanche exhaled softly, casting a glance at her sister, whose eyes shone with unmistakable amusement.
Despite Fanny’s teasing, there was truth at the moment. Lady Gooldwer was happy—triumphant, even. And though Blanche could not deny the quiet gratitude she felt toward Heath, the reality of her new position settled over her with an undeniable weight.
Fanny tilted her head slightly, studying her. “You are uneasy.”
Blanche’s fingers instinctively curled around the edge of her gown, the weight of the diamond ring on her hand suddenly more pronounced. “I am thoughtful,” she corrected, though she knew her sister would not be convinced.
Fanny hummed knowingly, a flicker of mischief playing in her gaze. “You need not pretend with me, dearest. I know you well enough to see what is beneath the surface.”
Blanche inhaled slowly, casting a glance around the grand room—the space that was now hers to call home.
Woodrey House, the jewel of Mayfair, bathed in golden candlelight, its towering chandeliers gleaming above elegant columns carved with intricate embellishments.
A world so carefully constructed. A world that now belongs to me.
Her gaze flickered toward Heath, standing effortlessly among the guests, his posture commanding yet impossibly relaxed.
The flicker of admiration in the eyes of every woman present did not go unnoticed, nor did the quiet murmurs—the reverence surrounding him, the magnetism he wielded without effort.
And yet, for all his charm, there lingered something unspoken between them.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to that afternoon in the park. The whisper of his fingers at her waist, the way his lips had stolen her breath without warning, the heat that had curled through her so recklessly. The memory wasn’t fading, and her body was waiting. Aching, for what would come next.
She swallowed hard, willing herself back to the present.
Fanny caught the motion, pressing closer. “Ah, I see now. You are thinking about him.”
Blanche stiffened, ignoring the heat creeping into her cheeks. “Do not be absurd.”
Fanny laughed quietly, the knowing edge of a sister who could see through every feigned composure. “Well, at least you have chosen well. He is terribly handsome, I must say. I doubt Mother will cease reminding you of that particular triumph anytime soon.”
Before Blanche could protest, Lady Gooldwer’s voice rang through the conversation, summoning Fanny with practiced authority.
“Come, Fanny, there is someone you must meet. An acquaintance most suitable, I believe.”
Fanny barely concealed a sigh, turning back to Blanche one last time. “You shall be fine on your own. After all, you are a duchess now.”
And then, with one final reassuring squeeze of Blanche’s hand, her sister was gone—leaving her in the midst of gilded splendor, the reality of her new life settling around her like an elegant but unyielding cage.
Blanche managed a smile, but as Fanny departed, an unsettling quiet settled around her.
She turned her gaze toward Heath, watching the way he commanded the room with effortless ease. The way noblewomen lingered in his presence, their admiration thinly veiled beneath carefully measured smiles.
He is magnetic, undeniably so.
And he is my husband.
The thought sent an unfamiliar heat coursing through her, unbidden and unrelenting.
Her mind refused to stray from the memory of their kiss. The way his hands had steadied her, the warmth of his breath against her skin—how utterly undone she had felt in mere moments.
She swallowed, willing her thoughts into submission. A voice—deep, smooth, and undeniably amused—cut through her thoughts.
Blanche blinked, turning instinctively toward the sound, her fingers tightening just slightly around the edge of her gown.
Before her stood a man of striking refinement, his dark hair a contrast to the sharp, clear eyes that watched her with unrestrained interest, his presence was effortless, as though he had long mastered the art of owning any room he walked into.
With a graceful inclination of his head, he spoke—his tone rich with charm and irreverence.
“Percy Levingston, Duke of Nightborne, at your service, Your Grace.” His lips curved into something dangerously close to a smirk. “Also known as the most devoted—if thoroughly insufferable—friend of your esteemed husband.”
Blanche arched a brow, allowing the faintest trace of amusement to flicker across her features. “A pleasure, Your Grace. I do hope my husband speaks of you with equal fondness.”
Percy let out a laugh, low and thoroughly unapologetic. “Fondness? Ah, perhaps occasionally. Though I suspect his descriptions often carry more frustration than admiration.”
He did not bow, did not offer some grand gesture of greeting—only a grin that suggested he did not need pomp, only for amusement.
“I offer my sincerest congratulations,” he continued, swirling the drink in his hand absently. “Though I confess, I’m rather more interested in how you’re holding up. You appear rather… rosy.”
Blanche stiffened slightly, willing herself to ignore the warmth rising at the back of her neck.
“Surely you do not mean to imply I am nervous?” she countered, tilting her chin with measured confidence.
Percy’s eyes gleamed. “Nervous? Oh no, Your Grace. I imagine most women would be beside themselves at the prospect of entanglement with my dear friend. But you strike me as decidedly unshaken.”
Blanche exhaled, settling into the conversation with ease. “I do not fear the Duke, Your Grace. My choice was my own, and I believe I have conquered obstacles far more trying than the Duke of Woodrey.”
Intrigued, the man raised an eyebrow with evident amusement. “Indulge me, Your Grace, and let me know what sort of eventualities you have overcome that compare with my friend?”
Blanche tilted her head slightly, allowing the faintest smirk to play at the corner of her lips.
“I have survived far worse, Your Grace. A mother with a penchant for theatrics and three pugs who believe they are the rightful rulers of our household.”
Percy pressed a hand against his chest, feigning offense. “Are you implying that my best friend, whom I consider almost a brother, could be as unruly as a pug?”
“Not at all, Your Grace. I just want to make it clear that if I have managed that, I suspect the Duke of Woodrey shall prove a minor inconvenience.”
Blanche’s response seemed to surprise Percy, who threw his head back with a laugh, a genuine, unabashed sound that drew a few curious glances from nearby guests.
“Oh, I do like you,” he declared, grinning. “If ever there were a woman fit to endure Heath, I daresay it is you.”
Blanche merely offered a knowing smile, keeping her reply poised and unreadable.
Her gaze landed once more on Heath. He was insufferable, arrogant, and composed beyond reason. But he was also brilliant, endlessly capable, and possessed something she had yet to name—something that made her pulse quicken far more than it should.
A quiet thought slipped past her lips, unintended, spoken aloud just enough for Percy to hear.
“I am fortunate that he chose me.”
Percy stilled for half a breath, watching her. Then, with a slow tilt of his head, he murmured, “I cannot contradict you on that. Heath is fiercely protective of those who matter to him. He stood by my side in rather difficult times.”
Blanche’s gaze flickered back to Percy, catching the briefest shadow that passed over his otherwise lighthearted expression.
“And he has been remarkably kind to my family, in a time when it was truly needed,” added Blanche.
Percy exhaled softly, swirling his drink in measured contemplation. “Heath has always been that way. Fiercely protective when it comes to matters of family—or rather, what little remains of it.”
Blanche’s gaze flickered instinctively toward Heath once more, watching him. His posture was one of calm authority, a man entirely in control of his surroundings—his voice measured, his smile calculated, each exchange crafted with a precision that made him appear untouchable.
Yet, as if sensing the weight of her stare, Heath turned.
Their eyes met across the vast expanse of the ballroom, the hum of conversation fading into quiet insignificance as a tension—unspoken, undeniable—settled between them. It was fleeting, but potent.
Blanche felt the sudden race of her heartbeat, the inexplicable pull of wanting him closer, as though distance itself was a cruelty.
And then, impossibly, Heath seemed to feel it too.
She watched as his smile dimmed, replaced with something quieter—the faintest crease formed between his brows—a subtle recognition.
With deliberate ease, he turned back to his company, but not before making his last remarks, his voice carrying just enough weight to signal his departure.
“I have heard that he lost his parents nearly a decade ago,” Blanche murmured, her voice gentle with unspoken understanding. “I cannot imagine…” She hesitated, fingers brushing absently against the edge of her glass. “Losing them entirely.”
Her father had vanished—escaped, disappeared into selfish ruin. But Heath had lost his entirely.
Percy studied her for a moment, thoughtful, before exhaling quietly. “It is not my story to tell. But perhaps, in time, you will hear it from him.”
Blanche pressed her lips together, nodding faintly. Some wounds were meant to be uncovered only when one was ready.