Chapter 13
Thirteen
“Surely, Your Grace, a man in celebration deserves proper company?”
The voice was smooth, laced with practiced seduction, and when Heath glanced up, he was met with the knowing gaze of a woman accustomed to pleasing men of his status.
Percy, lounging comfortably at his side, exhaled in amusement, swirling his drink lazily. “Ah, but his Duchess might take issue with that,” he mused, casting Heath a glance brimming with mischief. “And, regrettably, I suspect my dear friend here has lost his taste for indulgences.”
Heath did not rise to the bait.
Instead, he held the woman’s gaze for a measured beat before offering the faintest incline of his head. “I am not interested.”
The courtesan’s lips curved slightly, as if expecting nothing less. With a fluid movement, she stepped back, leaving them to their drinks and their private musings.
Heath sat back in his chair, fingers resting idly against the cool surface of his glass, satisfaction settling deep within his bones.
He had won.
The lords had accepted him, and soon enough, they would see that their careful balance of influence was shifting toward him.
Yet, for all his victories, something gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Percy, lounging opposite him with effortless ease, let out a low chuckle. “I must say, I expected you to look far more triumphant, Heath. A man does not walk away from bending the wills of England’s most obstinate gentlemen only to sit here brooding into his brandy.”
Heath exhaled lightly, swirling the liquid absently. “A victory secured does not mean a war won.”
Percy tilted his head, watching him with interest. “This war, I presume, has nothing to do with politics.”
Heath met his friend’s gaze, irritation flickering behind his eyes before he let out a quiet sigh. “Blanche…” The name itself felt heavier than he liked. “She is… impossible.”
Percy’s lips twitched with barely concealed amusement. “And yet, you are thoroughly fascinated, aren’t you?”
Heath huffed a quiet laugh—more breath than sound—shaking his head as he took another measured sip of brandy.
“It isn’t just that.” His voice was thoughtful now, his irritation woven into something heavier. “This is my first time being married, my first time sharing space—sharing a life—with someone who refuses to yield at every turn. She challenges me in ways I did not expect.”
Percy lifted a brow. “She refuses to yield? Or you refuse to let her win?”
A smirk tugged at Heath’s lips. “Is there a difference?”
Percy chuckled. “Perhaps not. But go on—what is it about her that unsettles you so?”
Heath exhaled, leaning back slightly, gaze fixed on the amber glow of his drink.
“She rejects me, defies me, pushes back when any other woman in her position would have simply accepted the terms of our arrangement. And yet, despite that—despite the frustration she breeds—I cannot bring myself to dismiss it. Or her.”
Percy studied him for a moment, then shook his head in quiet amusement. “Attraction, irritation, and intrigue—all tangled into one. Quite the predicament.”
Heath’s smirk was slow, edged with something dangerously close to resignation. “Yes. Quite the predicament indeed.”
Heath rolled his shoulders, casting a glance toward the far end of the establishment, where a group of courtesans lounged, laughter spilling from their lips like invitations wrapped in silk. Once, such company had been an easy remedy—an indulgence with no consequence.
Now, the thought of entertaining it felt hollow.
Percy followed his gaze, then smirked knowingly. “Perhaps, my friend, you require distraction?”
Heath let out a quiet chuckle—deep, amused, though something sharper lurked beneath it.
“Distraction?” He turned back to his drink, lifting it to his lips. “I require nothing.”
But as the warmth of the brandy settled, his mind betrayed him—lingering on soft skin beneath his fingertips, the intoxicating pull of lips that had challenged him even as they surrendered.
She was fire.
And for the first time in his life, Heath did not know if he could master it.
The estate was grand—far grander than anything Blanche had ever called home.
She was accustomed to navigating spaces of wealth and refinement, but the sheer magnitude of this place unsettled her. It was Heath’s domain, his world, and each corridor seemed to echo that truth with quiet finality.
She moved through its corridors with measured grace, careful not to seem out of place, though in truth, the sheer enormity of it all left her slightly breathless. Which was precisely why she had spent the past days perfecting the art of avoidance.
Dodging him in the halls was manageable—his routines were predictable enough. But escaping the inevitability of shared meals required a far more refined strategy.
Blanche had spent the better part of the morning contemplating potential solutions, absently tracing the embroidered edge of her sleeve as she paced through the corridor.
Lost in thought, she nearly collided with one of the housemaids—Margaret, if she recalled correctly—who carried a small tray stacked with linens and a neatly folded menu for the day’s meals.
A perfect opportunity.
Blanche hesitated for the briefest moment, adjusting her posture, willing herself to embody the composure expected of a duchess rather than a woman scrambling for avoidance.
She was not some uncertain girl lingering on the periphery of his home—this was her residence now.
She had a right to dictate her own affairs.
She inhaled, steadying herself.
“Would it be possible to have my breakfast served in my chambers?” Her tone was light, carefully composed. She feigned interest in the lace at her sleeve, as though the request were merely an idle preference. “And supper as well, if it would not be too much trouble.”
The maid blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Of course, Your Grace, though… is there a particular reason?”
Blanche smiled, serene and unwavering. “I prefer solitude.”
The explanation was plausible enough—no one would question a duchess who valued privacy.
However, before the maid could accept the request, another voice cut through the conversation.
“Solitude—or merely the wish to evade me?” The heat rose to her face before she even turned.
Heath. Of course.
He stood leaning against the doorframe, watching her with the precise expression of a man who had long suspected such tactics and had only been waiting for confirmation.
“I must admit,” he continued, crossing his arms, “your dedication is rather impressive. An admirable effort, yet, I fear, a fruitless one.”
Blanche lifted her chin, refusing to be rattled. “I had no intention of being evasive. Merely efficient.”
“Efficient?” Heath let out a quiet chuckle, taking a single, measured step forward. “Because sharing a table with me is a waste of time?”
“Because sharing a table with you is an unnecessary distraction.”
Heath tilted his head, studying her with a curiosity that felt far too perceptive. “Unnecessary… or dangerous?”
Blanche pressed her lips together. This. Man.
“Should I take that as a compliment?” he mused, his tone laced with casual amusement—but his eyes held something else entirely.
Blanche inhaled, slow, measured. “You should take it with understanding.”
“Ah, but that would be far too simple.” And before she could plan a proper retort, he shifted—closing the space between them just enough, lowering his voice just slightly.
“Dinner. Eight o’clock.” His gaze lingered, unwavering. “And this time, I shall not entertain excuses.”
Blanche held firm. “Then I hope you possess patience, Your Grace.”
Heath’s smirk deepened, edged with quiet satisfaction. “I do not. But I have time.”
Heath held her gaze for a lingering moment, the smirk playing at the edges of his lips unmistakable. “Do try not to miss me too much, Duchess.”
Blanche exhaled sharply, resisting the impulse to roll her eyes. “You are insufferable.”
His chuckle was low—satisfied. “And yet, strangely difficult to avoid.”
With maddening ease, he turned and strode down the corridor, leaving her standing amidst the quiet hum of her own thoughts.
She stared at his retreating form for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before shaking herself free of whatever foolishness had momentarily seized her.
He is impossible. Absolutely, infuriatingly impossible.
She moved through the hallway with purposeful strides, resolute in her need to devise a proper strategy.
He was far too perceptive—too attuned to the quiet shifts in her composure, too skilled at slipping beneath her defenses before she even realized they had weakened.
Avoidance was the only logical course of action.
And yet, she missed him. More than that, she missed home.
Her family. The warmth of familiarity, the ease of existence without expectation, without scrutiny.
That is what I need to focus on. Not Heath. Certainly not the way he unsettles me…
Fanny’s laughter, the warmth of familiar voices, even the absurd presence of her mother’s beloved pugs—things that had once seemed trivial now settled into her chest with a weight she could not ignore.
She chose to dwell on that kind of longing—the one tethered to familiarity, to the comfort of home—rather than the one Heath ignited within her.
She refused to acknowledge the truth, to admit that she missed the sharp, exhilarating exchanges, the mischief woven into his words, the undeniable pull of his kisses, and the thrilling discovery of his touch.