Chapter 14
Fourteen
Distracting herself, Blanche wandered through the halls until something halted her steps—a portrait, large and striking, framed in ornate gilded detail.
The former Duke and Duchess of Woodrey…
Blanche studied them.
The late Duke carried the same air of authority Heath wore so effortlessly, his posture sharp, unyielding. But it was the Duchess—her elegance, the piercing blue eyes—that struck Blanche most.
Heath’s eyes.
She had seen them countless times now, the cool precision, the unrelenting sharpness, but there was something else.
Something softer.
The presence behind her made her turn.
Mrs. Talbot, the estate’s housekeeper, stood a few paces away, her gaze resting upon the portrait with quiet reverence.
She was a woman of measured composure, but beneath the formality lay the quiet warmth of someone who had served long enough to understand the unspoken burdens of those who called Woodrey home.
“The late Duke and Duchess,” she murmured, voice smooth with a touch of nostalgia. “Fine people. Greatly loved.”
Blanche traced the familiar blue of the Duchess’s gaze, a quiet thought settling in her mind. “Heath looks like her.”
Mrs. Talbot exhaled lightly, nodding. “Indeed. Her features, her mannerisms—though I daresay the young Duke inherited his father’s temper.”
Blanche let out a soft chuckle, surprising herself.
She had never considered what losing them had been like for Heath.
“It must have been difficult for him.”
The housekeeper studied her for a moment before offering a slight, knowing nod. “It was.”
She hesitated only briefly, then added, “I recall, when he was very young, Her Grace would always insist that he take a few moments before retiring for the night to stand beneath the stars and listen. ‘The world is bigger than any man,’ she would say. ‘But you, my dear boy, are limitless.’”
A quiet pause settled between them, heavy with unspoken sentiment.
Blanche’s gaze lingered on the portrait, tracing the features so familiar yet distant, as if Heath carried ghosts within him that refused to fade.
Mrs. Talbot exhaled lightly, eyes briefly flickering toward the window, where the evening sky stretched endlessly beyond the estate walls.
“He never looks at them anymore.”
Blanche turned to him, brows knitting slightly. “The stars?”
Mrs. Talbot nodded, his voice lower now, quieter. “Not since the night they were lost to him.”
Blanche felt something tighten in her chest, an ache not entirely her own.
“He used to linger beneath them, even long after the household had gone to rest,” the housekeeper continued, tone threaded with quiet reverence. “But grief has a way of stealing such rituals. When the Duke and Duchess passed, His Grace stopped looking at the night sky.”
Blanche swallowed, her fingers grazing the golden frame before her.
She had known Heath to be unyielding, had seen the sharp edges of his confidence, the effortless command in his presence.
But this was something softer. Something sorrowful.
And for the first time, she wondered what it meant to lose everything before one had the chance to truly grow.
Blanche inhaled, a quiet warmth pressing against something deep within her chest.
Perhaps I had been too harsh with him?
Heath had been nothing but honorable with my family, ensuring their comfort, their security…
Blanche lingered in the corridor for a moment, tracing a fingertip absently over the carved edges of the doorframe.
She had spent days—perhaps even a week—avoiding meals with Heath, ensuring that their interactions remained brief, distant, inconsequential.
Now, as the hour of dinner approached, she found herself standing at the threshold of change.
“The Duke has been different since your arrival, Your Grace.” She turned at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice. Mrs. Talbot was watching her with the quiet observance of a woman who had seen generations unfold before her.
“Different?” she echoed, tilting her chin slightly.
Mrs. Talbot nodded. “There is a weight he carries, and yet… I dare say it has shifted. Your presence holds influence, Your Grace.”
Blanche said nothing. She only exhaled softly, watching as Mrs. Talbot inclined before retreating, leaving her alone in the hall.
Realizing she had perhaps been too harsh with Heath, Blanche considered making amends.
A compromise—one that might serve us both.
It wasn’t an entirely reckless notion. Certainly not the worst she had entertained. Their marriage was, after all, a pact of convenience, a carefully constructed arrangement with expectations to uphold.
So she resolved to wait until dinner. When Heath returned from his meetings, she would seek him out.
And then, they would talk.
The glow of candlelight bathed the grand chamber in golden warmth, casting soft reflections upon the polished surface of the table. Heath sat at its farthest end, his posture effortless, his gaze lifting the moment she entered.
Blanche swallowed.
He was too handsome in the dim light—too composed, too aware.
For a fleeting moment, her mind betrayed her, recalling the heat of his lips, the weight of his hands against her skin, the undeniable pull that had left her breathless and wanting.
She forced the thought aside and stepped forward, settling into the chair directly across from him.
Heath regarded her with interest—no smug amusement, no wicked glint in his eye.
“I have been thinking…” she began, tone measured, precise. “About what transpired last time.”
His expression did not shift, but she felt the subtle shift in the air between them.
“I believe we might find a resolution to our arrangement.”
Heath leaned back, fingers brushing idly over the stem of his glass. “Do you?”
She met his gaze without hesitation. “I will play my part. Be the perfect wife society expects of me. In public, we shall appear precisely as we ought to.”
A pause.
“But beyond that, our interactions shall remain outside the bedroom.” She saw the flicker in his gaze—the amusement tempered with something darker.
“No entanglement,” she clarified, voice unwavering. “No emotions. No complications.”
Heath exhaled through his nose, swirling his drink once. “And if the matter of an heir arises?”
Blanche inhaled, keeping her composure. “Then we may revisit the subject.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
“That will suffice for now,” he said.
Relief settled in her ribs, though she dared not exhale too visibly.
Heath tilted his head slightly, studying her with quiet amusement as he swirled his drink in slow circles.
“So, you have decided to play the perfect wife…” His voice was smooth, edged with indulgent curiosity. “And what, pray tell, do you wish in return for such an effort?”
Blanche exhaled lightly, settling her glass onto the polished surface of the table. “A simple matter,” she mused, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I would like to visit my family, for instance.”
Heath arched a brow. “Alone?”
“Would it be improper?”
Heath mimicked her seriousness, placing his glass down. “So long as you do not seek lovers or spread tales of me, you may do as you wish.”
Blanche hummed, feigning contemplation, then tilted her head slightly. “And how have your meetings gone today, Your Grace?”
Heath let out a quiet chuckle, fingers drumming idly against his glass. “You inquire after my affairs as though you are genuinely interested.”
Blanche shrugged. “Should I not show some semblance of concern? It is, after all, expected of a dutiful wife.”
Heath smirked, taking a slow sip of his brandy. “Then, by all means, Duchess, allow me to assure you—I have been victorious.”
Blanche inhaled, observing him. He was too calm, too composed, and that—more than anything—unnerved her.
She hesitated only briefly before tilting her chin in mock boredom.
“And… have you visited other women in these past days, by chance… Your Grace?”
The words were deliberately poised, casual in their delivery, but she felt the tension coil beneath her ribs regardless.
Heath did not hesitate. “No.” Then, slowly, he smirked.
He leaned in just slightly, fingers grazing the stem of his glass as his voice dipped into something more deliberate, something dangerously close to playful cruelty.
“Would you be disappointed if I had?”
Blanche scoffed, lifting her own drink to her lips with unbothered precision. “I would pity the poor woman, that is all.”
Heath chuckled, dark and rich, tracing his thumb along the rim of his glass as he watched her.
“You will not maintain this pretense for long, Duchess.” His voice was smooth, laced with quiet amusement. “Soon enough, you will plead for me.”
Blanche exhaled, irritation sparking beneath her skin—though not nearly enough to drown out the traitorous thrill that curled at the edges of her restraint.
Heath leaned back slightly, studying her with a satisfaction that set Blanche’s nerves on edge. “Perhaps,” he murmured, lazily swirling the remnants of his drink, “it is time for society to see exactly what kind of marriage we have.”
Blanche arched a brow, placing her own glass down with measured precision. “And how do you propose we make such a demonstration, Your Grace?”
A slow smirk traced Heath’s lips. “The ball tomorrow evening. It will be the perfect stage for our… performance.”
She hesitated, weighing the prospect.
Her family would be there.
The timing was, admittedly, convenient.
Two birds, one stone.
Blanche inhaled lightly, lifting her gaze to meet his. “Very well.”
Heath’s smirk deepened. “Then we shall give them a spectacle worth remembering.”
Just like that, the game began anew for them.