Chapter 15
Fifteen
“Areckless heart meets ruin, but in the hands of a skilled lover, ruin becomes desire.”
The words were soft—scandalously so—barely above a whisper as they slipped past Blanche’s lips.
Heath had intended to speak, to announce his presence with some semblance of decorum. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, watching with quiet amusement as she read aloud, entirely unaware that she had an audience.
A slow smirk traced his lips.
“You must forgive me, Duchess, but I believe I am interrupting something… rather indecent.”
Blanche startled violently, the book snapping shut as she turned, color rising to her cheeks.
“You should announce yourself,” she accused, lifting her chin to regain composure.
Heath stepped forward, the amusement in his gaze entirely unrepentant. “And ruin the pleasure of watching you so utterly engrossed?”
Her glare was swift, but he saw the flicker of embarrassment beneath it—the way her fingers tightened imperceptibly over the leather-bound novel, as if she could will the moment into oblivion.
“What do you want, Your Grace?”
He let out a measured breath, considering how best to prolong her suffering before settling for the simple truth. “Your mother and sister have arrived. Uninvited.”
Blanche blinked, all traces of indignation vanishing in an instant.
“Here?”
Heath inclined his head. “Unless my eyes have deceived me.”
She barely hesitated before pushing past him, the novel forgotten. Heath watched her go, exhaling a quiet chuckle before following at a more leisurely pace.
Blanche hardly lingered before sweeping past him, her steps quick, but not careless. Heath followed at a more deliberate pace, watching the way the color lingered high on her cheeks—not merely from embarrassment, but something softer, something undeniably warm.
“You could at least pretend to be displeased,” he murmured, his tone edged with deliberate mischief.
Blanche cast him a glance over her shoulder. “Must I?”
He chuckled, effortlessly keeping stride beside her. “It would be prudent, considering how swiftly you abandoned your novel.”
She exhaled, short and measured, though the faint flush in her skin betrayed her. “You are impossible.”
“That has been established previously.”
They reached the landing, Heath caught the way her expression shifted—how excitement took root despite her attempts at composure.
He leaned in slightly, his voice low. “Try not to look too delighted, Duchess. It may ruin the impression that you’ve been suffering terribly in my care.”
Blanche’s eyes narrowed, but the corners of her lips tugged upward in the smallest, most reluctant betrayal of amusement.
“You presume I have not,” she countered, her chin lifting in an act of defiance. Heath knew better than to take her seriously.
Before he could retort, their guests came into view.
Blanche inhaled, gathering herself before stepping forward.
For a fleeting moment, Heath thought he saw her forget everything—every concern, every guarded thought—as genuine happiness took over.
And, strangely enough, he found he had no desire to interrupt it.
Blanche stepped forward with an eagerness she did not try to hide, her eyes bright as they settled upon her mother and sister.
Fanny, ever sweet and composed, mirrored her enthusiasm, reaching for her hands with an affectionate squeeze.
“Have you been well?” Fanny asked softly, searching her sister’s expression.
“I have,” Blanche assured her, warmth slipping into her tone. “Though I confess, I did not expect to see you so soon.”
“Nor did I,” Fanny admitted, a gentle smile curling at the edges of her lips. “But Mother was quite determined.”
Determined, indeed.
Lady Gooldwer stood a few paces behind them, surveying the great hall with the sharp intensity of a woman attempting to appraise every inch of its grandeur in a single glance.
“My word,” she declared, loud enough that Heath imagined half the house might hear. “I should have worn my best gloves. I didn’t realize how beautiful and elegant this mansion was during the wedding breakfast!”
Heath, ever composed, merely inclined his head. “It pleases me that you approve, Lady Gooldwer.”
“Approve?” She waved a hand, unbothered by decorum. “My dear Duke, this estate is positively indecent in its extravagance, and I mean that as the highest form of compliment.”
Blanche inhaled, pressing her lips together in an act of practiced restraint. “Mother…”
Heath’s smirk was barely visible—a whisper of amusement that only she would notice.
Fanny, ever the balance to her mother’s theatrics, gave Heath a knowing smile. “You must forgive her, Your Grace. She has a habit of forgetting that volume does not equate to grace.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Mother interjected, undeterred. “His Grace appreciates honesty, do you not?”
Blanche exhaled, though Heath did not miss the twitch of amusement at the corners of her lips.
Heath met her gaze evenly. “I must confess I do.”
Lady Gooldwer grinned triumphantly. “There, you see?”
One servant approached then, offering tea and refreshments, but Lady Gooldwer barely acknowledged the suggestion before shaking her head.
“Oh, no need for all that. His Grace will show us the house,” she announced. “Surely, as family, we are entitled to such courtesy?”
Blanche stiffened. “Mother, I hardly think—”
“Naturally,” Heath interjected smoothly, his smile polite but undeniably pleased. “I would be delighted.”
Blanche’s gaze snapped toward him, her expression unreadable to anyone but Heath.
With that, they began their walk through the estate, Heath leading them down the grand corridor lined with portraits of his ancestors.
Lady Gooldwer’s commentary was relentless—every molding admired, every chandelier questioned in its excess, every aspect of Woodrey deemed either unnecessarily extravagant or precisely what she had always envisioned for her daughter’s future.
Fanny listened with quiet amusement, her occasional glances toward Heath almost apologetic.
Blanche, however, remained measured in her responses, offering well-placed remarks where necessary while keeping a keen awareness of Heath.
They reached the section of the corridor where the portraits lined the walls with quiet authority, faces of the past gazing down upon them with an air of solemnity.
“Your lineage is quite impressive, Your Grace,” Lady Gooldwer remarked, pausing before a particularly grand depiction of a late duke.
Blanche tilted her head slightly, studying the portraits, but when she finally spoke, it was not to echo her mother’s sentiments.
“The staff speak of them often. Of how the former Duke was unwavering in principle but generous in his affections, and how Her Grace always ensured that the house was filled with light.”
Heath stilled.
Blanche had spoken the words with ease, as though they were merely fragments of history, details she had gathered like any other piece of knowledge. And yet, Heath found himself momentarily caught, pulled into the quiet gravity of memory.
His mother’s voice—soft, firm, certain.
The world is bigger than any man, but you, my dear boy, are limitless.
Blanche’s gaze flickered toward him, her expression thoughtful.
He exhaled lightly, letting the moment settle before stepping toward her, lowering his voice just enough so only she could hear.
“You seem rather well-informed.”
She met his eyes, unbothered. “It is only natural to learn of one’s home, is it not?”
His lips curved—slow, sharp, edged with something unreadable. “My past is not for your entertainment, Blanche.”
She did not flinch, nor did she look away, but Heath saw it—the faint rise of color in her cheeks, the way she gripped the fabric of her gown just slightly tighter than necessary.
Satisfied, he stepped back, casting a glance toward Lady Gooldwer, and when they arrived at the library, he did not intend to disappoint.
He opened the doors with effortless ease, allowing his guests to step inside. The scent of parchment and bound leather filled the air, the towering shelves lined with centuries of carefully preserved knowledge.
Lady Gooldwer gasped. “Your Grace, you are hoarding half the wisdom of England in this very room!”
Blanche exhaled, shaking her head. “Mother, it is a library.”
“A grand one,” Lady Gooldwer countered, “and I hope you make proper use of it.”
Heath let out a quiet hum. “Indeed, she does,” he remarked, stepping toward the shelves with casual interest. “Tell me, Lady Gooldwer, do you believe fiction to be a reflection of one’s desires?”
Her grin was immediate, pleased with the direction of the conversation. “Oh, undoubtedly. There are certain truths one cannot simply speak aloud.”
Heath plucked a particular volume from its place—one familiar, well-worn.
Blanche tensed.
He turned slightly, ensuring his voice reached only her ears. “Tell me, Duchess.” His voice was quiet, teasing. “Was it philosophy you were indulging in earlier? Or ruin in the hands of a skilled lover?”
A sharp breath. A deliberate blink. And, of course, the unmistakable rise of color in her cheeks.
Blanche held his gaze. “How dare you! You are insufferable.”
Heath’s smirk deepened. “And yet, terribly observant.”
Before she could retaliate, her mother’s voice rang out once more.
“Good heavens, the original volumes of The Canterbury Tales!”
Heath exhaled lightly, allowing Blanche a brief reprieve before turning his attention back to his mother-in-law.
Lady Gooldwer had moved on, entirely absorbed in admiring the gold finish of an ornamental frame, her delight unrestrained.
“Your Grace,” she declared, waving a hand toward the intricate carvings along the mantle, “it is entirely excessive, and I adore it.”
Blanche exhaled, shaking her head, though Heath caught the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of her lips.
Fanny, ever observant, smiled softly. “You have quite the eye for details, Mother.”
“Details?” Lady Gooldwer scoffed. “My dear girl, when one is presented with the luxury of this magnitude, one does not simply observe, one marvels!”