Chapter 16
Sixteen
“Smile, Duchess. They are watching.”
Heath’s voice was smooth, edged with quiet amusement, though Blanche did not need the reminder. It was her first appearance as Duchess, her very first invitation to such a glittering assembly, and every eye seemed determined to decide whether she would rise to the role—or falter.
The grand chandelier above gleamed with a thousand flickering flames, casting light across the opulent ballroom, where silks swayed and polished shoes glided effortlessly over marble floors.
Blanche inhaled, adjusting the delicate lace of her gloves as Heath led her through the entrance, his posture effortless, every movement marked with unwavering confidence.
“They expect a spectacle,” he murmured, his lips barely moving, though his tone carried that dangerous certainty she associated with him.
“And shall we give them one?” she mused, tilting her chin just slightly, ignoring the flicker of something unwise that sparked at the edges of her composure.
Heath smirked, guiding her forward until they reached the center of the gathering. “Undoubtedly.”
She had attended many soirées before, yet tonight felt different.
This was her first ball as a duchess. And if the lingering gazes, the murmured assessments, and the calculated smiles of the nobility were any indication, society was keen to observe her every move.
Blanche exhaled lightly, maintaining perfect composure as Heath brought her gloved hand to his lips, pressing the faintest kiss upon it.
His gaze met hers, unreadable, just as he inclined his head. “Enjoy yourself, Duchess.” And then, he was gone—lost among the crowd, moving with the kind of deliberate ease that marked him as someone too accustomed to command.
Blanche watched him for a beat longer than necessary, then forced herself to turn away.
She would not let her thoughts spiral—would not allow herself to linger on the storm of emotions Heath seemed capable of conjuring within her without effort.
She had other matters to attend to. And thus, she moved forward, ready to play her part.
“Blanche!” She turned just in time to see Fanny approaching, her eyes gleaming with familiar excitement.
They embraced, laughter spilling between them like a long-forgotten melody. Finally alone with her sister for the first time since the wedding, Blanche let out a breath, tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying easing just slightly as she turned toward her sister.
“Lovely ball, sister!” Fanny said excitedly, her eyes flicking up to the chandelier and then around the room quickly. “Lovely home.”
“Thank you for coming, Fanny.”
“I must say, marriage suits you rather well.”
Blanche arched a brow. “Does it?”
Fanny hummed in amusement. “You look impossibly elegant. Perhaps it is the air of nobility, or perhaps it is that husband of yours. Either way, you have certainly transformed.”
Blanche chuckled, shaking her head. “I assure you, I remain quite the same. It’s been… interesting. Anything new with you?”
Fanny sighed dramatically. “Oh, Mother is relentless, as always. She insists that my future husband lurks around every corner, just waiting for me to be sensible enough to marry him.”
Blanche laughed softly. “And have you entertained any of her choices?”
Fanny scoffed. “Not in the slightest. I have, however, refined my method of rejection to an art form. Truly, it is becoming a skill.”
Blanche smirked. “You ought to document your techniques, dear sister. A guide to polite dismissal.”
Fanny grinned. “Perhaps I shall. But, in truth, I have been far more occupied with my painting than anything else. I have taken on new lessons.”
Blanche glanced at her, noting the brightness in her expression, the way her entire demeanor softened at the mention of her craft. “Then tell me everything.”
And so, as they moved through the grand hall, Fanny described her latest works, and Blanche listened, allowing herself, for just a little while, to be lost in the familiarity of her sister’s excitement.
Fanny grinned, eyes alight with the kind of knowing curiosity only a sister could possess.
“And what of you, then?” she mused, tilting her head slightly. “Has the elusive Duke of Woodrey proven to be the epitome of husbandly virtue?”
Blanche hesitated only briefly before offering a measured smile expected of a woman in her position. “It is precisely as it should be.”
Fanny studied her carefully, unperturbed by the practiced response. “Which is to say… complicated. But you seemed fine when I saw you both last?”
Blanche merely hummed, turning her gaze toward the garden beyond the window, watching as the breeze rustled the ivy along the stone walls.
Fanny exhaled, leaning in slightly. “Come now, sister. We are alone, and if there is one person in this world with whom you need not perform, it is me.”
Blanche hesitated.
Not because she did not trust Fanny—she did, wholly, in ways she could not always articulate—but because voicing the truth meant confronting it.
And yet, silence was no better.
She exhaled, measured, thoughtful. “I expected simplicity.”
Fanny arched a brow. “Simplicity?”
Blanche nodded, her gaze still fixed upon the garden. “A marriage of convenience. A man occupied with his own affairs, a wife tending to the necessary proprieties. An arrangement, not an entanglement.”
Fanny tilted her head. “And yet, you find yourself entangled.”
Blanche exhaled again, slower this time. “He is… impossible.”
Fanny let out a quiet hum, the barest hint of amusement threading through it. “I imagine Heath would be rather pleased by that assessment.”
Blanche narrowed her eyes. “Do not encourage him.”
Fanny laughed softly. “I need not encourage him. I believe he does quite well on his own.”
Silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, merely contemplative—before Fanny spoke again, voice gentler now.
“You are drawn to him.” Blanche stilled. She had not admitted it aloud. Had not shaped the words with her own voice, despite knowing them to be true.
Fanny watched her carefully, gauging the hesitation, the unwillingness to confirm what they both knew.
“You fear what yielding to it might mean.”
Blanche swallowed. “I fear…” She hesitated, shaking her head slightly, as if the thought alone was too much. “If I surrender to it, I will mean nothing more to him than any other woman.”
Fanny leaned back, thoughtful. “And has he given you reason to believe that?”
Blanche blinked, considering.
Heath was a man accustomed to indulgence—she had known that from the beginning. But he had not strayed, had not made careless pursuits of passing temptations since their marriage.
Not once. And yet, her insecurities lingered.
Fanny inhaled softly. “I saw the way he looked at you, Blanche. Not as a man who has already conquered, but as one who knows the battle is far from over. You mistake his patience for indifference, but I believe it is restraint.”
Blanche lowered her gaze. “You believe I have raised these walls in vain?”
Fanny tilted her head slightly. “I believe you should ask yourself if they are protecting you from harm—or merely keeping something good at bay.”
Blanche pressed her lips together, absorbing the weight of the words.
Fanny softened, reaching for her hand. “I know this is not what you expected, but expectations are not always superior to reality.”
Blanche glanced toward her sister, offering the faintest twitch of a smile.
“You sound remarkably wise for a woman who has never married.”
Fanny laughed. “Perhaps, but I suspect I shall be rather intolerable when I do.”
Blanche exhaled softly, letting the warmth of her sister’s presence settle her thoughts.
And yet—beneath all else, beneath the tangled emotions, the confusion, the tentative hope—one concern remained.
“Fanny… And what about Father? Has Mother heard anything about him?”
Fanny’s expression shifted, quieting, though not with the hesitance of an uncertain prognosis—rather, with the weight of lingering uncertainty.
She exhaled softly. “There has been no word.”
Blanche’s gaze dropped to their interlocked fingers, her grip tightening ever so slightly.
Fanny squeezed her hand in return. “You must stop believing that silence equates to misfortune, Blanche.”
“And you must stop believing that absence equals disappearance. He will return.”
Fanny inhaled, steadying herself. “Or he will not.”
Blanche frowned. “You do not truly believe that.”
Fanny exhaled sharply, turning her gaze toward the window. “What am I meant to believe? That he merely lost his way? That he has spent these months attempting to return to us?”
Blanche swallowed, steadying herself before replying. “I believe that people falter. And that Father…” She hesitated, then continued, “Is not the villain Mother wishes to paint him as.”
Fanny turned back to her, studying her closely. “Mother is not entirely wrong.”
Blanche stiffened. “He loved us.”
Fanny exhaled, shaking her head slightly. “And yet, he left us.”
Silence stretched between them—not heavy, but threaded with quiet, unspoken truths neither was prepared to confront entirely.
Blanche softened, reaching for her sister’s hand once more. “Whatever the truth is, do not carry the weight of it alone.”
Blanche inhaled deeply, steadying herself.
Perhaps, in time, she would know if she was ready to let that be true.
But before Fanny could press further, a sharp voice cut through their exchange. “Your Grace.”
The voice was smooth, measured, edged with an undertone of something uncomfortably dry.
Both sisters turned to find Lord Chancellor standing before them, posture impeccable, expression poised in the manner of a man too accustomed to wielding words like carefully placed daggers.
His bow was polite. His gaze was not.
“Lord Chancellor. What a pleasure to greet you,” Blanche greeted politely, remembering the promise she had made to Heath about being an impeccable wife.
“And you,” Lord Chancellor replied courteously. “Marriage seems to suit you, Your Grace.” His tone carried the faintest note of detached observation, though the gleam in his eye spoke of something more calculated.