Chapter 16 #2
“Thank you very much, my lord. I have found marriage to be quite agreeable.” Blanche delivered the words with effortless grace, her tone measured, her expression impeccably poised.
Lord Chancellor studied her for a moment before his gaze shifted, settling upon Fanny with a scrutiny that carried more assessment than true courtesy.
“Ah, the youngest Waldron. Your charm has certainly become more noticeable over the years, Lady Fanny.”
The words were shaped as a compliment, yet woven with the unmistakable implication that a woman’s worth lay solely in how pleasing she was to the eyes of men.
Fanny, ever composed, responded with flawless, cool politeness. She offered the faintest curtsey, her tone smooth, effortless. “How kind of you, my Lord.”
“With luck, you may soon find yourself in a marriage as favorable as your sister’s.” Blanche inhaled, keeping her expression smooth despite the irritation curling at the edges of her composure.
“One can only hope, Lord Chancellor.” Fanny, to her credit, remained impeccably polite, though Blanche felt the slight shift in her sister’s posture.
Lord Chancellor tilted his head ever so slightly, studying Blanche with the air of someone who enjoyed testing boundaries.
“Tell me, Your Grace,” he drawled, “how ever did you manage to keep your husband away from his usual nocturnal haunts? A remarkable feat, truly.”
Blanche stiffened, a flicker of quiet indignation threading through her veins.
The words were an insult wrapped in veiled curiosity, spoken with a calculated ease that made it clear Lord Chancellor was probing for weakness.
But there was none to be found.
She thought briefly of her conversation with Heath the evening prior. He had been certain—unequivocal in his answer. He had not visited other women, and she believed him.
With perfect grace, she tilted her head, offering a flawless smile sharpened with precision. “My husband has better things to do than indulge in gossip and vice.”
Lord Chancellor regarded Blanche with quiet scrutiny, his gaze edged with something both assessing and defiant—an unspoken attempt to unearth a fracture in her certainty.
“You seem remarkably confident in that assertion,” he remarked in a measured tone, laced with faint challenge.
Blanche merely offered him a composed smile. “That is because I am.” She lifted her chin slightly, poised, unshaken. “You see, Lord Chancellor, though it may be difficult to fathom, not all men are devoted to vice.”
Lord Chancellor hummed lightly, tilting his head in mock consideration. “A bold statement, Your Grace. One, I hope you may continue to attribute to your husband in time. His Grace’s pleasures have, on occasion… raised certain questions.”
Blanche did not falter. “Perhaps,” she allowed, her voice smooth, deliberate. “But a happy marriage may very well be the end of such indulgences. It is an institution you yourself have spoken of with great reverence, Lord Chancellor. I had assumed you carried a little more faith in it.”
Lord Chancellor exhaled lightly, smirking just so. “Faith in the institution does not necessarily extend to faith in men.”
She felt it before she saw it—that quiet, piercing intensity that had settled upon her like an unspoken claim.
When she lifted her gaze, she found Heath watching her from across the ballroom, his blue eyes steady, unreadable, yet thrumming with something unmistakable. And somehow, absurdly, she found strength in him—in that unwavering stare that held her in place, grounding her even as it unsettled her.
Blanche regarded him for a moment before she replied. “Experience has taught me that only men of weak character crumble beneath the weight of challenge. Fortunately, if there is one thing the Duke and I share, it is our strength of character.”
There was finality in the words.
Lord Chancellor studied her for a beat longer than necessary, as if weighing a response. Still, Blanche had already turned away, guiding Fanny with her, ready to make her way toward Heath, who was watching her from across the ballroom.
Fanny exhaled lightly, murmuring under her breath, “What an odious man.”
Blanche hummed, her fingers brushing against the silk of her gown absently. “At least his manners are intact. More than can be said for some.”
Fanny’s lips twitched, and though she said nothing, her glance carried something quietly knowing—something that made Blanche feel as though she had revealed more than she intended.
The faint relief Blanche felt upon escaping Lord Chancellor was short-lived. It barely had time to settle before a voice eclipsed it—pompous, dripping with self-satisfaction—cutting through the air as they strode toward the Duke of Woodrey.
“Lady Blanche.”
Oh, no, not him!
“I meant—Your Grace. It has been far too long,” said Lord Bromley. His voice was thick with exaggerated familiarity. “Our last conversation was… regrettably tense. I would like to rectify that unfortunate misstep. Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”
Blanche inhaled slowly, suppressing the exasperation curling at the edges of her patience.
This ball is brimming with insufferable men!
Blanche had never found Lord Bromley’s insistence charming, and tonight was no exception.
“Surely, Your Grace, you will not refuse me again?” Bromley’s voice was thick with self-satisfaction, his smile practiced, his posture too confident for her liking.
She exhaled, polite yet measured, keeping her composure intact. “Lord Bromley, I—”
“I wish only to reconcile, Your Grace,” he interjected, offering his hand, an unmistakable expectation gleaming in his eyes. “Allow me this dance and let us put past misunderstandings behind us.”
Blanche flicked a glance toward Fanny, who offered the faintest shrug of sympathy.
It was either accept or endure a continued spectacle. So, with a composed sigh, she relinquished her sister’s hand and placed hers into Bromley’s, hoping to escape quickly.
As they stepped onto the dance floor, Blanche kept her movements precise, distanced, careful not to linger longer than absolutely necessary.
“I must admit,” Bromley began, guiding them into a practiced step. “I was most offended when you rejected me, Your Grace.”
Blanche inhaled, praying for patience. “It was nothing personal, I assure you…”
Bromley exhaled in mock consideration. “So I believed at first. But then, I realized it was not I you were rejecting. You were merely… preoccupied with His Grace.”
Her grip tightened imperceptibly against his shoulder. “That is a rather dramatic interpretation, my lord.”
“Not at all,” he declared. “I am a reasonable man, Your Grace. And I do not fault myself for losing to a duke. In fact, I would argue it elevates me.”
Blanche could not decide if the statement was ridiculous or merely insufferable.
Still, Bromley remained unrelenting. “You must introduce me to him, Your Grace.” His smile widened, indulgent and coaxing. “A man in his position surely requires allies. It would be splendid to do business together.”
Blanche fought the urge to step back entirely, swallowing her irritation.
She was about to offer a diplomatic refusal when they were interrupted. “I believe you have wasted enough of Her Grace’s time.”
The words, calm yet edged with quiet authority, sliced through the conversation like a perfectly sharpened blade.
Blanche inhaled sharply. Heath stood beside them.
His presence was effortless, commanding, his blue gaze unwavering, locked entirely on her.
He startled, straightened instinctively, then—recovering—plastered on a grin, eager to appease. “Your Grace,” he drawled. “A pleasure, as always.”
Heath said nothing. His attention never wavered.
Instead, with deliberate ease, he extended his hand toward Blanche, his fingers open, waiting, offering.
The viscount, ever persistent, found his opportunity, flashing a self-satisfied smirk. “I daresay, Your Grace, we are not so different, you and I.”
Heath barely inclined his head. “A regrettable assumption.”
Bromley faltered, but Heath did not allow him the dignity of recovery.
“Nor should you mistake your failed pursuit of my wife as any indication of shared taste.” His words were smooth, controlled, but unmistakably dismissive.
Blanche felt the warmth rise to her cheeks, her pulse thrumming in quiet betrayal.
With a measured breath, she placed her hand in Heath’s, feeling the firm, steady grip of his fingers curling around hers.
Lord Bromley, sensing dismissal, attempted a final pleasantry, but Heath did not offer even the courtesy of a response. Instead, with perfect composure, he guided Blanche away, leaving the man in their wake.
As they stepped through the ballroom, Heath cast a glance at their surroundings—the prying eyes, the eager whispers, the expectation that hung thick in the air.
He turned to her, his lips tilting ever so slightly in a knowing smirk. “Shall we give them what they want, Duchess?”
Blanche inhaled, finding herself momentarily lost in the chiseled elegance of his features—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his dark lashes framed those impossibly blue eyes.
With a quiet, unreadable smile, she placed her free hand lightly upon his shoulder. “Lead the way, Your Grace.”
Every eye followed them. And Blanche—against all better judgment—felt herself surrender to him, if only for this moment.