Chapter 17
Seventeen
“Tell me, Wildcat, do you intend to defend my honor with such fervor at every gathering?”
Heath’s voice was low, edged with amusement, barely above a murmur as he guided Blanche onto the dance floor.
Heath hadn’t heard her words, not precisely. The ballroom had been too crowded, too loud, the murmur of voices weaving through the space like an intricate web of influence and scrutiny.
But he hadn’t needed to. Lord Chancellor’s smirk had been telling enough when Heath had passed him moments ago, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he remarked, “Quite the devoted wife you have, Your Grace. It seems she has taken it upon herself to safeguard your reputation.”
Heath had merely lifted a brow, offered the man a measured glance, and continued on his way. But now—watching the faint flush on Blanche’s cheeks, the undeniable flicker of defiance in her eyes—he knew.
She had defended him.
And for reasons he could not yet name, the knowledge settled into his chest with quiet satisfaction.
Blanche inhaled sharply, her eyes lifting to meet his as his fingers curled gently around hers. The ballroom had quieted—subtly, instinctively—as every watchful eye followed their movements.
Yet Heath saw only her.
“And how, exactly, do you know that I have defended you with fervor?” Blanche asked, tilting her chin ever so slightly, her gaze sharp despite the flush dusting her cheeks.
Heath chuckled, slow and knowing, guiding them effortlessly through the waltz. “The evidence is rather damning, Duchess. That charming blush of yours is one indication.”
Blanche exhaled, attempting—rather unsuccessfully—to will the warmth from her skin. “And the other?”
“Lord Chancellor, of course.” He smirked, leaning in just slightly, his voice dipping into something deliberately indulgent. “He seemed quite… amused by your efforts.”
Blanche stiffened, irritation threading through her posture.
“I did not realize I had made such a spectacle,” she murmured, voice steady, though the faint pink that dusted her cheeks betrayed her.
“Oh, but you did,” Heath countered, a smirk tracing the edge of his lips as he led her into the first step of the waltz.
She fit against him perfectly, her presence seamless, her form delicate yet unyielding under his guidance.
“Lord Chancellor was insufferable,” she admitted after a beat, exhaling lightly. “And perhaps I allowed myself to be more…” she hesitated, searching for the word. “Exuberant than necessary.”
Heath hummed in mock consideration. “Exuberant. An interesting choice.”
She shot him a glance—sharp, assessing—though there was no real bite behind it.
Heath chuckled. “Not that I am complaining, mind you. It is quite flattering to have my wife wage battles on my behalf.”
She scoffed lightly. “I merely refuse to let anyone speak ill of you.”
Something flickered in Heath’s chest—unexpected, warm.
He rarely found himself the recipient of such effortless loyalty. And yet, here she was—glorious, defiant, defending him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
He exhaled slowly, allowing himself—for just a moment—to admire her. The soft glow of candlelight kissed her skin, her dark lashes casting delicate shadows against her cheeks.
Her beauty was striking, effortless, but it was her spirit that captivated him.
He smirked. “If that is the case, my dear, then poor Percy shall suffer under your rule.” Blanche laughed—a soft, rich sound that curled at the edges of his restraint.
It was absurd, really.
But I am beginning to enjoy her company more than is wise…
Heath spun Blanche effortlessly through the final steps of the waltz, his grip steady, assured, guiding her with an ease that made it impossible for her not to follow.
Their movements slowed. For a moment—just a moment—they lingered, their gazes meeting, speaking in ways words could not.
There was a quiet understanding in it—an acknowledgment of their differences, their stubborn clashes, their undeniable pull.
She is magnificent… And she is mine.
Heath exhaled lightly, offering his arm. “Shall we depart?”
Blanche hesitated only briefly before slipping her hand into his. “We can’t just leave without paying our respects to the hosts. It’s rude!”
“Just follow me, Duchess.”
The warmth of her fingers curled against his sent an unfamiliar thrill through his veins. Composed as ever, Heath led her through the gathering, pausing only briefly to bid farewell to Lady Gooldwer and Fanny.
Then, they stepped into the night.
The carriage door closed behind them, sealing them into the quiet intimacy of the space.
The ballroom’s distant hum faded into nothing, leaving only the muffled clatter of hooves and the rhythmic creak of wood as the vehicle rolled forward.
Blanche settled into her seat, her hands resting delicately on her lap as she smoothed the fabric of her gown—though Heath did not miss the faint rise and fall of her chest, measured yet unmistakably uneven.
He reclined against the seat opposite her, stretching his legs in slow, deliberate ease, watching as the candlelit glow flickered over her features.
“Where are we going then?”
“You’ll see.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, Heath smirked, his voice edged with amusement. “It is rather curious, Duchess.”
Blanche flicked a glance toward him, her brow arching slightly. “What is?”
Heath exhaled lightly, resting an elbow against the frame of the carriage. “How I spent most of the evening watching other men relentlessly pursue you.”
Blanche scoffed, rolling her eyes as she straightened her gloves. “You exaggerate, Your Grace.”
“Do I?” Heath mused, tilting his head, studying her with deliberate ease. She met his gaze then, her expression carefully neutral—though the faint pink that dusted her cheeks did not escape his notice.
He smirked. “It is fortunate, then, that you are unbothered by such attention.”
Blanche inhaled lightly, her posture immaculate, but there was something in the way she lingered before responding—something in the way her fingers curled against the lace of her gown as if grasping for composure.
Heath leaned in ever so slightly, his voice dipping into something smoother, quieter.
“You know what? I think it’s about time. The world should know, Blanche.”
Her breath hitched, her pulse thrumming against the quiet restraint she fought so fiercely to maintain. “Know what?” she asked, though the answer was clear before he spoke it.
Heath’s smirk deepened, wicked and deliberate, his voice a mere breath above the hush of the carriage. “That the Duchess is mine.”
The words settled between them, a statement wrapped in the weight of something unspoken, something undeniable.
And in the flickering glow of the carriage, Blanche felt herself fighting a losing battle against the inevitable.
She should have had a reply.
She should have scoffed, should have met his challenge with that well-practiced composure she had carried through the evening.
But she said nothing.
Because Heath was watching her—watching her in a way that made the air feel heavier, that made the flickering candlelight seem warmer against her skin.
“I need other men to understand,” Heath murmured, his voice dipping lower, edged with something both possessive and teasing.
Blanche inhaled sharply, her fingers curling against her lap, betraying her restraint. The carriage swayed gently, the space between them narrowing—not because she moved, but because Heath did.
“To understand what, exactly?” she asked, the words barely above a whisper, though she already knew the answer.
Heath exhaled, slow and deliberate, his gaze steady, unwavering. “That they must not touch what is mine.”
And then—before she could argue, before she could find a sharp retort, he kissed her.
It was not demanding. It was not rushed. It was deliberate. Measured. And entirely, devastatingly consuming.
His lips met hers with a devouring tenacity. Their need was expressed through that all-consuming kiss.
Through their touch, Blanche could feel the hunger that the Duke had struggled to contain for weeks. It was the same hunger that tormented her, and perhaps that was why she gave in so easily.
Her mouth opened for him in the midst of a delicious prelude, and her hands clung to the back of his neck as he drew her slowly closer to his body.
His hands moved up to her hips, clutching her against him in a way that seemed to affirm what his mouth had declared earlier. She belonged to him. And there was nothing she could or would do to change that.
The carriage swayed gently, the rhythm of the road a quiet backdrop to the unspoken energy between them.
Heath, ever serene, watched her between the pauses of each kiss, with that same unreadable amusement—the kind that unsettled her as much as it intrigued her.
“You are quiet, Wildcat.” His voice was low, teasing against the soft skin of her neck, edged with something knowingly indulgent. “You’ve had your tongue eaten out?”
Clearly, he was making fun of her.
Before she could respond, the Duke brought his lips close to hers. His tongue tasted hers before his teeth gently bit her lower lip, making Blanche let out a slight, desire-laden moan.
“Perhaps I am simply contemplating all the ways you have vexed me tonight,” she replied between moans, feeling Heath’s laughter flow deliciously from her lips. The Duke’s warm breath mingled with hers, making her skin crawl.
She had never wanted a man so badly, nor had she ever wanted to make a man want her so badly. But desire won by far this time. For only this night, at least.
“I shall take that as an admission that I have occupied your thoughts.”
She shot him a glance, sharp and assessing, though it lacked its usual bite.
As he spoke, his hands slid deliciously down her body. Blanche felt that familiar tension welling up in her lower belly, making the spot between her thighs burn with desire.
She wanted him to explore and touch her.
“Do not flatter yourself,” she whispered, tilting his head to give Heath better access to her neck.
The Duke’s mouth ran soft bites along her jaw and down to her shoulders.