Chapter 19
Nineteen
“Trouble in heaven?”
The words greeted Heath the moment he stepped inside, the familiar drawl laced with amusement as Percy leaned lazily against the doorway, a half-empty glass of whiskey dangling between his fingers.
Heath huffed a quiet breath, unfastening the buttons of his coat with slow precision, more out of habit than necessity. The lingering weight of the evening settled over him—heavy, frustrating, something he had yet to name.
“If that’s what we’re calling it.”
Percy tapped a finger against the rim of his glass. “Tell me, do you regret this charming little scheme of yours? The one where you decided to irritate half the House of Lords by marrying the first woman who looked vaguely suitable?”
Heath scoffed. “It was not merely out of spite. You know it.”
“No?” Percy arched a brow. “Then pray, enlighten me.”
Heath swirled the whiskey absently, watching the way the liquid caught the candlelight. “I have never wanted to waste my life drowning in excess. Balls, scandals, pointless affairs—it is all nonsense. I wanted…” He hesitated, then exhaled. “Something more, I guess.”
Percy studied him for a moment, smirking. “Something more. And has marriage granted you this elusive fulfillment?”
Heath leaned back, shaking his head. “I don’t know if it has. But I know the plan itself matters less now than it did before.”
Percy barked a laugh. “God help me, you are growing sentimental.”
Heath scoffed, taking a slow sip. “Hardly.”
Percy’s grin widened. “And yet, here you are, contemplating your choices as though they were some grand philosophical dilemma.”
Heath rolled his eyes. “I do not spend my nights drowning in whiskey anymore, Percy.” He shot him a pointed look. “Perhaps you ought to consider doing the same.”
Percy chuckled, sipping his drink. “Ah, now you’re lecturing me.”
Heath smirked. “I am serious.”
Percy sighed dramatically, swirling his drink with exaggerated amusement. “I am perfectly content with my life as it is.”
Heath studied him for a long moment. “Your contentment is debatable.”
Percy huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he lazily swirled the whiskey in his glass. “You’re climbing atop your moral high horse rather suddenly, aren’t you?”
Heath exhaled, leaning back in his chair, his fingers curling absently around the rim of his drink. “Perhaps I have simply come to my senses.”
Percy smirked, taking a slow sip before tilting his head. “Come to your senses, have you? And what, precisely, inspired such a revelation? Surely not matrimony.”
Heath chuckled under his breath, but there was something thoughtful in the gesture, something measured. “I have spent years indulging in meaningless excess. At some point, a man must wonder whether it has any merit at all.”
Percy arched a brow, though something was flickering beneath his usual amusement—something unreadable. “And yet, of all men, you should understand why I drink.”
A beat, a pause just heavy enough to linger.
Heath studied him for a moment, his eyes sharp but steady. “A woman abandoning you doesn’t excuse your laziness, Percy.”
The humor in Percy’s expression dulled, not absent but edged now with something more restrained, more careful.
He scoffed, exhaling through his nose as he leaned further back. “Can’t argue with that.”
Then, with mock contemplation, he added, “You know if I did not find your wife so tolerable, I would return her husband with a fine bruise across his jaw for that remark.”
Heath chuckled, shaking his head. “She would probably thank you for it.”
Percy hummed, watching Heath over the rim of his glass. “Though, I wonder if she would have accepted your charming proposal so readily if that rake of a father of hers hadn’t mysteriously vanished.”
The air shifted between them after that statement, not drastically, but enough.
Heath’s grip on his drink tightened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. “Rake or not, he’s still her father. And he’s still alive—supposedly.” A pause. “He owes her an explanation.”
Percy tilted his head, studying him. “That almost sounded like concern, Your Grace.”
Heath exhaled through his nose, settling his glass onto the table with deliberate ease. “She is defending a man who may very well have vanished without a thought for the consequences.”
Percy hummed, amusement flickering beneath his scrutiny. “A man who, according to the pretty ladies of Velvet Rose, slipped away in the dead of night—with questionable company, no less.”
“What have you heard? Is there more?”
Percy leaned back in his chair and beckoned a girl over with a flick of his fingers. “Apparently, this one spent a fair amount of time in the man’s company.”
“What do you know?” said Heath, emphasizing each word.
“Let me bring her over for you.”
She was short, her assets swollen and proudly on display, and something about her left a wake of turning heads. “Meet Marta. She’s what some might call a… prodigy,” Percy said.
“Your Grace. I see you’ve brought along a friend. Will it be both of you tonight, then?”
Heath cringed at the sound of her voice.
“My friend here might have a few shillings for you,” Percy crooned, but gently pushed her over to the chair next to Heath. He stood then, shaking his glass. “I’ll return for you shortly, Marta. Don’t forget about me.”
“I would never,” she mewed, and blew him a kiss before squaring her shoulders to Heath. “So, what would you like to know?”
“What can you tell me about these rumors about the Earl of Gooldwer?” Heath slid a stack of coins toward the woman, which she eyed with satisfaction.
“Just what everyone knows, really. He left with a woman.”
“Come now, that coin here is worth more than what you’ve just told me. Out with it, woman.”
The girl’s eyes went wide, now quite acquainted with who, exactly, Heath was. “I—he used to bring her books and trinkets and always called her ‘my darling’. She would tell us he was going to choose her over his ghastly wife.”
“What else?” Heath said, setting another silver piece on the table, but keeping his finger on it. “I need a name.”
“I only know her first name. Clara, was it?”
Heath slid the coin back toward him.
“No! Wait! And… And! She said Richmond Park. That they always talked about it.”
Blanche mentioned Richmond Park…
Percy’s undeniable laugh preceded him as his friend stalked toward their table.
Heath’s jaw tightened imperceptibly as he pulled another stack of coins from his pocket and slid them across the table toward her. “I’ve paid you for this information. It is no longer yours to share. Understood?”
“Yes,” Marta said sharply, almost as if she was getting aroused by his firm nature, but Heath was presently annoyed by her and waved her away.
She gathered the coin without another word and scurried away.
“Oh! Oh! Marta! Come back, dear—” Percy smiled, almost knowingly, but sighed dramatically anyway. “Look what you’ve done now.”
“Enough of that—sit, man. Sit.”
Percy slowly lowered himself into the chair across Heath once more and swirled the contents of his glass. “So?”
“He must be in Richmond Park…”
Percy chuckled, shaking his head. “How can you know for sure?”
Heath exhaled through his nose, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Never mind that. I know what I know, now. And she will still refuse to believe her father has abandoned them if I share this with her… even if it’s damning information.”
Percy reached for his own drink. “Tell me, Heath, what exactly troubles you more? The fact that she refuses to see the truth, or the fact that you are the one who has to deliver it?”
Heath did not answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows resting against his knees. “I can’t tell her about this until I know for sure. I need to find him myself.”
Percy chuckled, shaking his head. “You do realize, Heath, that this is not your problem to solve?”
Heath narrowed his eyes. “She’s my wife. Her problem is my problem.”
“But she’s made it clear that it’s not a problem for her. She’s content with the situation.”
“She deserves the truth,” Heath said, his voice rising slightly.
Hours passed in silence before he decided to leave. Percy departed long before with the twins on either arm, leading them upstairs.
The clock in the hallway of Woodrey House struck two.
Heath was leaning against the cold stone of the kitchen hearth, brandy in hand, brooding and wide awake. The damn place creaked like it was haunted, or maybe he just was.
Then the door swung open, and there she was.
Barefoot, wrapped in a shawl, curls a bit of a mess—and entirely too tempting for two in the bloody morning.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t take you for a midnight marauder.”
Blanche blinked, her eyes adjusting to the low light. “I could say the same. Or are you always lurking around kitchens like a specter?”
Heath chuckled. “Only when haunted by bad decisions and worse women. Which one are you tonight?”
She padded toward the hearth with the poise of a woman fully in control—and fully aware she was being watched. “You’ll have to narrow it down. Am I the bad decision, or the worst woman?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he poured another glass and slid it toward her.
She ignored it. “Brandy at this hour? Something troubling you, Your Grace?”
He leaned in, his voice low. “Only the fact that you still flinch every time we’re in the same room for more than ten seconds.”
She smiled, but it was all teeth. “I don’t flinch. I pace myself.”
“Why? Afraid you’ll wear me out?”
Her eyes glittered. “You’re assuming you can keep up.”
Heath set down his glass, closing the space between them in two strides. “Darling, if I ever got my hands on you again, we’d see who begs first.”
Blanche’s smile didn’t falter, but her breath caught. Barely. He saw it.
She tilted her head, maddeningly calm. “Is that why you’ve been sulking around brothels instead of your own wife’s bed?”
So she knew. Or guessed.
“I go where the answers are,” he said. “You, of all people, should understand strategy.”
She arched a brow. “And kissing me senseless in the corridor last week—what part of the strategy was that? Diversion tactics?”
He stepped closer, almost flush against her now. “No, that was weakness. Mine.”
Her gaze flicked to his mouth. “You don’t seem particularly weak now.”
He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He let the tension stretch until it nearly snapped.
Then he whispered, “Say the word, Blanche, and I’ll ruin you right here on this prep table.”
She gave a quiet laugh, stepping back just enough to be infuriating. “Such gallantry. You really do know how to woo a girl.”
“Who said anything about wooing?”
She met his eyes. No fear. No blushes. Just that infuriating confidence.
“I’m not a prize to be won, Heath.”
He closed the gap once more, voice ragged. “You’re not a prize. You’re a war.”
Then—finally—he kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was months of hunger, resentment, and heat igniting like a match to oil. She kissed him back with equal fire, her fingers digging into his shirt, his hands claiming her waist, her hips, her throat like she belonged to him—and always had.
She gasped when he lifted her onto the table, and he groaned against her mouth.
But before it could spiral, she pulled back just enough.
“Still think I’ll beg first?”
He grinned, panting. “You’ll beg. But not tonight.”
Her legs slid from around his waist. She smoothed her shawl, eyes wicked.
“Then goodnight, Your Grace.”
He didn’t try to stop her.
But when she reached the door, he said, “You’ll dream of this. I will, too.”
She didn’t look back. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
But he heard the smile in her voice.