Chapter 20
Twenty
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
Blanche stood near the landing, her spine straight despite the subtle tension in her hands. She had not slept well, but she would never show it. The quiet unrest of the previous evening still lingered in her chest—like a bruise not yet fully colored.
Heath stopped on the threshold, one gloved hand still resting on the lapel of his coat. The morning light filtering through the high windows struck his profile with an infuriating elegance.
He looked infallible, which only made her feel more foolish.
He was leaving.
He raised a brow, entirely unreadable. “Good morning to you, too, Duchess.”
She said nothing. The air between them stretched taut, filled with all the unsaid things that neither dared to speak aloud.
He removed his gloves slowly, methodically, then looked up again. “If you must know, I did. Very much so.” A pause, then the faintest curl of his mouth. “I always enjoy myself when it comes to you.”
Blanche exhaled, a breath that was far too sharp to be casual. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she replied coolly.
“You asked if I enjoyed myself.” Their eyes met. He stood several paces away, and yet she felt that maddening closeness again—that impossible stillness in his gaze that both unsettled and pulled her toward him.
He stepped forward, unhurried. “Are you asking because you thought I was with someone else last night before coming home to you?” He asked, but it wasn’t a question.
Blanche drew herself up. “Your history, Your Grace, does not exactly lend itself to trust.”
His expression didn’t shift, not quite. But something in his eyes sharpened.
Not anger.
Not even offense.
Amusement, perhaps—but the quiet kind, the kind that came wrapped in challenge.
“Then allow me to offer a rare moment of reassurance,” he whispered. “Last night, I drank more than was wise, lost a round of cards, and resisted Percy’s suggestion to sneak into the kitchens for brandy. I assure you that’s the extent of my scandal. Then I was back here. In the kitchens.”
He paused, gaze steady. “Truth be told, I haven’t been able to think—let alone get close—to another woman since I met you, Duchess.”
Blanche turned her face slightly away, attempting composure—but she hated the warmth in her cheeks, hated that he could still do this, still make her feel childish and exposed. The words fell into silence, softer now. Heath glanced toward the staircase, then back at her.
“It seems we are both very good at being difficult.” Blanche hesitated. Her fingers flexed at her side, restless. “You called me a war last night, but I do not wish to be at war with you,” she admitted, her voice low.
“Then let’s call a truce.” Her eyes narrowed, skeptical.
“Just like that?”
He offered a mild shrug. “We make the rules, wife. We could even mark it with a ball. Something suitably grand to remind society of what we are… together.”
She studied him for a long moment before finally—finally—allowing the faintest ghost of a smile to reach her lips.
“You would host a ball for the sake of appearances?”
“No,” he said lightly, already turning away, “I would host it for your mother. For your sister. For the sake of your name, which deserves to be spoken with admiration—not pity.”
Her smile faltered, but didn’t fade. And if her heart thundered faster at his words, she’d never admit it aloud.
And despite herself, she felt it again—that rush of maddening fondness tangled with irritation, with curiosity, with… everything.
Everything he shouldn’t make me feel.
Blanche did not immediately reply. She remained still, watching him with a cautious gaze, her fingers curling slightly against the silk of her gown. The notion of a ball—gracious, glittering, public—should have felt like an empty gesture. And yet…
“A truce marked by a ball,” she echoed, her voice even. “How very diplomatic of you.”
Heath paused in the doorway. “You disapprove?”
“I did not say that,” she replied, stepping forward. “Only that such affairs rarely remain diplomatic. They reveal far more than one intends.”
He inclined his head slightly, as though conceding the point. “That is rather the charm of them, is it not?”
Her gaze flicked over him—his posture so effortlessly composed, the faintest shadow of amusement at the corner of his mouth. She hated that a part of her was curious. That part of her wanted to see how far this truce would truly reach.
“Very well,” she said, her chin lifting. “Let us have your ball.”
Was that flicker in his eyes—almost too swift to name—pleasure? Approval? She couldn’t be sure.
“But,” she added, stepping just a fraction closer, “if we are to make a spectacle for society’s sake, then perhaps we might extract something worthwhile from it as well.”
Heath’s brow rose. “Meaning?”
“Perhaps someone among your illustrious guests might be inclined to speak about my father,” she said deliberately, softly, but with enough steel to test him.
There was the briefest pause—elegant, calculated. He did not flinch. “If such a thing is possible, then I should think a ball will be an excellent opportunity.”
Their eyes met again, but this time something shifted beneath the surface. The air had changed, thickened—no longer bristling with old wounds, but humming with something warmer, heavier.
Heath moved then, barely a step, but close enough that she could see the faint trace of sleep beneath his eyes, the way morning light caught the golden thread at his collar. His hand brushed against hers—barely a touch, but it struck like a bell beneath her skin.
Her breath stilled.
He said nothing. Neither did she. And yet, in that silence, she felt everything: the heat she didn’t want to feel, the memory of his lips against her skin, the treacherous ache of longing she thought she’d buried.
She turned her face away again, but not before he had seen it—that flicker of vulnerability.
He stepped back.
“I shall speak with the steward,” he whispered, smoothing the sleeve of his coat. “Arrangements will be made.”
It was so calmly spoken, so perfectly mannered, that it almost undid her.
He was already at the door when he paused, glancing over his shoulder.
“Try not to worry, wife. The evening will be everything you wish it to be. Leave it to me.” Then he was gone, and she stood alone in the silence of the hallway, her pulse quickened, and her cheeks flushed.
Her hand still burned from the ghost of his touch. How small her hand looked in his. His smell drew her in. His eyes gripped her.
Her stomach fluttered, traitorous and alive, as if it hadn’t learned the danger of wanting him.
A truce, he had said. But there had been nothing peaceful in the way he looked at her.
He had made war feel so deliciously tempting.