Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Another night, Heath could not sleep. The house was quiet at that hour—too quiet. Even the wind outside seemed to hush itself, as if unwilling to disturb the weight of the night.
Heath moved through the darkened corridor with practiced steps, the candle in his hand casting long, flickering shadows against the paneled walls.
He pushed open the door to the sitting room, expecting solitude.
Instead, he found Blanche.
She sat by the hearth, feet curled underneath her, wrapped in a shawl, her hair loose around her shoulders.
She turned, startled. “I…” Her voice caught. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Nor I,” he whispered, setting the candle down. “Seems the house conspires against rest.”
Softly, Blanche sighed. “I’m tired, Heath.”
He frowned. “You should rest.”
“No,” she whispered as she stood. “Not that kind of tired. I’m tired of pretending. Of holding back. Of acting as if I don’t feel what I feel every time you walk into a room.”
He felt the words like a blow and a balm all at once. His chest tightened.
“Blanche, where is this coming from?”
“I know it’s foolish,” she went on, her voice trembling. “I know we’ve fought and hurt each other and made a mess of everything. But I miss you. Even when you’re standing right in front of me, I miss you.”
He reached for her before he could stop himself, his hand brushing her cheek. “You’re not the only one who’s tired,” he said. “I’ve tried to stay away. To be sensible. But I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re always on my mind.”
She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes.
“It’ll pass,” she said, and the corners of her lips tugged upward.
His hand dropped, and he rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Blanche, you drive me crazy. I thought—”
She rose to her tiptoes then, and he pressed his lips against hers firmly. Her arms snaked around his neck and tugged on the hair at the base of his neck, which made him growl into her mouth with need.
Heath’s hands found the bottoms of her thighs, and he lifted her off the ground, pulling her legs around his waist. “My, my, little Wildcat. Careful, or I’ll think you just want me for my body.”
“I’m your wife.”
“That you are,” he said as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth.
“Are you ready to beg for it, wife?” he asked, while trailing his tongue the length of her neck up to her earlobe and nibbling softly on it.
“Do I have to?”
She was in nothing but her nightgown. Her nipples were hard against his chest, and his mouth watered to taste them. His resolve wavered. His core twisted and knotted impossibly tight.
She wants it. Just say you want it, woman. Say it!
“Come on, Wildcat. You know you want this. You want me. Just ask.”
“I’d sooner drown in a barrel of wine than give in to you,” she hissed, but tugged on his hair again, and his jaw slackened as a thrill went through his entire body.
“Drown, you say?”
Blanche’s eyes widened suspiciously, and Heath smirked deviously before he threw her down on the couch behind him, falling to his knees between her thighs.
“Oh—” she sighed as she helped him lift the hem of her skirts.
Something inside his chest vibrated possessively as he saw the glint of moisture between her legs, and his chin dipped. “Mine.”
“Yours. Oh, Heath—yes, yours.”
“That’s right, wife. You are mine. Now, let me clean you up. Just say the words.”
Fire flashed across her hazed vision. Her grip tightened desperately on his shoulder, her nails piercing his skin with a sharp bite.
“Do it,” she demanded.
“Ask me nicely,” he said, his head lowering slowly, hovering just above his target. His groin strained painfully as he inhaled her sweet scent.
“Argh!” she growled and used her legs to push him away, shoving her skirts to the floor as she stood wildly. “Damn you!”
“Wife,” he said, standing just as quickly as she had, his hand firmly on the back of her neck, holding her in place as his fingers easily lifted her skirt and found her arousal.
“You will come to reckon that, when I say I will do something, I will see it through. What kind of man would I be if I let, even the most irresistible woman in the world, tempt me to stray from keeping my word?”
“Damn you, Heath,” she said through gritted teeth, but her hands gripped tightly on his forearms, giving her away.
“Damn me all you wish. It’s your right,” he said, his fingers punishing her as they pulsed in and out, wet with her desire.
“You will beg for me to find your deepest spot in your core and push right past it, over, and over, and over again.” His fingers pushed into her with each syllable, and her jaw went slack, gasping for air.
“Heath…” she stuttered.
“I can make you feel so good. You know I can. Only I can. Ask, woman. Ask!”
Her mouth closed and her chin set as he stroked her in teasingly soft circles. “You’re such a brute,” she said and shoved him back with all of her strength before storming out of the sitting room, letting the door slam behind her loudly.
Heath brought his finger to his lips and sucked them clean before adjusting his breeches and pouring himself a tall glass of whiskey.
Definitely won’t help with trying to sleep tonight.
He remained in the sitting room, in and out of unrestful slumber. As night gave way to morning, the early songbirds punctuated the silence almost as loudly as the front door had slammed shut.
Wonder if she found the book I left her… He had snuck into her room a few hours after their encounter in the sitting room, and left it for her as a gift.
It’s time to act.
Heath was in Richmond Park.
The wind had a bite, sharp and damp, as he passed the edge of the parkland. He met a contact there—a former soldier-turned-stable master who owed him a favor. The man pointed him west, toward a row of cottages hidden by thickets and low stone walls.
“That one,” the man had said, jerking his chin toward the smallest dwelling. “He’s been seen at the market, but never speaks to anyone. Pays in coin, always silver. Keeps to himself, like he’s hiding from his name.”
Now, Heath stood before it.
The cottage was unremarkable. Ivy had taken root around the windows, and a cracked teacup held the door ajar. The scent of burned coal lingered faintly, clinging to the damp air.
For a long breath, Heath simply stared. This was the end of every hushed conversation and unsent letter. This was the man who had vanished and left shadows in Blanche’s eyes.
He knocked. A long pause, then, slow steps inside were heard.
The door opened with the reluctant creak of age, revealing a man gaunt from silence rather than illness. His beard was streaked with gray, his shirt wrinkled and hastily buttoned. He squinted into the light as though emerging from a long, unspoken winter.
“Yes?” The man looked him up and down, probably trying to hide his surprise at receiving such a distinguished gentleman at such a humble abode. “What can I do for you?”
Heath removed his hat. “I’m here regarding Vincent Waldron, Earl of Gooldwer.”
The man froze.
“Who—who are you?” he asked, voice roughened by disuse.
“Heath Savery,” came the calm reply. “The Duke of Woodrey.”
“A Duke?” Gooldwer looked puzzled. “And what urgent business could Your Grace possibly have with him?”
“I am the husband of his daughter, Blanche,” Heath clarified, noticing the surprise on the man’s face.
He was so obviously Blanche’s father, even though he never said so. Her eyes were his eyes. And the high cheekbones as well. Not to mention the auburn hair.
Gooldwer’s brow lifted—first with confusion, then with something closer to incredulous amusement. “A duke,” he murmured. “So it’s true, then. I’d heard whispers, but I didn’t quite believe she’d gone and married one.”
He found not even a single flicker of guilt in the man’s features. Only fatigue. And that absence struck a nerve. Blanche had clung to the memory of her father like a lifeline. She deserved a protector, not a man who had folded himself into anonymity.
“Yes,” Heath said at last, his voice even but clipped. “Though it was hardly a match made in drawing-room perfection. But she is my wife now. And more to the point, she is your daughter. One who has not stopped searching for you.”
Gooldwer stepped back. His face had gone pale, the color drained beneath the weight of reality. “I thought… I assumed she’d made peace with it by now. With my absence. That she’d…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“She hasn’t,” Heath said. “She lies awake, wondering whether you’re dead or simply uninterested. She asks questions she never deserved to carry.”
He took a step forward, not aggressive, but firm. “She needs to know why. She deserves to know why you left them.”
Gooldwer looked away, out toward the smoke-dark horizon, and for the first time, he seemed less a ghost and more a man still tethered to a life he had abandoned.
“I never meant to disappear,” he murmured.
Heath’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you did.”
The man said nothing.
Heath straightened, the authority of his station quiet but undeniable. “She deserves more than riddles. You will write to her. Or speak to her. But the time for silence has ended.”
Still, Gooldwer hesitated.
Until Heath added—softly, but with razor-sharp purpose, “Whatever you fled from, I’ll find it. Whether you help me or not.”
The threat wasn’t cruel, and Heath knew without a doubt that Gooldwer, looking him straight in the eye, understood two truths that were latent between them in that moment.
First, that his daughter was no longer alone.
And second, that his past was no longer buried.