Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
“Absolutely not that shade of red,” Blanche said, her voice cool as she eyed the bolt of silk with faint disapproval. “I intend to host a ball, Fanny, not a masquerade at Vauxhall.”
Chuckling, Fanny looked at her older sister with a mixture of mischief and tenderness. “Someone’s… on edge.”
Blanche scoffed and rolled her eyes.
It had been her mother’s idea—rather enthusiastically—that they dedicate the morning to selecting fabric for the gown Blanche would wear. “A Duchess cannot host a proper ball without silk, lace, and a touch of triumph,” Lady Gooldwer had proclaimed.
Blanche, cornered by maternal enthusiasm and Fanny’s eagerness, had surrendered to the plan with as much dignity as possible, grateful as she was that, at least, her mother was busy enough that morning to be unable to accompany her daughters, allowing the two sisters to share a pleasant moment alone.
But Fanny’s pointed questioning was wearing on her very last nerve.
Now, the sun filtered gently through the high windows of the Ashbourne Sewing Room, illuminating bolts of fabric, sample trims, and a pair of discarded bonnets that Fanny had refused to take seriously.
The morning was quiet but charged, threaded with the subtle tension of anticipation and change—both in the air and within Blanche herself.
Fanny, unfazed as ever, tilted her head and held the fabric to the light. “But imagine the dramatics, dearest. If His Grace is to parade you about in front of half the ton, should he not first suffer a small pang of regret for not having wooed you properly?”
Blanche turned from the mirror with a look meant to chastise, but Fanny caught the ghost of amusement that played about her mouth before she could hide it.
“Don’t be absurd,” Blanche said. “The Duke does not need dramatics, and I do not need his regrets.”
“Hm,” Fanny murmured, glancing back at the array of trims. “And yet, you allow him to leave books on your night table without complaint.”
Blanche stilled.
For her, finding that gift had been somewhat of a surprise. It had been a small volume of poetry—Tennyson, annotated faintly in pencil on the margins.
She had found it that morning, just beneath the corner of her handkerchief, its leather spine warm from the sun. He hadn’t mentioned it, of course. Heath never did. But she had not returned it either.
Now, part of her wondered if perhaps that gift was part of the truce the Duke had proposed after their last fight.
They always talked about the books she liked to read, but she suspected that he had given her that gift with the intention of letting her get to know his tastes a little better.
Of course, she had mentioned her suspicions to her sister, which now seemed like a mistake, as Fanny kept bothering her about it.
“I’m simply being civil,” she said, recovering her thread and needle with impeccable calm. “That’s more than can be said for most marriages of convenience.”
Fanny arched a brow. “Mm, yes. And it’s certainly civil to flush whenever he enters the room.”
Blanche’s finger caught on an errant pin holding a brilliant blue fabric bolt together. She swore under her breath and abandoned the search altogether.
Fanny bit back a grin, leaned over, and selected a pale blue silk with delicate gold thread along the edge. “This one. It’s refined. And yet…” she angled it toward the light. “…provocative. Just enough to make one wonder.”
Blanche eyed her sister with long-suffering patience but said nothing as Fanny laid the fabric gently across her lap.
Fanny was tidying a line of ribbons when she launched her next volley with studied nonchalance. “You ought to tell him you appreciated the book.”
Blanche, still holding the pale blue fabric in her hands, did not lift her gaze. “He probably already knows.”
“That’s hardly the same as hearing it.” Fanny turned, her eyes bright and kind. “Besides, if you’re to host a ball together, it might help if the two of you were speaking.”
A soft sigh slipped from Blanche’s lips. She set the fabric carefully on the chair beside her.
“There was an argument,” she said in a low voice.
Fanny, who had clearly been waiting for precisely such a moment, seated herself across from her sister with quiet grace, her expression attentive but patient.
“It was a few nights ago,” Blanche went on, her eyes drifting toward the tall windows and the light beyond. “About Father. About… Heath thinks I cling to a memory unworthy of defense.”
Fanny didn’t respond right away. Instead, she reached out and gently took Blanche’s hand. “Do you?”
Blanche blinked. “What?”
“Do you cling to it,” Fanny said softly, “because it brings you comfort? Or because you’re afraid to admit you’ve begun to trust someone else?”
The silence that followed deepened, though it was not uncomfortable. Blanche pressed her lips together, something catching just beneath her collarbone.
“Heath doesn’t understand,” she murmured. “He is too composed, too rational. To him, absence equates abandonment. But to me… not knowing is far worse than being hurt.”
Fanny gave a slow nod. Blanche looked down at their joined hands, and for the first time in days, she found herself without an answer.
“Do you miss him?” Fanny asked, though they both knew she did not mean their father.
Blanche did not deny it. She only said, “He frustrates me. He confuses me.”
Fanny’s smile was faint, but no less sincere. “All the best men do.”
They laughed—softly, gently—as if unraveling a portion of the tension sewn between them. When Fanny rose to leave, she placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder.
“Think on it, Blanche. Not the ball. What follows.”
When the room fell quiet once more, Blanche returned to the mirror. Her reflection met her with a gaze softer than before. Her eyes dropped to the blue silk in her lap and the threads of gold that shimmered in the midday light.
“This is merely for appearances,” she whispered to no one.
And yet, even in her own voice, the words did not sound true.
The interior of the small cottage smelled faintly of burned wood and aging paper.
It was a narrow place—spartan, poorly lit, the home a man vanished into rather than lived in.
Lord Gooldwer motioned toward a low-backed chair beside the hearth and gestured to a bottle resting atop a chipped sideboard.
“Brandy,” he offered, already pouring two uneven measures. “It’s not the type you usually enjoy, Your Grace, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not here for your hospitality,” Heath replied flatly, accepting the glass without gratitude.
Gooldwer’s smile—thin and wry—did not quite reach his eyes. “No, I suppose you’re not.”
The brandy was rough on the tongue, cheaply distilled, but Heath drank it without comment.
The fire in the grate crackled low, casting long shadows up the stonework walls.
Across from him, Gooldwer settled into a worn armchair, his posture slightly hunched, as though bowed more by thought than time.
“How are Blanche and Fanny?” he asked at length, the names tasting cautious.
“Well,” Heath replied. “They’re strong-willed, spirited.”
Gooldwer huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “That sounds like them.”
Heath said nothing.
Footsteps sounded behind them—bare, light. A woman emerged from the adjoining room, her dark hair pulled back, hands still damp from washing. She paused in the doorway as her eyes found Heath.
Her presence was unceremonious, stripped of pretense. Not beautiful in the way that ignited scandal, but plain and capable, with a steadiness that had likely once seemed alluring to a man desperate for escape.
“Clara, this is—” Gooldwer began.
“I know,” she interrupted softly, looking to Heath. “You’re the Duke of Woodrey. I’ve seen you at the Red Velvet—”
He shook his head. “Enough.”
The woman’s expression was unreadable—neither defensive nor remorseful, only… resigned.
She murmured something about finishing supper and withdrew, her presence lingering like dust in a forgotten room.
Gooldwer didn’t look up as he spoke. “It wasn’t meant to last, you know.
The comforts. What money I had ran thinner than I expected.
” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “And now I find myself at the edge of town, in a borrowed house, in sheer disbelief that fortune could be so consistently unkind.”
You abandoned them. The words sat bitterly on Heath’s tongue.
“I was never suited for fatherhood,” Gooldwer continued. “My marriage was…” He paused. “Let us say, dutiful. Passionless. I left because I thought—perhaps selfishly—that it would be better for everyone.”
Heath’s jaw tightened.
Better for whom? For Blanche, who pawned jewelry to keep up appearances? Who still scans doorways half expecting a ghost?
“Bold words for a man who took every last penny of his daughters’ dowries.”
The weight of Heath’s accusation fell on Gooldwer like a bucket of cold water, and finally, Heath could see in his face what he had been waiting to see: guilt, shame for his actions.
He set the glass down carefully on the side table.
“If you expect absolution,” Heath said coldly, setting the half-empty glass aside. “I cannot offer it. What Blanche chooses to grant will be hers alone.”
Gooldwer gave a slow nod, though his gaze remained fixed on the hearth. “I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said after a pause. “I’m not sure I’d know what to do with it.”
“I don’t think you deserve it either, not after all that you have done. But your daughters deserve an answer. Blanche deserves to know the truth.”
“I… I’ve tried. Many times.” Gooldwer fidgeted nervously with his fingers. Shame prevented him from looking Heath in the eye. “I’ve written many letters to them, but I can never find the courage to send them.”
“Well, this time you will.” Heath stood, retrieving his gloves from the edge of the sideboard. “You’ll write to her.”
“I… I will. At least I’ll try,” Gooldwer rose as well, though more slowly, as though the very idea burdened him. “But please, Your Grace, tell her nothing yet—not until I’ve found the words. But in the meantime…”
Heath turned to face him fully.
“I will need funds.”
Heath withdrew a note from his coat pocket and placed it neatly on the table between them. “Enough to last the Season.”
He wasn’t surprised. He knew full well that Lord Gooldwer wouldn’t write to Blanche unless there was something in it for him.
A man like him wasn’t motivated by love, but by leverage. It was always selfish interests that drove him.
Gooldwer reached for the note, fingers twitching. “I’ll write to her. If she wants to speak, I’ll be here.”
“See that you are,” Heath said coldly. “Not for your sake. For hers.”
Silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.
Lord Gooldwer’s hands curled slightly at his sides. “She won’t want to see me. Not truly. Not after what I’ve done.”
Heath’s gaze hardened. “Then you truly do not know her at all.”
The words struck like steel, stripped of courtesy.
Lord Gooldwer said nothing.
Heath stepped toward the door, voice lower now, but edged with something undeniable. “She is not the girl you left behind. She is sharp. Unyielding. And she no longer waits for anyone to come save her.”
He paused at the threshold, the wind outside rattling the bare branches beyond the glass.
“What you did left her in ruins. Your entire family. Your daughters’ reputations. What she has become after that—that is entirely hers.”
He did not look back as he stepped out into the night. The wind bit at his coat, but the fire that burned beneath his ribs was hotter still.
The letter would come.
But the reckoning had already begun.