Chapter 23 #2
She lifted her chin, though the gesture lacked conviction. “I was simply… enjoying the roses.”
He stepped closer, his voice low and amused. “From behind a climbing vine, with narrowed eyes and held breath?”
Her lips parted, indignant—but he was already smiling, just enough to disarm her.
“If you wished to eavesdrop, my dear, you might at least have brought a fan. It would’ve looked more convincing.
He took a single step forward, hands clasped behind his back. “Forgive me if I failed to mention earlier that you look…” He paused, and the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “…utterly breathtaking tonight.”
“You say that as if you’re trying to distract me,” she replied, doing her best not to show how her heart had begun to pulse against her ribs.
“I am.” That startled a breath of laughter from her. She lowered her gaze and smiled.
He offered his hand, and though there was no music in that corner of the garden, the hum of the party behind them provided just enough of a rhythm.
“May I claim a dance now?” he asked, his voice velvet-soft. “Before the orchestra forces me to wrestle for a place in the queue?”
Blanche looked at him—really looked—and the breath caught in her throat.
Gone was the polished veneer the ton so admired, the cold precision of the Duke of Woodrey. What she saw now was the quiet intensity in his gaze, the way his eyes lingered on her mouth, the slight tension in his jaw as though he were holding something back.
A slow, aching heat unfurled in her belly.
She longed for his touch—not the careful brush of fingers at a ballroom or the polite pressure of a husband’s hand, but something deeper. She wanted to feel the weight of his desire, the press of his body against hers, the way his voice might sound if he let go of restraint.
Her pulse quickened. Her skin felt too tight.
“You may,” she said, and slid her hand into his.
Heath’s hand remained steady at her back, his other gently clasping hers as they glided a few steps between the lilacs and lanterns, their breath syncing in slow, quiet measures. She had never felt more seen.
“You’re rather good at this,” she murmured, allowing herself to look up at him through lashes lowered more from habit than shyness.
He met her gaze. “Dancing?”
“No. Appearing entirely unfazed while the world watches.”
“I was unaware we had an audience.”
She smiled. “You always do.”
He did not answer, but the weight of his eyes on her mouth made her heart stutter—just once.
They turned again beneath the arch of ivy. Her skirts brushed his shoes. A single curl slipped loose at her temple. He reached to tuck it back but stopped just short, his fingers hovering for a breath too long.
And then—a sound rippled from the edge of the garden.
It was not loud. A voice, perhaps. Or the sudden stillness of those who heard it. Blanche turned her head to see.
From across the lawn, through the parting of guests and the flicker of lantern light, a figure stepped forward.
He was thinner. His coat was worn. But the shape of his frame, the tilt of his shoulders—the impossible familiarity of him—seized her in place.
The world fell inward.
“Blanche.” His voice cut across the gathering like a bell muffled by velvet.
The world narrowed. She could no longer hear the music or the hum of the ball—only her own breath, ragged and shallow.
“Father,” she whispered.
Heath’s grip on her hand tightened—but gently. “Blanche, wait.” But she was already walking toward him.
She felt the air leave her lungs as if she’d been struck. Her feet moved before she could think—each step muffled by the thick rug, each heartbeat a cannon blast in her chest.
How could he be here?
Her mind scrambled for reason, for logic, for anything that could explain this sudden reappearance, this hallucination wrapped in well-worn evening wear. The same tilt of the chin. The same mouth that had told her—so coldly—that her worth depended on silence and obedience.
She was grateful for the gloves now, if only because they kept her hands from trembling. Or showed him less of it, at least.
She wanted to run to him. To sob into his chest and ask why.
Why he hadn’t written. Why he’d let her believe he was dead.
Why he had left her alone to carry the weight of his shame and ruin, but that desire twisted against a hotter truth—she also wanted to slap him.
To scream. To throw every ache he’d planted inside her back into his face.
How dare he show up now, when I have clawed myself out of the wreckage he left behind?
Her vision blurred at the edges. Rage laced with disbelief. Love corrupted by time. Shame blooming in her chest like an old wound torn open.
The ball had become a stage, and she the unwilling lead in a play she hadn’t auditioned for. She could feel eyes turning—curious, calculating. The prodigal father. The disgraced daughter.
Heath’s warmth was gone from her side, but she still felt the ghost of his hand, anchoring her.
She should have stayed. She should have screamed. She should have collapsed.
But she kept walking, chin high, eyes wide toward the man who had made her. And unmade her.