Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
“Your Grace, forgive the hour, but I must inform you that there’s been a disturbance at the Earl’s Gooldwer estate.”
The words struck Heath like a glass of cold water dashed across his chest.
He was already awake. Had never properly gone to sleep, if truth be told.
Woodrey House was barely stirring, the halls still cocooned in that ghostly quiet particular to early morning—the kind that clung to polished surfaces and drifted in like fog around silence that had lasted too long.
Heath stood near the tall window of his bedchamber, sleeves rolled, cravat half-knotted, staring out at a sky the color of ash. Behind him, the hearth had burned to embers. The house still smelled faintly of wax and old smoke.
He turned at once. “What sort of disturbance?”
His valet hesitated in the doorway. “It came through one of the grooms, sir. From the Earl’s household staff. Something about… an argument. Loud. The Earl left the house shortly after. The servants say Lady Blanche was seen crying in the drawing room.”
The breath he’d been holding escaped—sharper than intended.
She’s not all right.
He moved quickly now, crossing the room in three purposeful strides. “Wake Jarvis. Tell him I want the traveling coach readied immediately.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And send a footman ahead if you must. Let the Gooldwer staff know I’m en route. This is not a courtesy call.”
The man bowed and vanished. Heath pulled on his coat with practiced, jerking movements. His gloves were on before the mirror caught the storm building in his eyes.
To hell with dignity.
To hell with careful distance and reasonable delays.
She’d walked away from him with a wound in her chest and forgiveness on her lips, and he’d let her go with both hands folded.
Not again.
The drawing room smelled of bergamot and faint ash.
Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked too loudly. Outside, the garden stretched into pale light, brittle with morning dew and half-hearted birdcalls.
Blanche sat curled on the settee in her night-robe, legs tucked beneath her, a cup of tea warming her palms. Fanny was sprawled beside her, her blanket still tangled about her shoulders like a traveling cloak from some childhood story.
Neither of them had slept much.
“I keep thinking that if Heath hadn’t…” She trailed off.
Fanny turned her head. “Hadn’t what?”
“Hadn’t taught me what it means to confront something—someone—with clarity. With care. I don’t know if I’d have stood up to Papa.” She swallowed, then smiled bitterly. “I might’ve poured him brandy and let him pawn the silver.”
Fanny snorted. “He’d have had to pry it from mother’s crypt.”
Blanche smiled. “Heath didn’t just protect me, you know. He trusted me. Gave me space to decide who I wanted to be. Even when it hurt.”
Fanny nudged her shoulder. “I’d say you’re rather heroic, sister mine.”
Blanche blinked back the sting behind her eyes.
“I don’t feel heroic.”
“You don’t have to,” Fanny murmured. “You just have to keep being the one who shows up.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
The fine china clinked faintly as Blanche set her cup down.
Her gaze lingered for a long moment on her younger sister’s face. Fanny was an innocent, sweet girl. Above all, Blanche wanted to spare her from suffering the same predicaments, the same worries that she had endured.
“I’ll always look after you,” she said, her voice thick. “No matter what. You know that, right? Whether I’m in Woodrey, or Scotland, or the moon.”
Fanny rolled her eyes, smiling. “I know.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I do. You’ve been doing it all along.” At that, Blanche laughed. A little tear slid down her cheek and disappeared into the fold of her robe before either of them acknowledged it.
“Oh, what fresh sentimentality is this?” Her mother swept into the room with the self-importance of a court herald flanked by two pugs and the scent of rosewater.
One of the pugs immediately leaped onto the sofa, flattening herself across Fanny’s lap. The other one barked once, then sneezed indignantly into Blanche’s tea tray.
Her mother sniffed. “You’d think someone had died from the looks of you. Or worse, written verse.”
Blanche tilted her head, smiling faintly. “We were merely being honest.”
“Well, stop it. It’ll make the curtains wilt.” But her tone had softened, and when she glanced between her daughters, something unspoken passed beneath her lashes. “I heard what you said,” she added. “About caring for your sister. About… everything.”
The pugs yipped, but her mother ignored them.
“That’s precisely what I’ve been instilling in you and your sister, since you were young.”
Blanche’s throat bobbed. “Mother…”
“While it was all due to my parenting…” Her mother looked down, nudging the pug with her toe. “Let me just express gratitude to you for remembering the foundation I built for you and being smart enough, for once, to say it out loud.”
Blanche blinked at her, at the quiet way her mother had bowed her head—not in submission, but in respect.
“I don’t deserve the credit,” she said softly. “Not all of it, at least.”
Her mother’s brow lifted. “Oh, yes. The Duke has certainly helped make this all possible. We’re forever indebted to him. As is right, he should help, since he had the means, but still—we are grateful.”
Blanche rolled her eyes and smiled, gaze distant now, half-turned toward the window where light began to pour through the glass like hope rediscovered.
Her fingers curled softly around her cup. And he never once asked for anything in return.
Blanche looked down into her tea, something inside her shifted—leaned, as if listening for a heartbeat across a distance too vast to measure.
And then—the knock came softly—twice, then silence.
Blanche stiffened, her teacup hovering midair.
She and Fanny had moved to the front parlor with the dim intention of watching the sunrise, but the sky remained stubbornly gray, as though reluctant to offer them any kind of closure.
That knock… it wasn’t the kind one used for business or deliveries. It was careful. Measured.
Heath.
Her heart vaulted with foolish hope before her mind could quash it. She set her tea down with care and stood, smoothing her robe instinctively.
Fanny looked up. “Do you think—?”
“I don’t know,” she said. But her steps were already moving toward the foyer.
Blanche opened the door… And stopped.
Lord Gooldwer stood on the threshold.
He looked gaunt and nervous, twisting his hat in his hands like a man at the gallows.
“Blanche,” he said gently, “may I come in?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
Behind her, Fanny had entered the hall.
“I know I’ve lost your trust,” Lord Gooldwer continued, his voice low. “I know I broke things. I just… I need to say I’m sorry. And not because I need anything. Not now.”
Blanche stared at him for a moment longer, then stepped aside.
He entered the parlor like a man stepping onto a ship that might not sail.
“I know what I did,” he said. “I deserve your anger. I deserve your silence. But I thought… if there was any way back to you, it started here.”
Blanche didn’t sit. She stood before the hearth, one hand wrapped around the edge of the mantel.
“You left us,” she said. “You abandoned every promise. And now you want to offer words and call it reparation.”
“I’ve changed.”
“You’ve run out of excuses,” she corrected. “That’s not the same.”
Lord Gooldwer opened his mouth.
“But more than that,” she went on, her voice steady now. “I don’t trust that you’re not here for something else. You know who my husband is. You know what a title like duchess might mean to a man in need.”
He flinched. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s the truth,” she said quietly.
“I never asked His Grace for money.”
“You didn’t have to. You let me believe you came back for me.”
“So what now?” he asked.
Blanche took a slow breath. She looked to Fanny, then back at him.
“You are no longer part of this household,” she said. “Not until you earn your place. Not until each of us—not just me—believes you’ve returned because we matter, not because we’re convenient.”
“And if I try?” His voice cracked. “If I stay and try?”
“Then try,” said another voice from the doorway.
Lady Gooldwer entered, regal in her powder-blue dressing gown and a string of pearls that suggested war readiness more than style.
She looked at Lord Gooldwer with cold eyes that still remembered too much.
“I never expected greatness from you, Lord Gooldwer,” she said. “Charm, maybe. Good fortune. But never greatness. Still, I never imagined you’d steal from your daughters for a woman who couldn’t pronounce ‘linoleum.’”
“Kate—”
“No,” she cut him off. “You want to be a father? Learn how to speak to us like people. Learn how to listen without lying. Earn our names back, one at a time.”
She crossed her arms, lifted her chin. “You’re not welcome here as you are.”
Blanche watched her mother, surprised by the steel beneath the silk. She felt Fanny edge beside her, shoulder pressing gently to hers, and somehow, in the quiet that followed, the house felt… different.
Not at peace, but honest.
Then came the sound of boots. Quick. Measured. Unmistakable.
Blanche straightened.
No. It couldn’t be—
But her heart had already leaped ahead of her, racing down the hallway, barreling toward that sound like it had waited all night—not just for answers, but for him. For the storm in his eyes. For the pull she could neither name nor resist.
The door burst open.
Heath filled the entrance like a thunderclap, draped in coat and fog-damp shoulders, dark-eyed and breathless—as though the distance between them had scorched him, too.
His gaze found hers immediately, and something unspoken passed between them. Fierce. Familiar. Fated.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching to reach for him. And he didn’t move—not yet—but every line of him pointed toward her like gravity undone.
“Where is he?” he demanded, without preamble.
Lord Gooldwer turned.