Chapter 2
Two
“Apleasure to see you again, Lady Sophia.”
“The pleasure, as always, is entirely mine, Your Grace.”
Heath inclined his head slightly, pressing a polite kiss to the silk of her glove.
She did not release him at once, her fingers lingering—a silent invitation he chose not to acknowledge.
He was well aware that in the eyes of every debutante at Greystone, he was the ultimate prize of this year’s Duke Hunt.
Their fathers, however, held a different opinion.
Sophia’s gaze glimmered with mischief as she assessed him. “How peculiar to find you standing so far removed from the ballroom. Is the ball failing to meet your expectations, Your Grace? Or are you simply hiding from the Dowager’s matchmaking net?”
Heath exhaled, feigning disinterest. “Balls are, more often than not, predictable affairs, my lady. And the Dowager’s Hunt is rather loud for my tastes.”
She laughed lightly, stepping closer. “Perhaps you lack the proper company.”
“I should think not.”
Sophia tilted her head, feigning a pout. “Surely, you will not claim the evening lacks amusement entirely?”
Setting his glass down, Heath considered her words with idle amusement. He had no shortage of admirers, and Lady Sophia’s attention was nothing new. He had little interest in anything beyond fleeting distractions.
At last, with measured ease, he extended his hand.
“Very well, Lady Sophia. I suppose I might grant you at least one dance.”
Sophia arched a delicate brow, her smile brimming with wicked amusement. “Delighted, Your Grace. A dance… and perhaps more?”
The challenge in her voice was unmistakable—sharp, inviting—but Heath merely smirked, offering nothing beyond idle amusement.
“A dance,” he echoed, measured and unhurried. “Nothing more.”
Then, as if summoned by misfortune, a voice rang through the din.
“Sophia! There you are!”
The Earl of Harrow shouldered between them, his arrival slicing through the moment with the grace of a blunt blade. Sophia’s expression soured, but Heath remained unreadable.
“What are you doing here?” Harrow sputtered, eyes flashing as he turned to his daughter. “Skulking in corners, whispering with men—have you no regard for your betrothed?”
The Earl’s eyes snapped to Heath, and, for a brief moment, he looked like a man who’d just spotted a ghost. Realizing his misstep, he executed a deep, theatrical bow, nearly toppling forward. “Your Grace.”
“Did you imply that my presence with your daughter is an insult, Harrow?” Heath inquired, watching as the Earl of Harrow paled.
“No, no, Your Grace! Not at all,” Harrow stammered. “I beg your pardon. It’s simply that—well—I have heard certain rumors—”
“What kind of rumors?” Heath stepped forward, his smile sharp, his patience thinning.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Your Grace, mere chattel among idle lords and ladies of the ton—”
The Earl suddenly paused as Heath took a step forward, looming over him.
“What rumors, Harrow?” Heath’s refusal to use Harrow’s title was a tactical move. He knew the older man would not call him out on it.
The Earl swallowed hard. “The Lord Chancellor suggests that perhaps you and his wife—”
A short, knowing chuckle escaped Heath. Ah, of course—another scandal, another whisper wrapped around his name. A dance, a dinner, a passing remark—enough to stir suspicion. He had neither the inclination nor the need to explain himself.
“I trust a man of your wisdom does not place faith in idle gossip. That would be rather… unbecoming.”
Harrow fidgeted under his stare. “O-Of course not, Your Grace! A mere lapse, nothing more.”
Heath inclined his head, gaze steady. A lapse, indeed. And yet the weight of Harrow’s doubts still lingered, revealing more than the man intended.
Harrow hurried to correct himself. “In fact, we would be honored if Your Grace joined us for dinner this week—”
“Dinner?” Heath raised a brow. “Aren’t you concerned I might corrupt your daughter’s morals simply by entering your home?”
The Earl sputtered, laughing too loudly. “Your Grace, you do jest!”
Scrambling for composure, he turned to Sophia. “You mustn’t keep your betrothed waiting.”
“Yes, Father,” Sophia murmured, throwing one last flirtatious glance at Heath before vanishing toward the ballroom.
Heath stepped closer to Harrow. “I have little time for dinners, Harrow. However, I would appreciate an invitation to the House of Lords’ private gatherings.”
The Earl stiffened. “But of course! Your Grace is one of our most esteemed members—”
“Then why have I been excluded of late?” Heath’s smile remained, but its edges turned razor-sharp.
Harrow’s unease deepened. “Your Grace, truly—those meetings are merely trivial discussions—”
“And yet, these trivial matters seem to carry increasing significance,” Heath countered.
He let the silence stretch. The man’s throat bobbed.
“In any case, I expect an invitation to those gatherings far more than one to dinner.”
“The decision rests with the Lord Chancellor—”
“I see.” Heath clicked his tongue. “Then I would suggest that you take care not to earn my displeasure.”
Harrow rushed to agree. Heath gave a curt nod. “Shall we expect you for dinner tomorrow then?”
Without another word, he finished his whisky and placed the empty glass in the stunned Earl’s hands.
The conversation was over.
As he made his way toward the ballroom, Heath considered that Harrow’s blunder had revealed something rather interesting—the old Lords were desperate to preserve their so-called moral values within their circles.
Their rigid expectations, their obsession with propriety, had always seemed tiresome to him.
The Lord Chancellor was punishing him over a ridiculous assumption that he had coveted the man’s wife. He was not the first to hold such suspicions, and he certainly would not be the last. The rumors would continue, the whispers would persist, unless, of course, he gave them no reason to murmur.
A wife, Heath mused inwardly, his fingers idly grazing the smooth fabric of his sleeve. How amusing it is that such a simple arrangement might silence them all. Perhaps the Dowager’s Hunt has a purpose after all.
The idea was tempting—terribly so. Not because he desired companionship, nor the tender affections that came with matrimony. No, Heath had long abandoned such sentimental notions. But a wife could serve a purpose.
Perhaps, he thought, with a wry smile curling at the edge of his lips, it is time I consider such expectations. If marriage could strengthen my ambitions, why not entertain the idea?
For now, it was merely a thought taking root. A seed of contemplation. But that thought was shattered the moment Heath reached for the ballroom door—only for it to swing open suddenly and strike him square in the shoulder.
At first, Heath wasn’t sure what had hit him. He barely staggered, although he did feel a tug at his side.
“What the devil—?” he muttered, instinctively reaching out as the wild creature who had burst through the door nearly lost her footing. His hands found her waist before she could fall.
“Oh, my goodness! Please forgive me for my clumsiness!”
Heath looked down—and found himself staring into dark green eyes. Her bodice was askew, curls escaping wildly, her cheeks flushed.
“You look like a proper wildcat,” he said before he could stop himself.
“I apologize, my Lord…” she began, then faltered. Her eyes dropped—and widened. Heath followed her gaze and realized his hands were still at her waist. He let go at once—though, to his annoyance, he already missed the feel of the curve of her waist.
“It’s Your Grace.” Heath stepped back a little and bowed, never taking his eyes off her. He couldn’t, not with her beauty. “Duke of Woodrey. I’m delighted to meet you, Lady…?”
She curtsied in haste. “Would you mind if I get past you, Your Grace? I need to get on my way.”
Heath only then realized he was standing squarely in the doorway, blocking her path. The wildcat wasn’t in the mood for conversation—an odd fact that, for some reason, only made him want to speak with her all the more.
“Won’t you tell me who I have had the pleasure of rescuing tonight?” he asked, a teasing smile playing on his lips.
The lady’s wild expression faded, replaced by a sudden, cool composure. “Thank you for rescuing me, Your Grace,” she said overly politely. “But it has been a long and rather eventful day. I would be most grateful if you would allow me to take my leave.”
Heath’s smile lingered as he studied her, intrigued by the effortless way she eluded him. Women didn’t usually play this game—not with him. Yet here she was, offering mystery instead of eagerness.
“You truly intend to leave me in suspense?” he mused, folding his hands behind his back as if settling into the chase.
A challenge.
“Please don’t toy with me, Your Grace,” she said, her voice even but cool. “I assume you heard the raised voices earlier?” It almost sounded like a challenge she was giving him. She lifted her chin and practically glared at him.
Heath raised his eyebrows.
“There was shouting? I must have missed it.” He gave a half-smile. “Though I’d hardly choose to stand between you and anyone on the receiving end of your ferocity.”
“That was me being perfectly civil, I assure you.” There was nothing meek in the way she met his gaze. Other ladies lowered their eyes, flushed prettily, and attempted to charm with false sweetness. But—whoever she was—watched him without hesitation.
“Then allow me to appease your good grace and lead you to the dance floor,” Heath said, offering his arm.
“I’m afraid you’re too late. I’ve had my fill of dancing for the entire Season,” she replied, waving her torn dance card in his face, her words polite but laced with icy indignation.
“For the entire Season? Then, you must accept my invitation tonight. If this is to be your last dance, we ought to make it memorable, don’t you agree?”
“You’re too kind, Your Grace,” she said at last. “But I fear there’s little you could do to make this night memorable. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
With a polite curtsy, she made to leave—a mere formality to escape him. The audacity made Heath laugh aloud.
“You do have a wild spirit, don’t you?” he called after her.
She paused mid-step, glancing back first in surprise, then with a frown.
“That depends. If ‘wild’ means refusing a dance I don’t desire, then yes, I suppose I have.”
“And you’re rude,” Heath added, delighted.
“You’re not the first to say so tonight,” she replied coolly. “Gentlemen often call ladies ‘rude’ when they speak their minds. I prefer the term honest.” She held his gaze, her shoulders squared with unapologetic boldness.
She had spirit—Heath enjoyed that about her. Strong, stubborn, unlike any other woman he had encountered.
He was about to say as much when Lady Sophia’s voice cut through the moment.
“Your Grace, do you intend to keep me waiting all night for our dance?” she purred, her fire-red lips puckered in a pout.
“Forgive me, Lady Sophia. I was… distracted.” His tone lacked its usual charm as he realized she seemed far less enticing suddenly.
“What could be more interesting than our dance?” Sophia pressed, swaying closer with deliberate sensuality. But her practiced allure left him cold.
His attention flicked back to his wildcat—only to find her gone.
No farewell, no excuses. She had vanished like a shadow, leaving behind only the ghost of her presence.
“Why were you talking to her?” Lady Sophia asked.
Heath sighed quietly. He almost forgot she was there. He frowned at her.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because she’s awful… just caused a scene in the middle of a dance, rejecting a proposal! Imagine! It was all quite improper. I’m surprised she and her family are still in the house after that.”
Heath’s curiosity piqued. “What was her name?”
Lady Sophia’s smile turned smug. “That would be Lady Blanche Waldron, daughter of the Earl of Gooldwer. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve heard about her father…”
As Sophia kept up her gossip, Heath quietly savored his discovery.
His wildcat had a name—Blanche. And if she was looking to escape the Hunt, she had just caught the eye of the most dangerous hunter in the room.