Chapter 3
Three
“Mother, you must eat something,” Blanche urged, lifting the untouched luncheon tray she had brought an hour earlier.
Lady Gooldwer reclined dramatically on her chaise, watching as her three pugs happily tore apart a cushion at her feet, sending a flurry of feathers into the air. “Why bother? Grief will claim me soon enough…”
Blanche exhaled, steadying her patience. It had been two weeks since they had been forced to flee the Greystone estate in the middle of the night. Two weeks since her rejection of Lord Bromley had turned her from a Duke Hunt participant into a social pariah.
In the quiet, dusty hallways of their home, Blanche found her mind wandering back to that final night at the house party.
Specifically, to the man she had collided with in the doorway.
She didn’t even know his name then—only that he was a Duke, and that his hands had felt shockingly steady on her waist.
Blanche exhaled, steadying her patience. “You’ve been saying that for two weeks, and yet, here you are.”
Her mother gasped, affronted. “How cruel you are to mock my suffering! Your father has abandoned us—vanished without a trace, without a word, without so much as a farewell!”
“I am painfully aware,” Blanche muttered, setting the tray aside. “But mourning will not settle our debts, nor will it keep a roof over our heads.”
Lady Gooldwer waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, what are debts to a lady? It is a matter for men.”
“No doubt Father will return and set everything aright. Until then…”
“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” Mother’s tone was dry. “Except for one rather inconvenient detail—he emptied the accounts before vanishing!”
Blanche stiffened, her expression shifting. “Surely, father had a compelling reason to…”
“There is nothing left, Blanche! Nothing,” she wailed. “He even took the dowries! What possible reason could there be to touch those? We were going to use that money to pay the servants—those ungrateful wretches keep abandoning us without notice!”
How could Father have kept their debts a secret for so long?
Blanche was certain he had only meant to protect them—from worry, from shame—though the uncertainty gnawed at her. He would return. He had to.
But… how much longer can we wait?
“Soon, the creditors shall come knocking. And then what shall we do?” Lady Gooldwer bemoaned.
Blanche straightened, folding her arms. “We shall do what needs to be done. We shall manage.”
Her mother scoffed. “Manage? A lady does not manage, Blanche. A lady is taken care of.”
“Then perhaps it is time for me to be something else. I will not sit idly while our house crumbles. You may surrender to despair if it pleases you, but I intend to fight.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the victorious squeals of the pugs as another cushion met its untimely demise.
Finally, Lady Gooldwer let out a mournful sigh, sinking further into her chaise. “Fine, then. Do as you must.”
Blanche struggled to remain calm. Everything had become so difficult lately.
Each day her father failed to return, their situation grew more dire. The household was spiraling into ruin, and Blanche had begun to accept that only a miracle could save them.
Until then, she had to keep the household running—a task she’d managed so far, though her mother disapproved of most decisions, like selling family jewels to pay debts and put food on the table.
“If only you’d accepted Lord Bromley’s proposal, none of this would have happened…” Lady Gooldwer continued.
This final complaint exhausted Blanche’s patience. Taking the tray, she retreated from the room.
Blanche barely reached the end of the hallway before Fanny appeared, breathless. “Sister, someone’s at the door. Been knocking for a good minute now.”
A visitor? That was unexpected. The Gooldwer household rarely entertained guests these days—most had abandoned them just as swiftly as her father had.
Suppressing the unease curling in her stomach, Blanche hurried toward the entrance. She pulled the door open—and there he was.
Tall, poised, wearing black, the Duke of Woodrey stood framed in the doorway. His dark hair was perfectly in place, and his deep blue eyes held a slow, knowing smile. Blanche’s pulse quickened.
“We meet again, Wildcat.”
Blanche exhaled slowly, leveling him with a cool stare. “Your Grace.”
“How fortunate I am to find myself at your doorstep,” he continued, unbothered. “Though I confess, I expected a warmer welcome.”
“A guest typically arrives with an invitation,” she returned.
The Duke chuckled. “Formality has always been a tedious obstacle.”
“May I inquire the purpose of your visit, Your Grace?”
Surely, he’s here to collect a debt. But why come in person?
His eyes gleamed with quiet mischief. “I have business with Lady Gooldwer. I would like a private audience with her.”
Blanche stiffened. “Does this concern my father’s debts?”
Heath’s lips twitched, entertained. “It does, in a manner of speaking.”
A vague answer. Typical.
Her heart raced, though she would sooner perish than let him notice. If his visit concerned finances, it could mean trouble. And if her mother were left to handle the matter, disaster was inevitable.
“My mother is unwell,” she said evenly. “She cannot receive visitors.”
Heath tilted his head, assessing her. “How tragic.”
She narrowed her gaze. “However, I am well-informed of my father’s affairs. If this matter is urgent, perhaps you should speak to me in her stead.”
Something flickered in his expression—curiosity, perhaps amusement.
The Duke’s smirk deepened. “You have a dangerous habit of asking the right questions, Lady Blanche Waldron.”
“And you have a frustrating habit of answering them poorly, Your Grace.”
His chuckle was quiet, entertained. “Then perhaps we should strike a bargain—you grant me my audience, and I may offer you proper answers in return.”
Blanche held his gaze. He was charming—too charming—but she wasn’t a fool. The Duke of Woodrey wasn’t here for pleasantries.
And I need to find out why.
His gaze lingered on Blanche as he took a deliberate step closer, the corners of his lips curling in a knowing smirk.
“You needn’t worry, my lady. You shall not remain in the dark for long.”
Blanche met his stare without flinching. “How very generous of you.”
His amusement deepened. “I had heard that ladies of good breeding are typically more gracious to their guests.”
She tilted her head, expression unreadable. “If graciousness means nodding along and accepting orders without question, I am afraid you’ll find me quite the disappointment, Your Grace.”
He chuckled, gaze flickering over her with open intrigue. “I rather suspected as much.”
Before she could respond, a commotion sounded down the corridor—hurried footsteps, rustling fabric, and the frantic yapping of three pugs. Moments later, Lady Gooldwer appeared, breathless, her gown slightly askew, hairpins barely holding her curls together.
“Oh, Your Grace!” she exclaimed, smoothing her skirts hastily. “I—I did not realize we had such esteemed company.”
Blanche blinked, suppressing the urge to sigh. Of course, her mother had overheard the Duke’s voice and had dressed in a rush to present herself.
Lady Gooldwer, despite her hasty efforts, still looked somewhat disheveled, though the pugs at her feet remained blissfully unaware of the chaos they had caused.
She turned to the Duke, eyes bright with curiosity. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
His smirk remained. “I had hoped for a private audience with you, my lady.”
A thrill of excitement lit up her mother’s features. “Oh, but of course! A private audience—how positively thrilling.” She gestured toward the study door, straightening her posture as best she could. “Come, Your Grace. Let us speak at once.”
With a flourish, she led the Duke toward the study, offering Blanche a triumphant glance before shutting the door behind them.
As soon as the door closed, the sisters looked at each other, curious, anxious, and doubtful.
Blanche remained rooted where she stood, heart wavering, mind racing.
Fanny nudged her lightly. “That was… something. Isn’t he the Duke everyone was talking about at Greystone? The one the Dowager had pegged as the Season’s greatest prize?”
Blanche pulled her gaze away from the closed door, her voice barely a whisper. “The prize, the hunter, or the devil himself—I’m not entirely sure which. But yes, Fanny. That is him.”
Without being able to help herself, Blanche began to walk from one corner of the corridor to the other. The pugs clung to her skirts as they tried to nibble at the hem of her dress.
Fanny, who looked just as anxious as her sister, sat waiting on a chair in front of the study for what seemed like an eternity. Blanche’s thoughts drifted, a strange flutter stirring in her chest whenever she recalled the Duke’s dark gaze.
“What could they possibly be discussing for so long?” Blanche muttered, stealing another glance toward the closed study door.
Fanny shrugged. “If he’s indeed one of Father’s creditors, perhaps they’re trying to arrange a settlement.”
Before Blanche could reply, the study door finally creaked open.
Lady Gooldwer emerged first, looking as though she had just swallowed an entire lemon. Her expression was tight, her movements stiff with unmistakable reluctance. The Duke followed, composed, unreadable—until his gaze landed on Blanche.
“Well,” Lady Gooldwer sighed, smoothing her sleeves. “It seems His Grace has come to a decision.”
Blanche stiffened. “A decision?”
Her mother exhaled deeply, as if bracing for impact. “His Grace wishes to marry one of you girls.”
Fanny gasped, turning to Blanche, eyes dancing with shock.
But before either could speak, the Duke’s voice cut through the moment, steady, unwavering.
“Not just any of your daughters.” He held Blanche’s gaze with undeniable certainty. “I want Lady Blanche.”
The words settled heavily in the air, ringing between them like an unshakable truth.
Lady Gooldwer groaned softly, rubbing her temples. “Must it be Blanche?”