Chapter 6
Six
“The Duke’s hand traced the delicate curve of her cheek, his touch lingering—firm yet reverent. He did not speak, yet his gaze held all the promises words could never convey…” Excitedly, Blanche read the most thrilling passage in her book.
Blanche exhaled softly, letting the words settle as she reclined beneath the shade of the great oak by the lake. The afternoon stretched lazily around her—sunlight dappling the water, birdsong weaving through the murmur of the park.
Fanny sat nearby, flicking idly through her own book, while their mother muttered to herself about the tragic state of their affairs. But Blanche paid them little mind. Her focus remained on the page, on the novel’s duke that had ensnared her attention so completely.
The Duke of Blackmore—cold, calculating, yet impossibly tender—held his beloved in an embrace so intoxicating, so exquisitely reverent that Blanche felt a shiver ripple through her.
She read on, breath hitching as the heroine yielded beneath his touch, as his whispered confessions brushed her throat, as his lips—warm, insistent—found the pulse beneath his lover’s ear.
And somehow, as the words blurred slightly beneath her gaze, she realized she had imagined his name differently. For just a fleeting instant, the Duke of Blackmore seemed to transform in her mind into…
Heath.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the book.
No. That is not his name…
And yet…
A slow, deliberate sigh escaped her lips as she turned another page, eyes flickering over the descriptions, tracing each tantalizing detail.
She ran absent fingers along the edge of the page, then higher—brushing her collarbone in idle contemplation. The touch was light, fleeting. But something about the novel’s descriptions lingered in her mind, coaxing her into her own silent musings.
The Duke, whispering against the hollow of her throat, his breath stirring the curls at the nape of her neck, his fingers tracing the sharp line of her jaw.
Her lips parted slightly, and without realizing, she lifted a hand, brushing the pad of her thumb against her lower lip as she imagined the warmth of another’s touch there.
A gentle breeze stirred the air, lifting strands of her hair across her cheek.
A moment passed. Then another. Then—
Blanche blinked suddenly, shaking herself, the book nearly slipping from her grasp.
What in heaven’s name am I doing?
Heat rushed to her cheeks as she straightened, forcing her mind back to reason.
It was a book—a novel. A fantasy spun with ink and imagination. And yet, the thought of one particular—and real—duke had invaded it so effortlessly.
It’s only the effect of these pages—nothing more. He is but a fictional character, no one real to affect me.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to return to the words on the page, willing away the pulse that had stirred beneath her skin.
But it was too late. The thought had rooted itself. And no matter how she tried, she could not quite banish it.
Snapping the book shut, Blanche found Fanny studying her curiously. Their afternoon stroll through Hyde Park suddenly felt an ill-chosen moment for vivid imaginings. Her sister’s raised eyebrow confirmed she’d noticed Blanche’s distraction, though propriety prevented comment.
“Everything all right?” Fanny inquired innocently as Blanche fanned her flushed face.
“Perfectly fine… just grown bored with this story,” she lied, pretending sudden interest in passing couples.
“Bored? You look positively feverish!” Fanny teased. “Daydreaming about romantic heroes again?”
“Certainly not!” Blanche feigned indignation while internally screaming, absolutely yes! “Regardless.” Blanche cleared her throat. “This lovely weather begs us to move about, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” Fanny giggled, looping arms without pressing further.
Blanche noted with surprise how Fanny now stood slightly taller. In mere months, her sister had blossomed into society’s ideal—graceful, elegant, turning heads wherever she went.
She sometimes envied Fanny’s effortless beauty, though her own shorter, curvier frame more closely mirrored their mother’s. Lady Gooldwer had been a celebrated beauty in her day, yet Blanche had never felt particularly desired.
Hence, her devotion to novels where heroes saw past superficial charms to cherish hidden depths.
A part of her still yearned for such love, though she’d resigned herself to practicality.
Not that getting married to a duke constituted hardship—she simply wished for affection.
Or at least attraction. Because, despite her protests, the Duke of Woodrey’s irreverent charm and that devastating smile undeniably affected her.
“You’re unusually pensive today,” Fanny observed, smiling as Blanche’s cheeks pinked further.
“Just wedding thoughts,” she admitted.
Fanny hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the lace trim of her sleeve. “Any… excitement about it?”
Blanche exhaled softly, tilting her gaze toward the rolling clouds above. “I’m thrilled we’ll soon be free of financial worries,” she deflected. “Beyond that, I expect little from our union.”
Fanny’s smile faltered slightly. “I can’t help but feel that I am to blame for all this. If I had accepted any of the proposals I received, you wouldn’t have had to—”
“Fanny.” Blanche turned to her, voice firm but gentle. “You must not think that way.”
Her sister swallowed, looking down at her hands. “But it’s true, isn’t it? If I had married well, there would have been no need for you to—”
“To what? To sacrifice myself?”
Fanny said nothing, but the guilt in her expression was answer enough.
Blanche softened, reaching for her hand. “Listen to me, dearest—I would never wish for you to bind yourself to a man you do not love. And I do not resent you for making that choice. In truth, it is the only choice that matters.”
Fanny looked up, her eyes shimmering. “And yet, you do not have that luxury.”
Blanche exhaled, squeezing her hand lightly. “I have made my peace with it. My engagement is not born of love, no—but it is practical, necessary. And I can live with that.”
Silence stretched between them, warm and understanding.
Finally, Fanny spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve more than mere practicality, Blanche.”
A wry smile tugged at Blanche’s lips, though something deep within her trembled.
“Perhaps,” she murmured. “But not all of us are meant for great loves.”
Before Fanny could protest, she added, “My greater concern is Father’s absence.”
Fanny’s expression darkened. “Mother pretends to be unaffected, but we all worry.”
“There must be a good reason he left so abruptly.”
“Perhaps… perhaps he didn’t love us enough to stay,” Fanny whispered.
“Don’t say that!” Blanche grasped her hands beneath a sycamore’s shade. “Father loves us. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“Then why hasn’t he returned? The Bow Street Runners have done nothing—”
“Once I become a duchess, I’ll hire investigators,” Blanche vowed.
“This match is heaven-sent, though I hate you sacrificing yourself.”
“Don’t fret. Truly, I’m content.” Blanche forced a smile. “Certainly, better than a wedding to Lord Bromley!”
“God spare us that vain peacock!” Fanny giggled.
“He only loves his reflection,” Blanche agreed, laughing.
Her sister nudged Blanche playfully. “Well, at least your actual betrothed isn’t that hopeless.”
Fanny tilted her head, still smiling. “About the Duke… You may not see it, but he’s fortunate to have you. Any clever man would realize.”
Blanche blinked, her smile faltering.
Fanny teased, “I’d advise you to give up the scandalous books and—”
“Scandalous books?” interjected a deep, familiar voice.
Both sisters whirled, startled. Mere feet away stood the Duke of Woodrey, his smirk confirming he had overheard at least part of their conversation.
Blanche’s composure faltered for the briefest of moments, but she masked it swiftly. “Your Grace, eavesdropping is most ungentlemanly.”
“Merely unavoidable as I approached,” the Duke said. “Though I shall endeavor to forget anything overheard.”
Fanny’s light laughter softened the moment, her gaze warm with quiet amusement. “Your Grace, you do possess a remarkable memory. I doubt very much that anything escapes your notice.”
Heath inclined his head, his gaze flickering knowingly toward Blanche. “A fair assessment, Lady Fanny.”
Blanche narrowed her gaze slightly, refusing to let his easy confidence rattle her. “May I inquire as to your purpose in the park this afternoon, Your Grace?”
“You may,” the Duke returned, ever evasive. “Though I suspect the answer would fail to satisfy your curiosity.”
Before Blanche could reply, an excitable flurry of movement drew their attention.
“Ah, Your Grace!” Lady Gooldwer called, bustling toward them with enthusiasm, her pugs yipping at her feet. “What a delightful surprise! Do forgive us for failing to offer a proper welcome sooner.”
Blanche fought back a sigh. Her mother’s exaggerated delight was bound to draw attention—exactly as intended. Lady Gooldwer had kept silent about the engagement per Heath’s request, but if they were all seen together, speculation was inevitable.
Lady Gooldwer smiled warmly at Heath, eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. “What a charming coincidence that we should find ourselves enjoying this very same afternoon in the park, Your Grace.”
“Charming indeed,” Heath replied, ever unreadable.
“And how very gallant of you to grace us with your company!” Lady Gooldwer continued, ignoring Blanche’s warning glance. “You must promise to join us for tea later. Oh, what a lovely affair it shall be!”
As expected, murmurs drifted among passing aristocrats, and lingering glances were exchanged as the small gathering undeniably attracted notice.
Blanche clenched her jaw slightly. Her mother was enjoying this far too much.
Heath merely smiled. “What an enticing offer, my lady.”
Blanche sighed inwardly, already bracing for the storm of gossip that would follow.
Still, a lingering question nagged at her mind—one she could not let go of so easily.