Chapter 7
Seven
“So, you’re… curious about intimacy?”
Heath’s voice was smooth, deliberate, his gaze flickering toward her with unmistakable interest as they wandered deeper into the secluded paths of Hyde Park.
Blanche hesitated only a breath before replying. “Perhaps,” she admitted, pulse quickening. “Though such passion seems more common between lovers than spouses.”
Heath hummed, thoughtful. “Then tell me, Lady Blanche, do you believe passion has no place within a marriage?”
She glanced at him, only to find his piercing blue eyes already fixed upon her, searching, assessing.
Her breath caught.
Good heavens, he is handsome.
She had always known it, of course—had noted the sharp cut of his jaw, the rich darkness of his hair, the effortless command with which he carried himself. But here, alone with him, away from prying eyes, his presence felt different. Stronger. More tangible.
And those lips—firm, sculpted, curling ever so slightly at the edges in amusement—had never seemed more tempting.
The thought startled her, sent warmth rushing to her cheeks.
“I believe,” she murmured, carefully measuring her words, “that marriage is built upon duty first, desire second.”
Heath’s smirk deepened—eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to delight. “And yet, desire remains present.”
Blanche exhaled softly, fingers tightening around the book she still held. Her mind flickered back to her earlier reading—to the novel’s hero, to the way she had unconsciously replaced his name with Heath’s.
Now, standing beside him, that foolish whim felt even more absurd.
“Perhaps,” she conceded, lifting her chin. “Though desire alone is hardly enough to sustain a union, wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”
“Indeed.” He studied her for a moment, then stepped slightly closer, just enough for his warmth to brush against her. “But it makes the prospect far more enticing.”
Blanche’s breath stuttered.
He is testing me…
As they wandered deeper into the grove, the world beyond softened—rustling branches shielding them from curious onlookers, the distant hum of the city fading into quiet solitude.
Heath’s gaze flickered toward the book clutched so fiercely in Blanche’s hands. “I suspect that must be quite the captivating novel.”
She adjusted her hold, suddenly aware of her grip. “It’s merely something to pass the time.”
His smirk deepened. “I’d wager it belongs to the very category you mentioned before.”
Blanche stiffened slightly. “Perhaps,” she admitted, voice measured.
Heath exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head. “Then surely you can indulge me with a passage?”
Blanche hesitated, fingers tightening around the worn pages. “That would hardly be appropriate, Your Grace.”
“Nonsense,” Heath countered smoothly. “I am eager to understand precisely what literature holds such fascination for you.”
She exhaled slowly, weighing her options. He was determined—charming, insistent in a way that made refusal seem almost impossible.
Finally, with careful deliberation, she turned a few pages, clearing her throat as she read.
“His touch was a slow drag of heat down her bare skin, a deliberate stroke that left her breathless. He didn’t grope or grasp—he worshipped.
Every inch he explored was a vow made in silence, a claim staked in the dark.
She had been kissed before, had danced with charming men beneath chandeliers, and felt their practiced hands at her waist. But none of them had ever made her ache like this—quietly, deeply, completely.
With him, it wasn’t about conquest. It was possession.
He looked at her like he knew what she needed before she did.
And God help her, she wanted to be known that way. ”
The words hung between them, laden with something unspoken, something Blanche wished she had not voiced aloud.
She glanced at Heath cautiously. He was watching her, amused. “A fascinating choice.”
She straightened slightly. “You asked for a passage. I complied.”
His smirk did not waver. “Tell me, Lady Blanche—are these the sort of men who capture your interest?”
Her pulse faltered. She should look away. Deflect. Laugh.
Instead, her gaze held his, chin lifting slightly as she replied, soft but deliberate. “There are certain traits a gentleman may possess that… draw one’s attention.”
“How fortunate for me.” his amusement deepened, unmistakably pleased. “In your novels,” he pressed, his voice low, deliberate, “does passion only exist outside marriage?”
The grove wrapped around them like a sanctuary, shielding them from prying eyes, muting the world beyond its branches.
The air was crisp yet carried a quiet warmth, a lingering scent of damp earth and autumn leaves. And beneath it—just faint enough to be intoxicating—was the unmistakable presence of Heath.
Blanche inhaled sharply, caught off guard.
“No,” she blurted. “But those are just stories.”
A faint smirk curled at his lips.
“Tell me more about your favorite scenes.”
Blanche’s pulse wavered, her heart quickening against her ribs as awareness settled over her with startling clarity.
He was close—closer than any man had ever been. Not just in proximity, but in presence, in undeniable gravity.
Through the fine silk of her gloves, she felt the heat of him where her fingers rested lightly against his arm. It was not touch, not truly, yet it was enough to unsettle her, enough to make her wonder—just for a fleeting moment—how bare skin against bare skin might feel.
She swallowed hard, hesitating before answering. “I… particularly love when protagonists confess their feelings.”
Heath studied her, noting the way she shifted under his gaze. “Why those moments?”
Her voice softened. “Because they’re beautiful.” She lifted her chin slightly, as though steeling herself. “Passion and desire revealed through truth. Two souls society would keep apart, discovering mutual affection. Their hearts no longer lonely, beating as one thereafter.”
She inhaled, catching the trace of his scent—a rich blend of cedarwood and something darker, something wholly masculine. It sent a shiver racing through her spine, a sensation so foreign, so undeniably real that she scarcely knew what to do with it.
Heath chuckled, his amusement evident.
“You’re a romantic,” he teased.
A flush crept up Blanche’s neck, but she did not refute him.
This was the kind of moment she had only ever read about—the quiet, stolen intimacy between a heroine and her dark, enigmatic suitor. And for the first time, she understood.
She understood the fluttering anticipation, the fevered curiosity, the breathless thrill of what might happen next.
Heath exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch just enough before answering.
“Real life isn’t so poetic.”
“Hence why I cherish books,” she murmured, her gaze dropping momentarily to the ground. “Those heartfelt confessions igniting such fiery passion—”
His fingers brushed against her bare wrist, skimming just above the edge of her glove.
“Are you as passionate as you are sentimental?”
Her breath hitched. “Yes,” she admitted, the words barely above a whisper—as if speaking them aloud cost her something.
Heath’s gaze darkened, his touch trailing up her arm. “I deeply admire passion, Lady Blanche.”
The space between them felt smaller now, the intimacy of the grove wrapping around them like a secret.
The grove was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves as the wind whispered through the trees, their ancient trunks standing like silent sentinels around them.
Heath exhaled, eyes flickering over her with quiet intensity. “I believe that passion is the color that gives meaning to the days.” His voice was smooth, deliberate.
Her breath hitched, fingers curling slightly at his words.
Dappled sunlight broke through the canopy, casting shifting patterns upon the forest floor. It smelled of damp earth, of the lingering fragrance of blossoms, as if nature itself conspired to cradle them in secrecy.
His hand moved slowly—deliberately—lifting to trace the gentle curve of her chin.
Blanche did not flinch, did not retreat. She allowed the touch, allowed the moment, her pulse fluttering wildly as he guided her gaze toward his.
Their eyes met—deep, searching, lingering in silent understanding.
“Is this what you imagined?” Heath asked, his voice a murmur against the stillness.
Blanche’s breath came unsteadily, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession.
Is it?
She had spent years devouring novels, losing herself in the words of heroines who dreamed of love, who whispered secrets into moonlit nights, who surrendered to the soft pull of temptation.
But never had she imagined this. Never had she felt something so real. “I—” Her voice wavered, uncertain.
Heath did not press her to finish.
And Blanche knew—without a doubt—that in mere moments, she would be kissed.
For the first time. Unexpected. Undeniable.
And by a man who, despite his unreadable nature, was dismantling every expectation she had ever known.
Her heart pounded, nerves and defiance warring as she realized they might be discovered at any moment. Yet she did not step back.
“We shouldn’t be discussing this.”
“Yet here we are.” His voice was rich, steady, teasing.
Blanche exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “You take far too much pleasure in provoking me.”
Heath’s smirk deepened. “You make it far too easy.”
Her jaw tightened. “Is this how you intend to spend our time? Pushing boundaries simply to see how I react?”
“Is that a complaint, Lady Blanche?”
“An observation.”
Heath studied her, a flicker of something dangerous in his gaze.
“Then allow me my own observation…” He stepped closer, slowly and deliberately. “You may claim to dislike my games, but you engage all the same.”
Blanche refused to retreat. “You mistake resistance for participation, Your Grace.”
“I mistake nothing.”
He reached out, fingers brushing the book she held. “Tell me, Blanche—what is it that you’re reading with such devotion?”
She drew the tome closer to her chest. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“Oh, but it concerns me greatly.”