Chapter 8
Eight
“Blanche, are you even listening?”
Blanche startled, blinking as Fanny narrowed her eyes at her, hands on her hips.
“You’ve been dazed since yesterday. It’s unsettling.”
“I’m fine.” Blanche forced a smile, though the warmth lingering beneath her skin told another story.
Fanny huffed, and—without warning—dipped her fingers into the flour and flicked a delicate cloud of it toward Blanche’s face.
Blanche gasped, blinking rapidly as the fine powder dusted her lashes and nose.
Fanny grinned triumphantly. “There. Now you look as lost as you feel.” Laughter bubbled up between them, breaking whatever tension had begun to form.
Sighing, Blanche looked at the loaf of bread in front of her—their latest baking attempt, if one could call it that. It was hard, uneven, and vaguely tasted of salt despite them never adding any.
“It’s not entirely terrible,” Fanny lied, nibbling on the crust. “Better than the soup disaster.”
Blanche groaned. “Don’t remind me. I still don’t know how I managed to burn broth.”
Beside them, Mrs. Hollis, their steadfast cook, stirred the contents of a simmering pot with practiced ease, pretending not to notice their disastrous culinary efforts.
Blanche wiped the remnants of flour from her face, exhaling slowly.
She wished she could dismiss her distraction as easily.
But how could she, when her thoughts kept circling back—again and again—to the kiss that had stolen her breath, to Heath’s steady hands at her waist, to the fire he had lit within her with nothing more than a touch?
Her fingers twitched, resisting the urge to press them against her lips—to chase the lingering sensation, the phantom warmth of Heath’s mouth against hers.
“Blanche?” She startled again, blinking as Fanny waved a hand in front of her face.
“You’re staring at the bread as though it holds the answers to the universe.”
Blanche forced a smile, brushing flour from her sleeve with slow precision. “Perhaps it does.”
Fanny huffed, though amusement softened her gaze. “Well, if you happen to find enlightenment in our tragic loaf, do share.”
Blanche only hummed in response, returning her focus to the task at hand—though her mind, traitorous as ever, remained elsewhere.
They were fortunate that, at the very least, Mrs. Hollis had remained by their side.
With their family still navigating precarious waters, she was the only one willing to endure the difficulties alongside them.
Her loyalty was a quiet act of defiance—a promise made despite Lady Gooldwer’s ever-delayed assurances that their circumstances would soon improve.
Heath had ensured their debts would be settled, sparing them from immediate financial ruin. Yet, despite this, the household remained eerily still. Servants had been reluctant to return, whether out of uncertainty or lingering doubts surrounding the Earl’s reputation.
Perhaps, once Blanche officially assumed her role as a duchess, that would change.
For now, however, the absence remained—a silent testament to the stain her father had left upon their name.
Either way, for now, they had no choice but to make do.
Yet as Blanche glanced at Mrs. Hollis, working tirelessly over simmering pots and flour-dusted counters, she sincerely doubted whether she and Fanny’s presence in the kitchen could be considered anything close to helpful.
If anything, the poor woman had enough responsibilities without the added burden of their well-meaning—if thoroughly dreadful—attempts at cooking.
“Do you think he’ll be all right?” Fanny asked quietly, tracing patterns on the rim of her cup. “Father, I mean.”
Blanche hesitated.
It was clear that his disappearance continued to affect them deeply. As much as they felt that their financial problems were close to being resolved, they both missed their father deeply.
“He must be,” Blanche answered, but she didn’t fully believe it.
The moment was abruptly interrupted as Lady Gooldwer strode into the kitchen, her expression a mixture of dismay and indignation.
“Look at you both—flour-covered, hair undone! Is this how you intend to receive His Grace?”
Blanche sighed, feeling the weight of her mother’s expectations settle over her like a familiar burden.
“You must go and dress properly at once,” Lady Gooldwer insisted, already ushering Blanche toward the door. “The Duke will be here shortly, and we must present ourselves accordingly.”
“Go on, go on, my ladies,” Mrs. Hollis encouraged them. “I’ll take care of the afternoon tea.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hollis,” replied Blanche and Fanny, as their mother hurried them along.
Blanche obeyed without protest, her stomach fluttering with something uncomfortably close to anticipation. She was not prepared to see the Duke again so soon—not after yesterday, not after the kiss that still lingered on her lips like an unspoken promise.
Lady Gooldwer followed her into the bedroom, barely giving her time to breathe before rummaging through her wardrobe with a critical eye. “We must find you something suitable—ah, here. This will do.”
She held up a gown far too ornate for a simple afternoon tea, its fabric delicate but undeniably lavish.
Blanche frowned. “That is unnecessary, Mother. I’ll wear something comfortable.”
Lady Gooldwer waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. Appearances matter. Do you think the Duke wishes to see you dressed as a pauper?”
Blanche inhaled slowly, holding her patience together by the thinnest thread.
“We have been remarkably fortunate, Blanche,” her mother stressed, pulling the straps of her gown tighter, adjusting the sleeves with practiced precision. “By some miracle of fate, the Duke has chosen you as his wife. But make no mistake—we cannot afford to lose his favor. Do you understand?”
Blanche exhaled slowly, schooling her expression into one of quiet obedience. “Yes, Mother.”
The words came out measured, restrained—each syllable pressed carefully into place to mask the thoughts she dared not voice.
“Good,” smiling with satisfaction, Lady Gooldwer watched her daughter, tailoring every little detail to her tastes and requirements.
Lady Gooldwer sighed, smoothing out the fabric as if that alone would fix their troubles. “Once you become a duchess, the first thing we shall do is purchase new jewelry. It is disgraceful that we’ve had to make do with this for so long.”
Blanche’s lips pressed into a firm line.
Her father’s massive debts might have been taken care of by the Duke, but that was far from secure or settled. They still had no income to afford to bring back the servants who had left.
And mother’s first thought is new jewelry?
Blanche exhaled slowly, biting back the words that threatened to rise.
She had more important things to focus on.
A sharp knock echoed through the house, cutting through the quiet like a sudden gust of wind.
Lady Gooldwer stiffened, eyes flashing with unmistakable anticipation. “That must be His Grace.”
Without wasting a moment, she turned to Blanche, already pulling at the folds of her gown, ensuring every detail was in place.
“Come, we mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Blanche barely had time to steady herself before her mother was ushering her toward the door, calling for Fanny as they hurried into the corridor.
The urgency in Lady Gooldwer’s steps was unmistakable as she led them down the staircase, her voice clipped yet eager. “Your posture, Blanche—graceful, shoulders back. Fanny, smooth your hair. This is an important moment.”
Blanche exhaled, barely absorbing the instructions as they descended, each step bringing her closer to the entrance, to Heath—to the man whose presence had unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Blanche’s heartbeat stammered, her steps measured, though every inch of her was acutely aware of what—of who—awaited them beyond the threshold.
The door swung open, revealing Heath standing at ease, his presence effortlessly commanding.
Blanche inhaled sharply.
It was truly unfair how unaffected he appeared, how composed, how entirely unreadable—while she, at the mere sight of him, felt the warmth bloom unchecked beneath her skin.
She could do nothing to stop it—the treacherous flush creeping along her cheeks, the way her breath hitched as she met his gaze.
And of course, Heath noticed.
He stepped forward, greeting Lady Gooldwer and Fanny with effortless charm before turning his attention to Blanche.
“Lady Blanche.” His tone was smooth, teasing, as he took her hand with deliberate ease.
The warmth of his lips whisked against her knuckles—a gesture far too formal for the knowing smirk curving his lips.
As he straightened, his gaze flickered over her face, amusement flickering in his striking blue eyes.
“How fortunate that the afternoon lends you such a lovely shade,” he murmured, voice just low enough that only she could hear. “Or shall I assume I am responsible for the blush, Wildcat?”
Blanche inhaled sharply, resisting the urge to retreat, to avert her gaze—refusing to surrender to the triumph lingering in his expression.
“The heat, Your Grace,” she replied, gathering herself. “It is merely the heat.”
His smirk only deepened, as though the answer delighted him.
And as Lady Gooldwer launched into pleasantries, Heath remained effortlessly composed—while Blanche, despite every effort to maintain her poise, could not quite shake the lingering fire that his presence had ignited.
Lady Gooldwer wasted no time in ushering Heath toward the drawing room, her smile pleasant yet undeniably rehearsed.
“Do allow us to host you properly, Your Grace,” she said with practiced ease, gesturing toward the well-worn armchairs.
Fanny, ever dutiful, straightened. “I’ll fetch the tea.”
Heath inclined his head, settling into his seat. His gaze flickered briefly around the room—the faint signs of wear, the quiet absence of bustling servants.
“You seem rather… scarce on service this afternoon.” His tone was mild, yet there was no mistaking the inquiry behind it.