Chapter 12
Twelve
The door shut behind them with a quiet finality, the soft click of the latch reverberating through the silence of the grand chamber. Blanche turned swiftly, eyes narrowing as she met Heath’s gaze.
“We should not be here,” she stated, her voice steady despite the simmering frustration coiling in her chest. “There are still guests downstairs.”
Heath merely shrugged, moving toward the sideboard where an elegant array of crystal decanters awaited. “The guests will manage without us.”
The quiet finality in his tone sent a clear message—he had no intention of indulging her protest.
Blanche inhaled sharply as he poured himself a measure of brandy, the golden liquid catching the light as he lifted it to his lips with maddening ease.
She knew she had overstepped earlier.
She had seen the flicker of judgment in the eyes of the noblemen, felt the weight of Heath’s restraint beside her. What she had said had been bold—perhaps even improper—but she had not meant to humiliate him.
Only to defend the one person who could no longer defend himself.
“I see,” she murmured, folding her arms as she studied him.
“As much as I enjoy your endearing wildcat defiance,” Heath said with a smirk, “you must learn to control it in public.”
“So much for your duchess speaking her mind.”
Heath’s gaze flickered toward her, unreadable.
But she could feel it—his control, the quiet restraint laced beneath his demeanor, the intent behind the distance he kept between them.
Heath turned, his eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement.
“Ah, but I admire that about you,” he murmured, taking a measured step toward her. “Your charm, your audacity—your unruly habit of challenging men who have spent decades ensuring women remain in silent compliance.”
Blanche tilted her chin, refusing to waver despite the undeniable awareness prickling through her skin. “And yet, here we are—apparently, I am to be taught restraint.”
Another step.
He was close now, too close, the warmth of him barely inches from her as he lowered his voice just enough for the words to settle deep into the air between them.
“There is a time and place for rebellion,” he murmured, fingers grazing the edge of her sleeve—light, but deliberate. “And in public is not one of them.”
Blanche inhaled, her heartbeat betraying her composure as his presence closed in, unrushed yet undeniably intentional.
“You will be the perfect wife they expect you to be.” His voice was calm—too calm. “As I will be the perfect husband they expect me to be.”
There was no question of what he meant. No question of who, exactly, needed to be reminded of her place.
“And behind closed doors?” she challenged, forcing steadiness into her voice.
A slow smirk traced Heath’s lips, his gaze dipping to her lips, lingering—knowing. “Then, Duchess, you may do as you wish.”
Something coiled deep within her, something dangerously exhilarating, something entirely unwise.
She exhaled, tension simmering between them, unrelenting. “And my ‘ideal husband’—” she murmured, voice edged with quiet defiance, “will he carry on with his rakish ways behind those same closed doors? Still meeting his mistresses?”
Heath’s expression darkened, the amusement in his eyes shifting into something deeper—something less playful, more perilous.
Blanche pressed forward, her own recklessness unraveling beneath the weight of his gaze. “Should I do the same, then?” she mused, voice laced with teasing provocation. “Have a few lovers of my own? In discretion always, of course.”
Silence.
Heath did not move, did not speak—only watched her, the air between them thick with challenge. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in.
“Tell me, Wildcat,” he murmured, his voice low, silk, and steel entwined. “Why would you need lovers? Do you not think you could do those things with me—those things you imagine in your books?”
Blanche remained perfectly still, refusing a single movement that could concede victory to Heath.
He stood before her, watching—waiting—his eyes unreadable, yet laced with something unrelenting.
“Perhaps,” Blanche admitted, her voice steady despite the quickened pulse beneath her skin. “But such behavior would hardly suit a duke’s wife, wouldn’t it? Not exactly what one expects from a perfect wife.”
Heath exhaled lightly, taking a measured step closer, the space between them narrowing until the heat of him was undeniable.
“I’ve already told you,” he murmured, his gaze dark with suggestion. “Perfection takes many forms.”
His voice was silk and sin, laced with quiet amusement as he studied her, the flicker of challenge dancing in his eyes.
“In public, you will behave as expected. But behind closed doors…” His fingers ghosted just above her skin.
A slow, provocative smile traced his lips, certainty unwavering but laced with something deeper.
“That is where I expect you to let go.”
Blanche inhaled, steadying herself against the undeniable pull of his presence.
“Then perhaps you should show me what letting go truly looks like, Your Grace.” She challenged, her voice steady despite the wild tempo of her heartbeat.
Her lips—still tinged with the ghost of his kiss—parted slightly, the memory lingering like an unspoken temptation.
Disobedience and rebellion burned beneath her composure, but desire, insistent and undeniable, threatened to take control.
Heath studied her, eyes gleaming with something both wicked and knowing. He was accepting the challenge—she could see it in the way his expression darkened, in the slow, deliberate shift of his posture.
“Shouldn’t you already know, Duchess?” he murmured, amusement curling through his words. “Considering the scenes in those many indulgent books you so enjoy?”
Blanche inhaled sharply, feeling the heat creep against her skin.
“Perhaps,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. And just for a moment—just the briefest second—it trembled.
“Perhaps words are not enough. Perhaps I need to show you what those encounters feel like.” Heath ventured, taking the initiative. “Lie down,” he murmured, his voice smooth, a quiet command wrapped in silk and steel.
She did not move.
A slow smile spread across his lips as Heath closed the distance between them.
His hand skimmed the length of her arm, deliberate, slow, trailing heat through the fine silk of her sleeve before he reached her jaw, tilting it just enough for her breath to falter.
“When I give an order, Wildcat, I expect obedience.” And then, his lips met hers.
The first kiss was unhurried—a tease, a mere whisper of contact, yet it set fire to every nerve beneath her skin. The second was stronger, claiming, tasting, the faintest trace of brandy mingling with the warmth of him.
Blanche inhaled sharply, her fingers curling into the fabric on either side as Heath deepened the kiss, his confidence sending her pulse racing.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice rougher now against her mouth. “Lie down, Blanche.”
Her hesitation crumbled under the weight of want.
Slowly obeying his command, she lay down on the bed, a moan escaping her lips.
His fingers ran slowly over her, starting from her wrists and working their way up to her shoulders, pulling the fabric aside just a little to taste her.
A sigh left Blanche’s lips as she felt the Duke’s hot tongue run over her skin, as if savoring every freckle that outlined her torso.
In her thoughts, she used to imagine the protagonists of her books with their eyes closed at such moments, but hers remained open, fixed on every detail of his body.
She exhaled slowly—steadied herself—and then, her hands roamed Heath’s shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric, and as she imagined what it would feel like to be skin against skin.
Heath watched her, satisfaction flickering behind his gaze before he leaned over her once more, as he claimed her lips again—this time, without restraint.
His tongue curled around hers, and with one of his hands, he ran down Blanche’s breasts, contouring her figure in a way that made her feel hot from a new perspective.
Flashes of something unknown, barely hinted at, rumbled inside her body, lodging in her lower belly, and wetting her thighs, to the point where her legs involuntarily closed around Heath’s body.
She felt it—the quiet challenge, the unspoken battle, the way his hands framed her, careful yet possessing, his body radiating warmth as he lowered himself ever so slightly, just enough for her to feel him, just enough for anticipation to coil like a restless thing beneath her ribs.
His gaze lingered, knowing.
“Is this what it’s like in your books, Duchess?” he murmured, his voice edged with amusement, but not without curiosity.
Blanche inhaled, her heartbeat a wild, traitorous thing. “Yes,” she admitted, barely above a whisper.
His smirk deepened, slow—dangerously indulgent.
“If you want more, Duchess, you’ll have to ask me for it.”
Her breath hitched, but she refused to surrender, refused to give him the words he sought. “You want me to beg?”
Heath stilled, watching, waiting, the corners of his mouth curving into the faintest smile. “Would it kill you?”
Blanche was stubborn enough to put up a fight, even if she deeply wished Heath would go on. Of all the self-centered… maniacal things… he’s going to punish me with this? Make me beg?
“How is it,” he mused, voice a whisper against her skin, “that you are harder to handle than the lords themselves?”
Blanche swallowed, unable to force an answer past her lips.
Heath merely smirked, tracing his thumb along the edge of her jaw with something dangerously close to reverence.
“You’ve spent your life caring for everyone else,” he murmured, his voice lower now, quieter, though no less commanding. “But tonight, someone will take care of you—”
A beat of silence.
Then, the warmth of his breath met hers once more. “You only have to ask for it, Wildcat.”
Heath lingered—watching, waiting—his breath still fanning against her skin, his presence coiling around her like an unspoken promise.
Blanche exhaled, steadying herself, lifting her chin just slightly. “I do hope you’re patient, Your Grace. I don’t plan on begging you for anything. Ever.”
His smirk deepened, sharp with something dangerously close to satisfaction.
And then—without a word, without hesitation—he pulled away.
Blanche remained where she was, her breath uneven, her pulse thrumming in her ears as the absence of his warmth sent a sharp tremor through her spine.
She had challenged him. Called his bluff.
And he had left her breathless and wanton, spread out like a holiday supper.
Frustration vibrated through her entire body, seeking a release that was close enough to consider wavering in her pride. But her eyes narrowed as she watched him continue to step away from her slowly. A wicked smile spread across his face.
“Not what I had in mind either, Wildcat,” Heath teased. “Would have never guessed that you were one for torture, but I’ll try to oblige.”
“You… You… are impossible,” she said, finally standing and smoothing her skirts.
“Oh, come now, we’re just having fun.”
“That was not fun. Do not expect me to make a game of this and beg at your heels.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said, his arm outstretched, gesturing for her to take her leave ahead of him.
And she did.