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Their gazes met in intervals, lingering longer each time.

Words were unnecessary. In the warmth of his hand and the searching depth of his eyes, she sensed the same silent question she dared not voice.

A yearning simmered between them — not yet spoken, but felt in the space where his fingers brushed hers and her breath caught in reply.

When the final notes of the waltz whispered into silence, Philip’s hand lingered on hers a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Around them, the applause rang out — polite and celebratory — but Blanche scarcely heard it.

The world beyond their shared gaze felt dim and distant.

In his eyes, she glimpsed not just strength and elegance, but vulnerability too — shadows of a guarded man who, perhaps, wanted to be known.

As the crowd began to disperse and the echoes of music softened into memory, Blanche remained still amidst the soft glitter of candlelight and the fading warmth of his touch. Her heart beat a little faster. The truth she had resisted now stood quiet and certain within her.

She was falling — quietly, irreversibly — in love with her husband.

Philip, the man she had once regarded as a stranger, had become something else entirely.

He had upended her careful world like a storm, and yet in the centre of that storm, she had found clarity.

In their journey from reluctant partners to something more tender, something quietly real, Blanche had discovered a connection that defied every rule written for them.

And in that glittering ballroom — beneath chandeliers and murmuring silk — love had begun to take root, brave enough to challenge every boundary fate had once imposed.

***

Several days had passed since the grand ball — an evening still spoken of with admiration in every corner of London’s glittering society.

The music, the elegance, the soft brush of silk against polished floors — all had lingered in the air like the trailing scent of roses long after the last guests had departed.

Yet it was not the beauty of the event that haunted Blanche's thoughts.

It was him.

Philip.

His hand in hers. The warmth of his gaze. The way the rest of the world had seemed to vanish the moment their eyes met across the dance floor. It had left something inside her unsettled — stirred, perhaps — and she could no longer ignore it.

Seeking clarity, she turned to the one person who had always offered her an honest ear: Penelope.

They sat together in the peaceful intimacy of Penelope's drawing room, the fire casting a golden glow over the soft furnishings and the delicate china tea service laid between them. Outside, the wind whispered against the windows, but within, all was quiet but for Blanche’s hesitant voice.

“Penelope,” she began, her fingers twisting gently in her lap, “I find myself quite… perplexed.”

Penelope tilted her head, setting aside her teacup and giving her full attention, sensing the weight of something unspoken.

Blanche pressed on, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

“It is Philip. The more time I spend with him, the more I see — the more I feel. There is a pull between us that I can neither explain nor ignore. He surprises me at every turn, and I… I fear I am beginning to feel something I never expected. Something I never allowed myself to hope for.”

There was a pause as the admission hung in the air, delicate and uncertain.

Penelope’s expression softened. “Blanche, love is rarely something we plan for. It has a habit of creeping in when we are busy guarding ourselves against it. And Philip…” Her lips curved into a knowing smile.

“He is no ordinary man, I grant you that. But sometimes it is within the most intricate souls that the deepest affections are waiting to bloom.”

Blanche exhaled, her brow creasing with the tension she had held so tightly. “But we married under such strange circumstances. I never imagined this would become real. And yet, each day I see more of him — not just the duke, but the man beneath — and I wonder if… if this could be something true.”

Penelope leaned forward, her voice gentle. “It is fortunate indeed, my dear, that the man you are falling for happens to be your husband. Not all are so lucky. And you are right — it is becoming something true. But…”

“But?” Blanche asked, already knowing the answer.

Penelope’s eyes were kind, but unwavering. “But you must be brave enough to ask what lies in his heart. You cannot live forever in this in-between place, wondering whether your affections are returned. He is not a man who wears his emotions easily. You will likely have to meet him halfway.”

Blanche looked down, her voice barely above a whisper. “And if he does not feel the same?”

“Then at least you will know,” Penelope said softly. “Is it not better to live with certainty than to waste away in doubt? You are stronger than you think, Blanche. And your heart deserves an answer.”

Blanche was silent for a long moment. The crackle of the fire filled the space between them as she gathered her thoughts.

“Yes,” she said at last, quiet but resolute. “You are right. I cannot go on like this.”

And though her heart trembled at the thought of exposing such tender feelings, she knew she could no longer remain silent. Whatever lay ahead, Blanche would face it — not with hesitation or doubt, but with the quiet strength of a woman ready to fight for what truly mattered.

Something, perhaps, called love.