Page 21 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
Chapter 10
As they strolled through the Egyptian Hall, Blanche found herself unable to focus on the dazzling displays of ancient artefacts she had so eagerly anticipated. The grandeur of the exhibition blurred at the edges of her vision, her thoughts consumed not by the relics of the past but by the murmurs of the present.
All around them, eyes lingered, whispers following in their wake. It seemed the artefacts themselves had been momentarily forgotten, overshadowed by the spectacle of the newly minted Duchess of Brooksdale at her husband’s side.
The couple who, but a few weeks prior, had been the subject of scandalous speculation, now dared to reclaim their place in society—unbowed, though still unwelcomed.
Perhaps this was a mistake.
Blanche’s cheeks burned with the weight of those furtive glances, the scrutiny pressing against her like an iron corset. The ton observed them like they were some peculiar curiosity, their gazes veiled with feigned indifference yet brimming with speculation. It was suffocating.
Did Philip notice?
She stole a glance at him, only to find that he was utterly engrossed in the exhibition, seemingly impervious to the weight of expectation that crushed her. He studied the displays with unguarded enthusiasm, his expression alight with fascination.
"The artefacts from this period carry such rich history and intrigue," he remarked, his voice threaded with genuine admiration. "I am impressed..."
Blanche longed to share in his passion, to be drawn into the comfort of historical discourse as they once had been. But the whispers clawed at her composure, weaving tales of schemingambition, of a woman who had ensnared one of England’s most eligible peers. The thought made her stomach tighten.
She glanced at Philip again, wondering.
Did he hear the whispers at all? Does he care?
Does he resent me for our forced union?
The questions gnawed at her, each one piercing deeper than the last.Does he think of this marriage as nothing more than an obligation? A facade to salvage his name?
Her uncertainty festered, a wound she did not know how to mend. She yearned for reassurance—for Philip to look at her, see her, not just as the woman who had been thrust upon him, but as someone worthy of regard.
The moment broke when Philip’s eyes lit with nostalgia, his gaze catching on a particular artefact—a bejewelled dagger, its intricate details glinting under the ambient glow of the hall’s chandeliers.
"This," he murmured, almost to himself, before turning to her, his voice infused with quiet reverence. "This is a piece I have cherished since I was a boy."
Blanche’s gaze followed his.
"My father," he continued, "once showed me an artist’s rendition of this very dagger. It was the first time I truly understood the magic of antiquities. It ignited something in me—a longing to understand the past. I am so grateful that you can see it now."
Blanche softened. "That is truly beautiful," she said, though her words felt inadequate.
Philip exhaled a small, thoughtful breath. "My father used to spin tales of its origins, weaving stories that captivated me. Sometimes it was the dagger of a samurai warrior, other times, it belonged to a king. It became a symbol of our shared passion—history as a living, breathing thing, something to be preserved and passed down."
Blanche felt an unexpected pang of kinship. "It is funny, is it not?" she mused. "That we were both introduced to history by our fathers? That the men in our lives inspired the very passion that binds us now?"
Philip turned to her then, studying her with something undecipherable yet warm.
"Yes, Blanche," he murmured. "It is a rare and beautiful thing when the past becomes a bridge between two souls."
Something in his words made her breath catch.
For a fleeting moment, the whispers no longer mattered, the expectant gazes fading to the periphery. It was just them. Just Philip, with his kind eyes and quiet enthusiasm, and Blanche, finally seeing him as something more than a duty-bound husband.
"What do you think?" Philip suddenly asked, pulling her from her reverie. "If you were to weave a story around this dagger, what would it be?"
Blanche blinked, caught off guard by the question. Yet, the thought of creating a history—even a fictional one—for such a piece filled her with unexpected delight.
"I imagine," she began, "that it was crafted by a master artisan, a man whose very soul was poured into each curve and engraving. Perhaps he was not merely a blacksmith but a keeper of secrets, imbuing his weapons with something more than steel—something almost... magical."
Philip’s gaze sharpened with interest. "Go on," he encouraged.
