Page 49 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
The truth dropped like a stone in her stomach.
She remembered, too, what Leopold had said about a strange man coming to see their mother. About private meetings. Could this be him?
Her breath caught. A cold certainty settled over her: Mr. Munroe had acquired her father's artefacts not through scholarly channels, but through her mother.
"Philip," she murmured, panic rising in her throat, "I believe my mother sold these. Without telling me."
As Mr. Munroe stepped forward and began the auction with a genteel flourish, the room hushed into reverent murmurs. Blanche, however, heard none of it. She stood rooted in place, stricken, as the truth took shape before her.
Her mother had known.
Had lied.
Had allowed her to search in vain, to cling to hope, while quietly relinquishing the remnants of her father’s legacy to a stranger.
The weight of it crashed over her like a rising tide. It was time to face the truth—before it drowned her entirely.
A cold shudder coursed down her spine as the implications settled in her bones. Her mother, always the paragon of decorum and poise, had cloaked herself in grace while weaving a deception so devastating, Blanche could scarcely breathe beneath it. These artefacts—these cherished echoes of her father's passion—had been reduced to little more than bargaining chips in some undisclosed game of ambition or disdain.
Philip, attuned to the silent unravelling beside him, glanced down and saw the anguish etched upon her face. His grip on her hand tightened—steady, reassuring—anchoring her to the present even as her past slipped from her grasp.
Blanche stood unmoving in the midst of silk gowns and murmuring voices, but inside she was hollowed out. Grief clashed with disbelief, and her voice, when it came, was barely audible above the rustle of conversation.
"What am I to do, Philip?" she whispered, the words caught somewhere between despair and disbelief. "My inheritance is being sold before my very eyes. And I can do nothing but watch as my father's memory is dismantled, piece by piece."
Philip's expression hardened; his jaw set with quiet resolve. Without another word, he slipped an arm around her waist, shielding her from view as he steered her gently but firmly from the room. Away from the glinting relics that once held meaning. Away from the prying eyes and half-curious stares of those who would never understand what this moment cost her.
She allowed herself to be led, though each step away from the artefacts felt like a betrayal in itself. Her father would never have left them behind. But what choice did she have?
Outside, the night air rushed to meet her, sharp and cold against her overheated skin. Blanche drew in a trembling breath,though it did little to quell the storm within her. Philip’s presence, solid and unyielding, was the only thing keeping her from collapsing into the weight of her grief.
He said nothing as he guided her to the waiting carriage. No platitudes. No reassurances. Just a hand at her back, steady and warm.
"Come," he murmured softly, helping her inside. "Let me take you home."
Blanche allowed herself to be led, though she barely registered the movement. Her limbs felt foreign, her body hollowed by grief. Each step was taken not by will, but by necessity. She had lost the ability to do anything else.
Inside the carriage, the silence settled thickly between them, broken only by the muted rumble of wheels over cobblestone and the occasional creak of polished wood. Philip watched her closely, the pain etched across her face sharper than any blade. She did not cry, but sorrow radiated from her in heavy waves.
And then, after a long, aching silence, Blanche turned to him with quiet resolve.
“I must confront my mother,” she said. Her voice was calm, but the steel beneath it rang clear. “I cannot return home pretending this hasn’t happened. I cannot rest until I hear the truth from her own lips.”
“You’re certain?” Philip asked gently, though he already knew the answer.
“I am.”
He nodded, and with a single word to the driver, the carriage turned, veering away from home and toward the confrontation that waited ahead.
Blanche stared out the window, her gaze vacant, unseeing. Familiar streets passed in a blur, but she saw none of them. Her mind was a tempest of thought and emotion—grief, betrayal,disbelief—each one pulling at her until she scarcely knew where one ended and the next began.
The artefacts her father had so dearly cherished were now scattered to strangers, reduced to cold transactions. They had been more than objects—they were fragments of memory, symbols of his passion and the bond they had shared. That they had been sold, cast off as if meaningless, was a cruelty Blanche could hardly comprehend.
Philip remained silent beside her, sensing she needed stillness more than words. Yet he could feel her retreating, folding inward, the agony coiling tighter with every turn of the wheels. At last, he reached across the carriage, his hand tentative as it moved toward hers.
“Blanche,” he said quietly, his voice laced with concern, “perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding—a miscommunication among the staff, or something misplaced unintentionally. Let us not leap to conclusions. We will uncover the truth together. I will be with you, every step.”
She did not meet his gaze. She merely shook her head, a slow, pained motion.
