Page 51 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
Chapter 23
With each step toward the entrance of her childhood home, Blanche felt the weight of the evening’s revelations pressing heavier upon her shoulders. Her heart, still raw with betrayal, beat with a thud that echoed in her chest like a distant drum. The familiar scent that greeted her—polished wood, old books, and faint traces of lavender wax—should have been comforting, but tonight it only deepened the ache within her.
The front door swung open with practiced ease, revealing the dim, hushed grandeur of the foyer beyond. Blanche paused, just for a moment, gathering herself before stepping across the threshold. Her footsteps clicked against the marble floor, each one a solemn declaration of resolve. The echoes whispered back at her, as if the house itself sensed the storm gathering in her chest.
She had come to unearth truths long buried, to tear back the veil of silence that had smothered her father’s memory. The pain would not be easy—of that she was certain—but if there was to be healing, it must begin here, now.
As she entered the hallway, a voice called her back to the present.
"Blanche!"
Leopold, her younger brother, stood waiting for her, his boyish face lit with the kind of joy that made her heart clench. His innocent excitement, so unspoiled by the weight of adult deceptions, offered a momentary balm to her frayed nerves.
"You are here!" he exclaimed, then glanced behind her, expectant. "Is your husband not with you? I was hoping I could show him something."
Blanche opened her mouth to respond, to gently delay him, but she was too slow.
Before she could utter a word, Leopold had dashed outside, his voice already calling out for Philip. Blanche stood motionless, lips parted in protest that never formed, watching the last sliver of her carefully drawn boundary slip away.
So much for sparing Philip from the storm.
Moments later, Leopold returned, beaming, with a reluctant-looking Philip trailing behind him.
"I was not sure what to do," Philip admitted softly, offering her an apologetic glance.
"I know," she replied, her voice gentler than she felt. "It seems he was determined."
Leopold turned to Philip, eyes shining. "Would you kindly come to the library with me? I found an old volume on Roman campaigns, it’s marvellously illustrated. I think you will love it."
Blanche met Philip’s eyes, a silent understanding passing between them. He gave the barest nod—an acknowledgement of her unspoken plea for privacy. She knew he would keep Leopold happily occupied, far away from the confrontation that loomed.
A faint smile tugged at her lips as she watched the pair disappear down the corridor. Despite everything, she was grateful for this budding bond between her husband and brother. It offered a small, steady light in the midst of all this darkness.
And now, with them safely out of earshot, it was time.
Time to face the truth.
Time to hear what her mother had to say—for better or worse.
Did her mother truly understand what she had done? It felt like madness to be placed in such a position at all. But however deeply Blanche's heart might ache, she would not allow that pain to show on her face. Not this time.
She moved through the halls like a ghost made of steel—quiet, but unyielding.
It did not take long to find her. Of course not. Blanche should have expected it: Isabella was precisely where she always was when trouble stirred—lounging in the drawing room as if the world existed to orbit her. Draped in a gown of rich ivory silk, layered in lace and heavy jewels, she reclined with a glass of something expensive, unbothered and exquisite as a portrait.
Blanche stood there a moment, watching her.
She had spent the evening in quiet agony, her father’s memory desecrated, and here was her mother, adorned in regal splendour and sipping wine with the air of someone entirely untouched by consequence.
The rage came swiftly.
Her entrance shattered the drawing room’s tranquil veneer.
“Mother,” Blanche said, her voice low, tight. “We must talk.”
Isabella glanced up with an arched brow and the faintest smile of indulgence. “Talk? About what, dearest?”
“The true fate of my missing antiquities.”
