Page 54 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
"I knew nothing of my mother’s vile machinations until this very moment,” she said, her voice tremulous but steady with conviction. “Philip, I swear to you—I am as much a victim of this as you.”
But her words seemed to glance off him, as though they couldn’t pierce the wall rising swiftly around his heart.
“I don’t believe you,” he bit out, his voice a ragged whisper. “How can I?”
“You must not have heard the full conversation,” she pleaded. “Please, allow me to explain—”
But he recoiled from her, as if her very presence wounded him. “No,” he said, hoarse. “I will not be made a fool of again.”
The silence between them stretched like a chasm.
"You are no longer welcome at my family’s estate," he said finally, the sentence as sharp and final as a blade. “Not now. Not ever.”
The words tore through her like a storm. Blanche stood motionless as Philip turned and strode from the room, the weight of his devastation dragging behind him like a shadow. The door slammed with a force that made her flinch.
Her knees buckled slightly beneath her, the sting of rejection anchoring her in place. She wanted to scream, to run after him, to make him hear her. But he was gone.
“Spare me this agony, Philip,” she whispered into the emptiness. “Please don’t leave me.”
But only silence answered.
She sank to her knees, her tears falling unchecked as the world blurred around her. The drawing room—once the heart of her childhood—felt cold and cruel now. The fine furnishings, the glittering chandeliers, the perfectly arranged vases—all mocked her with their emptiness.
And then came her mother’s voice, sharp and scornful.
"You ruin everything you touch," Isabella hissed from behind her. "Do you understand what you’ve done? The only useful thing you ever did was secure that marriage—and now, just look at the state of things."
Blanche pressed trembling hands to her ears. She could not listen. Not now. Not after this.
Isabella’s voice rose, grating and shrill. “Now I must keep you and your brother under my roof again, with no money and no prospects. You’ve destroyed everything. Do you understand the scandal this will bring down upon us? The whispers, the disgrace—what am I supposed to do now?”
But Blanche could not respond. Her heart was broken, and for the first time, she truly feared it might never be mended.
Unable to bear another moment beneath her mother’s roof—where each word fell like a blade and every glance was laced with scorn—Blanche stumbled from the drawing room. Her footsteps echoed through the hushed corridors, ghostly remnants of a home that once offered refuge now transformed into a prison of betrayal and grief.
In the dim candlelight of the hall, her breath trembled. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, but her resolve grew sharp. She could not stay here. Not now. Not tonight.
She packed with haste—just a single valise of essentials, hands trembling with every item she tucked away. The past had grown too heavy to carry. As she crossed the threshold, the night air wrapped around her, cold and bracing. The stars above blinked with indifferent light as the door closed behind her, the final sound of a chapter ending.
Blanche walked blindly, driven only by the ache in her chest and the memory of the one person who had never turned away from her. She needed shelter. Safety. Someone who would believe her. Someone who would not ask her to explain why her heart was breaking.
By the time she reached Penelope's townhouse, her cheeks were streaked with salt, her limbs weary, her heart raw. The glow of a lantern near the door revealed the tear stains on her cheeks, mirroring the storm that raged within her. As Penelope opened the door, concern etched across her gentle features, she ushered Blanche inside with a warmth that promised solace.
"Blanche, dear, what has happened?" she asked softly, drawing her inside with the kind of embrace only true friendship could offer.
Blanche allowed herself to be led into the warm embrace of the drawing room. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Shesank onto the sofa as if her bones could no longer carry her weight.
Taking a trembling breath, she tried to speak. "It is my mother," she whispered. "We had a terrible row. I—I can’t stay there anymore. Not after what she’s done."
Penelope sat beside her, her hand folding gently over Blanche’s. "What has she done?"
Blanche closed her eyes, the words sticking in her throat. “Philip took me to Mr. Munroe’s auction tonight… and I saw them—my father’s artefacts. The ones we believed were lost. But they weren’t lost. She sold them.”
Penelope gasped, but Blanche pressed on before she could respond.
“And when I confronted her… she blamed me. Said I was the reason for our family's misfortunes. That I was the one who had failed—because I loved books more than balls, history more than titles. And then she admitted…” Blanche’s voice faltered, but she forced the words through. “She admitted that she orchestrated the scandal with Philip. That she tipped off the gossip columns herself. She arranged it so he would have no choice but to propose.”
Penelope’s face paled in stunned silence. “She... forced the match?”
