Chapter 7
Morning light crept past velvet curtains, its amber glow muddied by the grime on the panes.
The air was thick with the heady scent of drink, candle wax, and the unmistakable tang of spilled seed.
William stirred on the crumpled bed, bare skin against linen gone damp and cool.
His head throbbed faintly, from the night’s excess.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the cracked plaster ceiling, momentarily disoriented. Then he saw the red silk canopy, the discarded petticoats, the wine stains down the damask wallpaper—and he remembered. Miss Nadia’s.
How many nights had he spent here, wasting coin and vigor alike, before the war had scrubbed the edges off his sins? Before he’d learned that killing in uniform offended society less than bedding a married woman or taking a girl’s innocence.
A soft sound stirred beside him. The woman—Lisette? Harriet?—shifted against his side, a tangle of limbs and perfumed hair. Her hand slid over his stomach, fingers idly tracing a path lower, wrapping around his manhood.
“Morning, my lord,” she purred, lips grazing his shoulder. “Shall I serve you again?” She grinned, unbothered by the bruises blooming like violets on her thighs.
William caught her wrist lazily, brought it to his lips, and kissed the inside with a gentleman’s care. The kind of thing that made even whores blush. “I thought you were worn out,” he murmured, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth.
“For you, darling, I find a second wind,” she said with a wink, already sliding the sheet down.
She dragged herself over him, pressing a slow kiss to his throat. His hand cupped her arse, kneading her flesh as she ground against him. Morning desire stirred, sluggish but undeniable.
She sank down onto him, his hardness filling her to the brim, and a sigh escaped her lips at the sweet ache of the stretch.
“God, you're always so bloody big—no matter how many times you've had me,” she muttered with a breathless laugh, bracing her hands on his chest. “Thought I’d be split in two the first time.”
Heat closed around him, wet and urgent, as her hips ground against his, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, her own hand slipping between them to rub herself.
Her body worked with ardor, but her eyes stayed flat, her moans practiced.
And yet—he saw it—the wince when she bottomed out.
She hadn’t been exaggerating. He was big. He almost felt sorry for her.
She was skilled—no denying it—but the sex was mechanical.
A transaction. Blackmeer let her move, hands gripping her waist tight enough to leave marks, driving her harder against him, the slap of flesh loud in the dim room.
His body answered—swelling, spilling with a sharp grunt as release overtook him.
But he was only scratching an itch. This was nothing compared to the wild revels he’d once had here—those long nights with Maggie, when he’d gloried in ruin for its own sake, drinking and whoring until dawn.
Then, he had cared for nothing but his own pleasure.
When it was over, he lay back, breath steady, satisfaction humming in his blood.
Harriet collapsed against him, panting prettily.
He stroked her hair once, then shifted her aside without comment.
He rose, tugged on his shirt, fastened his breeches.
In the looking glass, he saw the face of a man London now called a hero.
But he could still smell the brothel on his skin.
Respectable or not, he was Major General Blackmeer. And now, he had the grim duty of facing his father.
* * *
The Westford townhouse loomed over Mayfair like a citadel of marble and gold.
Its high facade and colonnaded entrance were the envy of half of London, the sort of place where even the servants moved with the dignity of lords.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender polish, every surface gleaming, every drape of heavy silk falling in opulent folds.
Landscapes in the Italian style, all golden light and ruined temples, stretched across the walls of the entrance hall, mingled with vast canvases of mythological and religious scenes, bought at ruinous expense to prove the family’s taste.
William followed the butler across the black-and-white marble floor, boots echoing, coat collar turned up against the draft.
“His Grace has been in a state since yesterday,” Mr. Jenkins fussed, hands fluttering as if he were rearranging invisible lace.
“He expected you last evening, my lord. Your absence was most inconvenient, most irregular. His Grace is—” he lowered his voice, scandalized, “—agitated. Quite agitated indeed.”
William smirked faintly, though it felt hollow. Agitated. That was one word for it. He felt like a schoolboy being dragged before the headmaster, not the heir of a dukedom.
The doors to the study swung open with a weighty groan, and he was ushered inside.
The room was grand, heavy with gilt-framed maps, tall windows draped in velvet, and the lingering, earthy scent of cigar smoke.
Behind the desk, the Duke of Westford sat waiting, his hand tapping irritably against the armrest of his chair.
“You kept me waiting,” he said at once, voice clipped. “I had expected you yesterday.”
William inclined his head, as though apologetic. “Forgive me, Father. I thought a night’s rest would serve me better before facing you.”
The Duke’s brows twitched—impatient, but he said nothing more on the point. Instead, he leaned back, studying his son. His voice softened, even warmed.
“You’ve done well, William. Far better than I expected when you first marched off in uniform.
I was against your commission at first,” he continued, each word deliberate.
“And yet I remembered too well the lack of purpose that defined your earlier years. But now—look at you. The Duke of Wellington’s right-hand man.
The toast of London. Respected. Admired. ”
William sat in silence, jaw set, eyes unreadable. Praise washed over him like rain on oiled leather.
The Duke’s expression sharpened. “But glory is not duty. There are other matters that cannot wait.”
William’s gaze flicked to the fire, jaw tightening. “And those are?”
“The line,” his father said flatly. “You are thirty-two. It is high time you secured it. If you will not—then a cousin twice removed shall inherit. And where would that leave your sisters? Where would that leave my wife?”
Polite words formed easily on William’s tongue, but inwardly his thoughts curled dark. Let the duchess rot on some godforsaken estate. The moment I wear the ducal coronet, I’ll send her so far north even the shepherds will scorn her charms.
Outwardly, he only smiled faintly and said, “I am sure the duchess will find a way to content herself, Father.”
The Duke’s eyes narrowed, as if he sensed the undercurrent.
“Her Grace has done her duty, William. She tried for years to give me a son. Years. It was not her fault she bore only a daughter, nor that she endured stillbirths, or that those few born alive were lost in infancy. That is God’s will.
” His voice hardened. “But it is your duty now to provide a son.”
William’s laugh was low, bitter. That was her excuse? His mouth quirked with something between irony and disdain. “I have been home less than a week. You would send me to war again—but this time at the altar.”
“Do not mock me,” the Duke snapped. His fist struck the desk softly, but the wood trembled.
“You are the most eligible bachelor in England. And it is as if society has conveniently forgotten your vices. The Season is still upon us. Tonight, if you wish it, you could meet a lady fit to be your duchess.”
William’s shoulders tightened. He shifted in his chair, restless.
“I have just returned from France. I need rest. Peace. Time. I have not seen Charlotte in three years—I would go to Westford Castle, and perhaps convince her to join me in London. She may have a keener eye for what makes a good match than you.”
The Duke flushed, stung. “My wife’s bloodline is impeccable. She is young, beautiful—the most beautiful woman in London, they say. You would be half as lucky to secure someone like her.”
“And yet I would never be so liberal with my own wife, nor indulge her appetites,” William retorted. “She is a stain on our name.” His late mother had been a paragon of virtue and aristocratic poise; his father’s second wife, by contrast, lacked both morals and common sense.
The Duke’s hands clenched on the armrests.
“You have been a stain on our name for most of your years. Whoring, debauching girls, seducing wives, fighting duels with aggrieved fathers and husbands. If you had not nearly died in that affair with Sir Charles Bewely, I would never have remarried in the first place. I married again only because you failed to do your duty. You should have secured the succession long ago.”
The silence between them stretched, sharp as broken glass.
Finally, the Duke’s voice dropped low, heavy with command. “Go to Westford Castle if you must. Hide there for now. But not for long. You will marry. You will produce an heir before you march off to another damned campaign. Or so help me, I will cut you off. I will denounce you.”
William stared, momentarily shocked. Denounce him?
His father could strip nothing that mattered.
And yet—after years of marching, fighting, killing, all he wanted was quiet.
A few months of stillness before duty called.
If that duty meant marriage—a woman with the right name, the right breeding—he would do it.
But not now. Not yet. He had only just set foot back in England.
And already, the shackles of expectation rattled around him.
* * *
Lady Charlotte sat alone in the drawing room, a half-finished cup of tea cooling at her elbow.
The long windows stood open to the garden, the scent of lilac drifting in on the breeze, but she was too distracted to notice.
Across her lap lay a letter from one of her protégées, a spirited young woman whose verses she quietly sponsored in London.
Charlotte was, in her own discreet way, a patroness of young women writers, slipping them encouragement and coin where she could, though society would hardly approve if it knew.
She was still smiling faintly over the girl’s untidy script when Mr. Harding entered, silver tray in hand. “A letter, my lady. From Lord Blackmeer himself.”
The moment the name left his lips, Charlotte’s hand shot out, uncharacteristically eager. She broke the seal with a speed that made the butler raise a brow. Her eyes skimmed the lines—and then she gave a little squeal, the sort of girlish sound she had not made in years.
“He’s coming!” she exclaimed, laughing at her own outburst. “At last—after so long, William is coming home!”
Mr. Harding, wisely, only inclined his head and withdrew, leaving her to her excitement.
Charlotte pressed the letter to her chest for a moment, then set it on the tea table and immediately began to plan.
If William was returning, she couldn’t be his only company, after years deprived of society and civility.
He must be entertained, welcomed back, made to feel that Westford Castle still pulsed with life.
Her mind began to tick through the neighborhood.
Mrs. Hughes, of course—solid, dependable, with her two daughters, eighteen and sixteen.
Pretty enough, and new enough, to provide William with fresh faces.
Then Lord Crofford, though Heaven help her if her brother was subjected to more than half an hour of horse pedigrees.
Lord Fovargue too, who never said much but looked very fine in a chair, and his French wife, Lady Fovargue—perhaps William might enjoy trading stories of the Continent with her.
Still, that would not be enough. She needed more ladies, more sparkle, to hold his attention.
And then her thoughts turned, inevitably, to Jane.
Dear, clever Jane Ansley—how quick her mind was, how passionately she applied herself.
Ever since Charlotte had pressed those volumes on women’s rights into her hands, any hesitation in Jane’s self-confidence had vanished.
She had thrown herself into her studies with a zeal that humbled Charlotte, devouring not only the classics but also the bold, unsettling philosophies that proper ladies were warned against. Conversation with her could be as stimulating as with anyone in London.
But Jane was only a governess. Charlotte sipped her cold tea, frowning at the thought.
No—perhaps she could contrive something.
If Jane were dressed properly, in one of her own gowns perhaps…
yes, that might do. No one need know. For one evening, Jane could be a lady among ladies, helping her keep William entertained.
A dinner then, something intimate, tasteful, in his honor.
The neighbors gathered, candles blazing, music playing.
William deserved nothing less after so many years away.
And if, in the midst of it all, Jane should shine as brightly as Charlotte knew she could…
well, that would be no bad thing either.
Charlotte smiled to herself, already reaching for pen and paper. There was much to arrange, and only days to do it.