Chapter 8
Lady Charlotte stood before the bed, studying the gown she had laid out—a forest green silk that caught the afternoon sun in gentle ripples. She had chosen it with care, thinking it would give the governess a touch of elegance without calling undue attention.
Jane stood before the tall mirror in her shift while the lady’s maid fussed with pins and stays. The linen clung, and after years of wear, it offered more to the light than was proper. Charlotte’s gaze sharpened in spite of herself.
The figure that could be half-dismissed in the governess’s sober black revealed itself at last: the full, high swell of her breasts, a narrow waist that curved sweetly into rounded hips, and the graceful line of her legs with full, feminine thighs—rounded in a way that was sensual rather than soft.
Shorter than Charlotte, yes, but proportioned so that every curve of her body drew the eye.
“Hold still, miss,” the lady’s maid muttered, tugging the silk into place over Jane’s shoulders.
Charlotte stepped closer, arms folded, her expression carefully neutral.
The bodice settled, and at once she saw the change: what had always seemed modest on her own person was transformed on Jane.
The deep décolletage, which on Charlotte gaped discreetly, now brimmed with succulent flesh, the fabric molding itself to her frame.
It was fashionable—no more than many ladies would wear—but on Jane, it looked almost indecent.
Jane’s cheeks flushed, though her eyes in the glass were bright with unease rather than meekness. “Are you certain this is proper, my lady? I have never worn anything like it. I feel… exposed.”
Charlotte lingered on her reflection before answering. “It is not only proper, Miss Ansley, it is expected. The cut is nothing unusual. The fashion is for display—though I grant you, not every gown is filled so…” She caught herself, smoothing her tone. “Not every figure does it justice.”
Jane bit her lip, half-smile flickering. “I fear I am better suited to my plain black. It at least covers what it ought.”
Charlotte tilted her head, studying her with cool detachment. “On the contrary. Your black only makes you disappear. This gown shows the truth: you are… well-formed.”
The lady’s maid stepped back, smoothing the last folds of fabric.
Jane turned slowly before the mirror. The deep green set off the fairness of her skin, lending it a faint glow, and made the brown of her eyes seem richer, almost luminous.
The garment’s cut gave her an air of effortless allure, yet her blush betrayed her innocence, as though modesty still clung to her despite the daring fashion.
Charlotte drew in a quiet breath. She had meant only to make Jane presentable, a pleasant companion at dinner. Instead, she had unveiled her. Her mind strayed, unbidden, to her brother. William, returned from war, hailed as a hero, but was he really tamed?
She frowned faintly at her own image behind Jane’s in the mirror.
What was she doing, dressing the girl like this?
Helping her show her worth? Or leading her to danger?
Jane had no family to guard her, no father or brother to defend her honor.
Her uncle, the Viscount, would hardly trouble himself; he had sent a letter of recommendation only after they had already hired her.
If William took an interest… what protection would she have? None at all. No reparation, no recourse. Only disgrace.
And yet—Charlotte’s voice came calm, measured. “You need not fret, Miss Ansley. It is no more than any lady would wear in London. You will pass very well.”
Jane glanced at her reflection again, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “If you say so, my lady.”
Charlotte turned aside, hiding the shift in her thoughts. Some gifts, no dukedom could bestow. But what Nature gave in seeming blessing might, in the end, turn to her undoing.
* * *
The Norfolk countryside unfurled in long, gentle lines beyond the carriage windows.
Green fields rippled beneath the late May sun, hedgerows bright with blossom, and here and there the pale spire of a parish church pierced the sky.
William sat back against the leather squabs, a pang catching him unawares.
After years of smoke, mud, and blood, the freshness of England’s countryside seemed almost unreal—too clean, too peaceful. Home.
The carriage rattled to a halt at a coaching inn, the horses steaming, the sour tang of hay and manure drifting in through the open window. His coachman appeared at the door. “Last stop before Westford Castle, my lord. They’ll change the team directly.”
William stepped down, stretching his limbs, and drew a long breath of air heavy with honeysuckle and sweat. It was scarcely mid-afternoon, the days long now, the light still strong. He looked at the waiting gelding the ostler had led out. “Never mind the carriage,” he said. “I’ll ride on ahead.”
He swung into the saddle with practiced ease.
The horse shifted beneath him, restless.
William gave him his head, and they surged forward, hooves drumming against the packed earth.
The wind rushed hard against his face, streaming through his hair, stinging his eyes with its cool force.
Every stride jolted through his frame, the animal’s power beneath him a living, breathing force.
He had known this sensation since boyhood—the fierce exhilaration of speed, the freedom of being part of the beast and the earth together.
He laughed aloud, the sound carried away by the wind.
For the first time since France, he felt wholly alive.
And then, cresting a rise, he saw it. Westford Castle.
The great towers and classical facades caught the late sun, pale stone rising above the green of parkland.
The sight struck him with a force almost reverent.
This was no mere estate—it was his inheritance, his charge, the blood and stone of centuries.
A weight, yes, but no longer a burden. It was his sacred duty to preserve its grandeur for generations to come.
Charlotte would be there, waiting. She had always been the one closest to him since childhood.
Their parents, often absent, had never shown them much warmth.
After their mother’s death—he only thirteen, Charlotte but seven—it fell to him to be more parent than brother, offering the tenderness she had never known.
Yet his mother had been formidable: a true lady, grace bound by iron.
He remembered her as elegant, poised, her frown enough to wither reputations at a glance.
Revered, feared, indomitable. Her example burned in him still.
A duchess must be such a woman, worthy of the coronet, able to command a room, to guard the family’s honor.
For Charlotte’s sake, for the family’s, he must choose well.
He slowed as he reached the gates, trotting into the familiar sweep of the drive.
At the stables, a boy sprang forward, his face alight.
“Lord Blackmeer! Sir—it is an honor!” He took the reins reverently, almost as if touching something sacred.
“We followed your victories in the gazettes. If there’s another campaign, sir—” his voice quivered with eagerness—“I’d give anything to serve. For glory. For England. For the King.”
William smiled faintly, though the words fell heavy in his ears. Glory. He had seen too much of it in smoke and shattered bodies. He clapped the boy’s shoulder but said nothing, only: “Is Lady Charlotte at home?”
“Of course, my lord. And Lady Margaret too.”
Inside, the butler came bustling, his manner full of anxious pride. “My lord, you are most welcome. We had expected you tomorrow. But your rooms are prepared, the servants stand ready—if there is anything—”
“Later,” William said, brushing past with easy authority. “Where is Lady Charlotte?”
“In the drawing room, my lord.”
He crossed the hall, his boots echoing on the marble flags, throat dry from dust and speed. He would see his sister first—before wine, before rest.
The drawing-room door stood half-closed. He slowed, the voices within drifting out—Charlotte’s bright, quick tones, raised in animation.
“…But as you’ve seen yourself, Byron cannot be dismissed so easily,” she was saying. “There is fire in him, however scandalous.”
And another voice answered—clear, low, touched with intelligence. A voice he had never heard.
“It is passion that unsettles, my lady,” Jane said quietly, her eyes steady. “Not the word, but the truth of it—set down without disguise. That is why his verses burn. They shame us only because they refuse to be ashamed.”
William pushed the door wider. His gaze caught first on Charlotte, vibrant as he had not seen her in years—and then on the figure opposite her.
For a heartbeat he stilled, almost staggered.
He had never seen her like. The gown clung scandalously, the low cut straining with the swell of her breasts: full, heavy, near to spilling.
A body made for sin, and yet without a trace of artifice.
Chestnut brown hair in a simple coiffure.
No jewelry. Not a trace of powder or rouge.
And then her face—caught in the glow of the westering light, eyes alive with thought, her mind lending her beauty an even sharper edge.
He stood in the doorway, unseen yet, pulse hammering. The question came sudden and uninvited, almost fierce: What in Heaven’s name have I walked into?