Chapter 12
The schoolroom was still, as if it too waited with her.
A faint scent of chalk lingered, mingled with lilac drifting in through the open casement.
June had only just begun, yet the air already stirred with a lazy breeze—warmer than she liked.
Jane sat with her notes spread before her, preparing the lesson that had been canceled this morning.
The door burst open, jolting her from her thoughts.
“Miss Ansley! Miss Ansley!” Margaret came flying in, cheeks flushed, hair tumbling loose from its neat braid, her boots spattered with mud from the paddock. She carried her little riding whip as though it were a marshal’s baton, brandishing it in triumph.
“He let me ride, he truly did!” she exclaimed breathlessly, spinning into the room.
“William—oh, he is the finest rider, the finest brother in all the world! You should have seen him, Miss Ansley—straight as an arrow in the saddle, and the horse obeys him as if it were magic. He held my hand as I mounted, and when I wobbled, he steadied me himself. And when I laughed, he laughed with me, not at me!” She stopped for breath, eyes glowing.
Jane could only smile, though her throat tightened.
The child was radiant, her small chest rising and falling as though she had galloped the length of the paddock herself.
For so long Margaret had wilted under neglect, starved of affection.
Now, after the smallest crumb of kindness, she was transformed, her whole being alight with delight.
“Oh, Miss Ansley,” she went on, clasping Jane’s hand with eager fingers, “I wish you had a brother like mine. Truly I do. There is no one like him. Do you not think so?”
Jane’s lips curved, though she kept her eyes lowered, afraid her expression might betray too much.
No one like him—the words pierced deep. How could she answer?
How could she explain that her body still tingled with the memory of his touch, that shame and longing warred in her so violently she scarce knew which would prevail?
She dared not speak the truth, so she only said softly, “You are very fortunate, my dearest.”
Margaret sighed blissfully, as if this confirmed everything she already knew. She trudged off to fetch her grammar book, casting a mournful look over her shoulder. “Lessons! We must have them, though I would rather speak only of William all day long.”
Jane shook her head with fond resignation. “Lessons we must have indeed. But as the day is so fine, let us not bury ourselves in here. Fetch your bonnet—we shall take our reading outside.”
Margaret clapped her hands, her joy renewed, and darted off like a sparrow released from its cage.
Jane rose more slowly, gathering her notes with careful hands.
Her gaze lingered a moment on the sunlight spilling through the window, gilding the motes of dust in the stillness.
He gave her happiness. For that alone, I cannot resent him.
And yet her own heart trembled still, every beat echoing the feel of his weight pressing her down, his voice rough against her ear, his lips scorching her skin.
She pressed the books to her breast, willing calm into her face. I cannot—must not—think of it again.
* * *
The parkland of Westford Castle stretched wide and serene, the lawns rolling down to the clustered trees beyond. The day was warming, and in this quiet corner of the grounds, the air was fragrant with lavender and the faint sweetness of hawthorn in bloom.
Jane and Margaret walked together along the gravel path, their shadows stretched long before them. Margaret skipped now and then in sheer high spirits, clutching her bonnet in one hand, her grammar book forgotten under the other arm.
They had not gone far into the woods when the muffled thud of hooves reached them—steady, unhurried, echoing faintly beneath the canopy. Jane looked up at once, her chest clenching.
Through the filtered light, he came into view: Lord Blackmeer on horseback, tall in the saddle, his posture easy despite the animal’s restless toss of the head.
He wore no coat, only a plain waistcoat and shirt open at the throat, the careless attire of a man at leisure. The sight of him hit her hard.
Margaret gave a gleeful squeal. “William! William, come down—you must join us!” She ran forward, waving madly, aglow with joy simply to see him.
He reined in, dismounting with effortless grace, and tied the horse to a low branch. When he turned to them, his expression was composed, almost bland, as though nothing at all had passed between them the night before. That composure made Jane’s blush burn hotter.
“Miss Ansley is telling me stories of the ancients,” Margaret said eagerly, catching his hand and tugging him closer.
“Do you know, William, that the Greeks once built a wooden horse, taller than a cottage, and hid inside it? And when the Trojans pulled it into their city, the Greeks crept out at night and took everything! Burned it all to the ground!” She beamed up at him, eyes shining.
“Is it not wonderful? When I am a general, I must know such things.”
He smiled faintly, indulgent, but his gaze flicked—inevitably—to Jane. She kept her head bowed, though she felt the weight of his attention like a brand.
Margaret went on, breathless with excitement. “Miss Ansley says it shows how cunning may be stronger than force. You must tell the Duke of Wellington of it, William, when next you see him! It may help us win the next war faster! So you won’t be gone for so long.”
William laughed, a low sound, half amusement, half fondness. “I think His Grace knows his Homer, little one. But you are right—it is cunning indeed.” He studied Jane with unreadable intensity. “Miss Ansley seems to have a gift for teaching the right kind of stories.”
Her heart gave a painful twist. Why does he stay? Why can he speak so calmly, as if he has nothing to regret? She pressed her hand against the book to steady it, her knuckles white against the worn leather.
Margaret, oblivious, was already darting to a patch of wildflowers, declaring she must make a crown of them for her next campaign.
“Do not go far!” Jane called, though the words frayed.
She would have followed, but William’s voice stopped her. “Miss Ansley.” Soft. Low. She felt it in her bones.
Slowly, she lifted her eyes. He stood close now, nearer than she had realized. The scent of horse and leather and the faintest tang of brandy hung about him. His face was grave. He stared at her with a steadiness that unsettled more than any leer could have done.
“I am sorry, Miss Ansley.” Though he spoke gently, the apology carried a weight that stilled the air between them. She could only look at him, pulse quickening.
He went on, his tone rough, low enough that only she could hear above Margaret’s distant singing. “Though nothing I say can convey how sorry I am. I understand if you wish to find another post. No doubt you should. I would not blame you.”
Her stomach lurched. Another post? For a wild instant she thought he meant to cast her out, to send her away in disgrace. “You mean—” The question cracked, barely audible. “You mean I am to be dismissed?”
Something flickered in his expression, swift and raw. He shook his head sharply. “No. God forbid. Never that. I meant only—if you chose to leave, I would not stand in your way.”
Relief surged so swiftly it left her dizzy. He would not be so cruel as to turn her out for his own transgression. And his transgression… had seared her. She still bore the mark of him from the night before: his hungry mouth, his rough fingers against her tender flesh. The heat of it burned on.
She no longer knew whether she feared dishonor—or longed for it. The confession rose before she could stop it, spilling out in a rush.
“Do not be sorry, my lord,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
“I know now the passion in Byron’s verses—and what ruinous effect it may have.
I know its appeal. And I know why it is so dangerous…
” She forced the words out, a kind of desperate courage lending them strength.
“…Because it is not in our nature to resist it.”
The silence that followed seemed to press against her skin. His eyes searched hers, dark, intent, as if he scarcely believed what he had heard. She held still, afraid to shatter the moment.
Then he moved—closer, only a fraction, but enough that she felt the warmth of him, enough that the world seemed to tilt. His face bent toward hers, hesitant yet fervent, until his lips brushed hers—light, startled, no more than the faintest touch.
And in that instant—“William! William, look!” Margaret’s voice rang through the trees, bright as a bell. The spell broke.
He pulled back at once, jaw tightening, composure snapping into place. Jane’s breath hitched, her heart pounding wild. Before she could gather her thoughts, Margaret came running, arms full of daisies, triumphant with her floral spoils, smiling in innocent delight.
* * *
William did not trust himself alone with her again.
He avoided the library altogether, filling his days with long rides through the park, overseeing the grooms, testing the new hunters—and, most of all, with Margaret.
Charlotte was lost in her endless correspondence to London and in ruling over the small circle of neighbors, dispensing favor and censure as it pleased her.
She had never cared much for their younger sister.
So he took it upon himself to see the child was not forgotten.
Each morning, he gave her riding lessons—steadying her hands on the reins, guiding her with patience, praising her small triumphs until her whole face lit up. She looked up at him with such adoration it startled him, as though a single word of approval had made her rich for life.
Yet even with his hours so occupied, her words haunted him still: it is not in our nature to resist it.
God help him, she was right. He had known passion before—had spent himself on it, reveled in nights with countless women so skilled in the arts of love they might have put Venus to shame.
He had never felt like this. With Jane, it was not only the allure—the ripe fullness—of her body, though God knew hers tempted him sorely.
It was the mind that met his in argument, the quiet conviction in her voice as she spoke without fear or shame, and above all the tenderness she poured upon Margaret.
That mixture—intellect, virtue, and desire bound together—was what made her dangerous. And so he must resist her.
Jane, for her part, was curious. What drove passion—about Byron, about the new poets, about all the voices who spoke too plainly of love and forbidden longing.
But this… this thing that drew her to his lordship so fiercely it unsettled her bones, this instinct that felt both natural and damning at once.
It was her undoing. She buried herself in the library as though the books might hold an answer.
She began to read the ancients not only for their histories but for their wisdom on the ways of men and women.
Somewhere she had seen it written—in Ovid, she thought—that even the wisest bowed to seduction.
Turning at last to the library’s index, her finger traced the neat lines until she found it: Ovid, Ars Amatoria.
The book was there indeed, in one neat volume that gathered all three works, its calfskin spine rubbed smooth with use.
She carried it to the desk, heart quickening as she opened it.
The Latin verses were dense, teasing, sly.
Ovid did not sermonize so much as instruct, his couplets dancing around where to linger in the theater, how to slip a note unseen, how to coax a lover to yield.
Not philosophy, not quite poetry either, but something far more dangerous: wit turned toward conquest. She read with parted lips, half shocked, half entranced, astonished that classical texts could speak so openly of pleasure.
She turned another leaf, and another—her pulse quickening with every line. If Ovid had written so boldly already, what wickedness lay still ahead? But then, without warning, the script shifted. Gone was the Latin. In its place, plain English words marched in thick black ink:
“Madam, I sit down to give you an undeniable proof of my considering your desires as indispensable orders…”
Jane blinked, certain at first it was some trick of her eye.
She checked the title again, then the running head.
No: this was no Ovid. These were not ancient verses at all.
Someone had hidden another work within the binding, passing as the poet until a reader came far enough to discover it.
Probably one of Lady Charlotte’s hidden texts.
But then, her breath caught, heat rushing to her cheeks as she read the words on the page: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure.