Chapter 13
Jane bent lower over the volume, scarcely daring to breathe.
At first she thought she would read only a page or two, enough to satisfy her curiosity before returning it to its hiding place.
She needed answers tested by time, and had no patience for whatever fancy this was.
But the words clung to her, line after line drawing her deeper into the secret world they described.
One thing was certain: this book did not belong to Lady Charlotte.
All her life, she had been taught that the marital act was a duty—a gift a woman gave only to her husband, a burden borne for the sake of children and family.
Yet here, before her eyes, was an entirely different vision: a woman who not only yielded but gloried in the yielding, who sought pleasure and found it in abandon.
The first encounter had shocked her—the girl’s innocence given up with pain, the boldness with which she described her own body and her lover’s.
If such pain awaited, how could any woman desire it?
And yet, when the words turned to rapture, unashamed and unrestrained, she flushed scarlet.
She kept reading with parted lips, heart hammering, her thighs pressed tightly together.
Then, so swiftly, came another chapter, another descent.
Her lover lost to her, and a man of wealth, older, took the girl into comfort, into silks and fine apartments.
She did not love him, Jane read in shock.
And yet she confessed to taking satisfaction—even without affection.
Her hand wavered as she drew the page nearer, scarcely believing such a thing could be admitted.
And then, her lover’s servant. A boy untried, yet shockingly endowed.
She faltered, stunned by the vivid account: the size of his manhood, the aching stretch, the sting that gave way to ecstasy.
Fanny wrote of it with awe and delight—of how it hurt, and how she begged for more.
Jane pressed her lips together to stifle a gasp.
The lines burned through her until she thought she might swoon.
When the tale turned darker, when Fanny was discovered and sent into the keeping of women who sold themselves as trade, Jane thought she would cast the book aside in horror.
But even then—God forgive her—she read on, bewitched.
There was no apology, no shame. The girl embraced what she was, taking and giving pleasure with a freedom Jane had never imagined possible.
Her father’s sermons on restraint, on piety, on the careful bridling of human appetite—what mockery they seemed now.
No prayer could steady her, no moral precept extinguish the fire racing through her blood.
She closed the volume with trembling fingers, pressing her hot palms against the leather as though to keep the words from searing her further.
She shoved it back onto the shelf and all but fled the library, her breath ragged, cheeks flaming as though the world itself could see what she had done. The corridor outside felt cool and merciless, but the pounding of her heart only worsened.
Her steps quickened, almost a run, as though speed might quench this thirst unlike any she had ever known. But she was so consumed with dread, with this sweet ache, that she scarcely saw where she went—until she struck something solid and unyielding.
Someone. The shock of the collision sent her staggering, but strong hands caught her by the waist before she fell. She looked up in dismay—straight into the gray-blue eyes of Lord Blackmeer.
The light from the tall windows caught his hair, his broad shoulders filling the space with effortless authority. He turned to her at once, his gaze sharp and questioning. “Miss Ansley,” he said, his tone low, touched with concern. “What is the matter? You seem fevered—has something happened?”
Jane could not speak. She froze, burning to her marrow, certain he could see straight into her soul.
He regarded her, his features sharpening until something darker stirred in his eyes.
The way her chest rose and fell, the tremor in her lips, the betraying peaks of her breasts straining against thin muslin—God help him, he could see.
And worse, faint as it was, he caught the scent of her arousal, sweet and unmistakable.
He stilled, his voice a growl now. “This is no fever. What—or who—has put you in such a state?”
The words struck her like a lash. She felt her knees weaken, her mouth parting soundlessly. When he let her go at last—as if she scorched him—she looked up like a deer caught in a hunter’s snare.
“I will know,” he pressed, storm rising in him. “Tell me. If some man has dared—” His jaw tightened. “I will see him punished, you have my word.”
“My lord—please—” Her voice faltered, her breath heaving. “It was… Ovid.”
He blinked. “Ovid?” His frown deepened. “We have no one of that name in our employ. Or if we do, I’ll have him dragged before me—”
Her heart lurched. Was he mad, or mocking her? “Not a man,” she gasped, “a book. In the library. Ovid’s Ars Amatoria—” Or what was hidden within it, but she could not admit that. Her cheeks burned hotter still.
Something flickered in his face—recognition, then dread. The color drained from his cheeks. “Dear God.”
Because he knew. It was his book—part of the collection he had once hoarded, concealed behind more respectable bindings.
There had been others too: engravings showing every posture of coupling, volumes bound in calfskin that promised philosophy but delivered only filth, novels more debased than Ovid’s sly verses.
He had hidden them in the library years ago, believing them safe from innocent eyes.
And now the unworldly Miss Ansley had opened the worst of them all.
“How much?” he demanded hoarsely. “How much did you read?”
She pressed a hand to her breast, trembling. “I… I cannot say. Please, my lord—do not press me.”
A silence fell, the air stretched thin between them. His gaze held her, stormy, searching. Then at last he said, hard as stone: “You may go.”
She should have fled. She almost did. But she lingered, her whole body taut with want. Her lips parted, a whisper escaping before she could master it.
“Please… my lord,” she said, her voice scarcely sound. “Is there nothing you can do? Something—like that night in the library?”
He stared at her, incredulous. “You cannot mean—”
But she did. He saw the faint tremor in her, the way her eyes shone with both shame and desire. God help him, she was begging for it.
He dragged a hand down his face, battling himself. One more step and he would ruin her entirely. He had tried to avoid this very thing for nearly a month. Yet he saw her innocence too—the reverend’s daughter, raised in ignorance of the world, caught in a fire she could not master.
At last, with a steadiness that cost him everything, he spoke. “I will help you ease this torment, Miss Ansley,” he said, his tone low and deliberate. “But you will do only what I command. Nothing more. I will not see you ruined.”
She nodded her agreement feeling like she was being saved from certain death. After a long breath through clenched teeth, he said low:
“Very well. Go to your room. At once. I will follow presently.”
Jane’s knees all but failed her. She nodded, shaken, and walked quickly down the hall. The walls of Westford Castle blurred about her; she scarcely knew how she reached her door.
Once within, she pressed her back against it, her whole frame sagging. She waited, pacing, heart thundering. Every creak in the hallway made her jump; every sound wound her tighter. Then, at last, the latch shifted, and Lord Blackmeer slipped in, silent as a thief.
They were alone in her small room. A bed stood waiting. He looked at it as if it held the mysteries of life and his damnation all the same. Then his gaze turned to her, grim, as though struggling to master himself.
He gave a low, humorless laugh. “God help me, Miss Ansley. After this, I may apply for sainthood.”
Before she could answer, he came forward.
His mouth claimed hers, a firm, brief kiss, and then he began undressing her with care—each hook, each lace, each fold of fabric sliding away under his hands.
With every inch of skin revealed, he pressed his lips there, reverent and hungry at once: the slope of her shoulder, the line of her collarbone, the soft mounds of her breasts.
Jane trembled beneath the attention, her whimper breaking in gasps. By the time the last garment fell, she stood utterly naked before him, flushed scarlet but unable to hide.
“Will you ease yourself of your own clothes, my lord?” she whispered, mortified and yet bold with need.
“Absolutely not,” he said at once, voice roughened by restraint. “And for the love of God, you are standing bare before me—you may call me William.”
Her blush deepened to the roots of her hair.
“Lie down,” he said, quieter now.
She obeyed, settling on the bed, hands fluttering to cover herself but falling helplessly away when he touched her.
He paused once more, looking at her—every curve of her, every shaking breath—and the thought struck him like a blade: she was perfection, and he was damned for it.
His fingers traced her as though learning her by heart, every caress drawing shivers.
His lips followed, leaving a trail of fire over her throat, down to the tender swell of her breasts. There he lingered, enthralled. He cupped the soft weight, thumb brushing across the taut peak until it drew impossibly sharp beneath his touch. Then his mouth closed over her, warm, insistent.
She gasped aloud. The sensation overwhelmed her—his tongue circling, teeth grazing, hand kneading until her back arched clear from the bed.
She had felt him there before, but nothing had prepared her for this.
Her cry broke free, raw and helpless, and before she could understand what was happening, a jolt of pleasure tore through her—her sex clenching on nothing, desperate for him.
He drew back only slightly, watching her shudder and pant as though he had uncovered some secret treasure. A low sound escaped him, half-growl, half-moan. “Christ,” he muttered, his mouth returning greedily to her, suckling and nipping, as if he meant to devour her.
The taste of her, the way she quivered beneath the barest flick of his tongue, made him ravenous. It wasn’t enough—nothing was. He had meant to be gentle, measured, but now a savage need drove him lower, his mouth trailing down her stomach toward the heat he knew waited for him.
She opened to him then without hesitation, her thighs falling wide, baring herself in all her glory. The sight stole his breath. Sleek, glistening, unguarded—she was a vision both innocent and ruinous.
“Perfect… impossibly perfect,” he murmured hoarsely, almost to himself, as he bent closer still. Then, with a snarl that was almost surrender, he pressed his lips to the slick, aching center of her.
Jane jolted, her hips jerking, fists twisting in the coverlet.
Never in her most fevered imaginings—never in the pages of that wicked book—had she dreamed of such a thing.
His tongue moved with sure strokes, teasing, coaxing, until she was writhing beneath him, her breath coming in broken sobs. “Oh—please—my lord—”
Her voice spurred him on. His hand slid upward—one finger slipping inside her, filling her, moving in rhythm with his mouth as he worked over her swollen nub.
Then two. The sensations crashed over her in waves, unbearable and exquisite.
She grabbed his hair, pulling him closer, straining helplessly against him.
The peak came swiftly, consuming her whole.
She cried his name, every nerve alight with rapture.
Yet he did not stop. He urged her higher again until another climax seized her, fiercer still, leaving her gasping, clutching hard around his fingers.
But even then, her body yearned for more—desperate to be filled, truly filled.
When she could breathe, she dragged at him desperately, lips parched, voice fractured. “Please, William—take me—I cannot bear it—”
For a moment, he only stared at her, the weight of his arousal pressed hot and hard against her thigh. Then a crooked smile broke across his face, wry, almost cruel. “Are you not an insatiable little thing?” he murmured, his words rough with hunger.
Before she could answer, he bent again, his mouth fastening to her pulsing sex with renewed fervor—lapping, sucking, drinking up her every drop. She cried out, back arching, her nails scoring his shoulders as the torment began anew.
He wrung another orgasm from her, and another still, until she sobbed, every nerve alive, every moan a plea. And each time she begged him for more, begged him to take her. His refusal was absolute, his voice a ragged growl against her skin: “No. You do not know what you ask. I will not shame you.”
Yet even in denying, he devoured her, worshiping her with lips and hands until she shuddered beneath him, trembling and utterly undone. At last, she collapsed back on the pillows, her chest heaving, tears bright at the corners of her eyes, pleading for reprieve.
William lifted his head, his mouth wet, struggling to steady himself.
For a heartbeat he simply drank her in—flushed, spent, wholly wanton in her nakedness—and his self-command nearly snapped.
His arousal throbbed painfully, his body demanding release, every instinct screaming to take her then and there.
He tore himself away. With a sound that was half-curse, half-groan, he pushed from the bed, straightened his coat with shaking hands, and strode for the door.
“My lord—” she whispered, her pulse still wild.
He did not look back. “God help me, Jane, I cannot—”
And then he was gone, the door shutting hard behind him, leaving her breathless, burning, her body still echoing with the pleasure he had given—and the ache of his absence.
He had fled from her. Was it her pleading?
Her lewd cries? A flush of mortification swept through her.
Perhaps she had disgusted him, after all.