Chapter 16
The morning was dim with clouds. Two candles burned on Jane’s desk, casting a flickering glow over Margaret’s slate. She was bent over her work, tongue caught between her teeth in fierce concentration.
“Now, Lady Margaret,” Jane said gently, “who met William the Conqueror at Hastings?”
“King Harold,” Margaret answered with a triumphant grin. “And he was shot with an arrow—straight through the eye!” Jane bit back a smile at her glee.
The door burst open. Charlotte swept in without so much as a knock, her silk skirts trailing the scent of lavender. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering with annoyance.
“Charlotte!” Margaret exclaimed, delighted, half-rising from her chair. “Have you come to quiz me too? Miss Ansley says I’m very learned. I know all about the Norman conquest!”
Charlotte gave her sister a fleeting smile, but her gaze slid past her to Jane, glinting like a blade. “Quiz you? My dear, I daresay even Norman kings are preferable to enduring one moment with that vile man.”
Jane blinked, startled. “My lady?”
“The Earl of Ravensby,” Charlotte said with venom. “He has just arrived. His carriage is gaudy enough to blind half the county, and of course he means to strut about here as if Westford Castle were his own.”
Margaret frowned. “Is he here to see William?”
Charlotte bent, smoothing her sister’s hair with a fond hand, though her smile did not reach her eyes.
“Yes, dearest. To see William. But mark me, Miss Ansley”—her voice lowered, the words meant only for the governess—“Ravensby is a man who makes sport of women. Guard yourself. He will try, if given the chance.”
Margaret wrinkled her nose. “Sport of women? Do you mean games?”
Charlotte straightened, letting out a brittle laugh. “Games, yes. But not the kind for you, darling. Now—show me how much you know of Hastings. How did William trick the Saxon line?”
* * *
The household was bustling with preparations for the evening meal when Beaufort, who had arrived shortly after Ravensby, caught William just outside the dining hall.
“Why is he here?” the Viscount asked, his tone low and cold. “You told me that life was behind you.”
William drew a breath, schooling his face to calm. “He is married now. He wrote to me asking to reconcile. Said he wished to see the place again, and to share in the hunting season. I thought—perhaps—he was not the man he was before. We all deserve a second chance.”
Beaufort’s eyes narrowed. “Men like Ravensby do not change. You know it as well as I.”
William’s mouth hardened. “It is my house, Nicholas. And he is my guest.”
The Viscount gave a slight shake of his head, as if the matter were not worth further words. “Then God grant you’re right.”
* * *
The dining hall was set for formality, its long table laid in perfect order, with vases of fresh flowers and silver candelabra spaced at precise intervals.
A fire snapped in the grate, casting shadows over the polished wood floors.
William took his place at the head of the table; Charlotte sat beside Beaufort and opposite Ravensby, her smile thin, her look sharp enough to cut.
At first the talk was easy—William speaking briefly of the campaigns in Spain, Beaufort asking after details of battles not posted in the gazettes. But it was not long before Ravensby let out a theatrical sigh.
“God’s teeth, Blackmeer,” he drawled, swirling his wine, “I thought a ducal seat in September would promise lively company. Instead, I find myself stared through like a miscreant at confession.” His gaze flicked pointedly toward Charlotte.
She arched a brow, her voice sugar-sweet. “Perhaps you mistake Westford Castle for a gaming hell, my lord. The company here is not obliged to amuse you.”
William’s hand tightened on his knife, though he said nothing.
Ravensby chuckled, undeterred. “Ah, I see the lady has claws. Beaufort, you should have warned me—Westford’s eldest daughter does not smile kindly upon her guests.”
“I smile where it is deserved,” Charlotte returned evenly.
Beaufort leaned forward, his tone mild but firm. “Better to discuss battles fought than ladies’ tempers, Ravensby. Blackmeer has seen more of war than most men dare imagine. Spain, the Pyrenees, France… I daresay his experience would make even you fall silent.”
William gave a short nod, though he felt the heat of Ravensby’s gaze.
“Indeed,” Ravensby said lightly. “All glory, no doubt. Muskets and drums and all the rest. But I confess, I find the entertainments of London rather more… diverting.”
The tension about the table tightened another notch. Servants moved quietly, clearing one course and setting another, as if oblivious to the barbs flying across the linen-draped mahogany.
At last Ravensby leaned back, grinning. “And what of your lovely mother, William? The Duchess. Will she not grace us with her presence this hunting season?”
Silence fell, thick as fog. William’s fork stilled. Charlotte’s eyes flashed.
“She is staying in the south with friends,” she said coolly, before William could answer. “You know how the Duchess is.”
For the first time that evening, Ravensby’s composure faltered. His mouth thinned, a flicker of displeasure crossing his face before he drowned it in another swallow of wine.
The rest of the meal limped on in stilted politeness, conversation never straying far from more domestic matters of horses, harvests, or tenants. Yet beneath the gleam of silver and crystal, the air was heavy, sour with tension.
* * *
The first evening of their reunion did not drag on as William had feared.
Beaufort’s open dislike of Ravensby—and his pointed remark that they all needed rest after their travels—brought matters swiftly to a close.
It gave William the chance he needed to make his way toward Jane’s chamber, where he knew she would be waiting for him, soft and pliant, their shared pleasure a slow fire humming in his blood.
But halfway down the corridor of the guest wing, he stopped short. A dull, rhythmic thud, muffled gasps—the merciless tempo of coupling—echoed from behind a door that had not been latched properly. The sound chilled him. He knew it too well. Against his better sense, he pushed it wider.
The sight made his stomach lurch. Ravensby had a scullery maid bent over the edge of the bed, her cap askew, skirts hitched indecently high.
He gripped her hips hard, driving into her with untempered force, each stroke punctuated by a grunt of satisfaction.
The girl bit her lip, her face flushed scarlet—not with ecstasy, but with mortification at being caught.
“How dare you abuse my servants,” William snapped, voice cutting through the sordid sounds.
Ravensby only laughed, breath ragged. “Abuse? Hardly. Every fine house has its light-skirt, Blackmeer. I thought I taught you that. You don’t have to plunder innocents—you find the ones already willing.
How do you think these creatures get by?
This one was mounted by a footman not an hour ago when I found her.
And I’ve paid her more than she earns in a year. ”
He gave a sharp thrust, making the woman beneath him hiss. Then, leaning to her ear, he smirked: “You don’t mind, do you, darling?”
The maid stammered, “No, my lord… It is an honor to serve you.”
Ravensby grinned, his brow damp with sweat. “There, you see? All parties satisfied. I’m close now—have a go when I’m done. You always liked them slick, didn’t you? Easier to fit.”
William’s insides knotted. He had been this man—drunk, careless, rutting where he pleased. God, how far he had sunk, if this was how it looked. The sight of it now filled him with loathing.
“You disgust me,” he said coldly. “You are a married man. I thought you left this behind.”
Ravensby ignored him. With a growl, he dragged the young woman upright, manhandling her into the position he wanted.
Her eyes flicked to William, wide and ashamed, as Ravensby forced his final, brutal strokes.
With a shout he spent himself, slumping forward as though emptied of everything but vulgar laughter.
He turned, still buttoning his breeches, grinning like a drunkard.
“What do you think the marriage bed is for men like us? My wife did her duty—flat on her back, staring at the ceiling while I planted my seed. She gave me two sons. That is all. Why torture us both with duty when there are prettier pairs of thighs willing to open for me?”
The words struck William harder than a shot to the chest. For one horrifying instant he pictured Jane—sweet, daring Jane—reduced to such a bed: passionless, numb, eyes fixed on nothing. The thought twisted his gut.
Because what he had with her was not this. It was blazing heat, not transaction. Devotion, not duty. She took him with hunger, gave herself with delight. She asked nothing but his touch, sought nothing but their mutual joy. No payment. No schemes. No shame.
He turned from Ravensby in disgust, bile rising in his throat. God damn him. And God damn the man I once was.
And Heaven help him—he needed Jane now, more than he needed air.
* * *
Jane’s chamber glowed with the warmth of the fire. A deep-backed chair stood near the hearth, well-cushioned, with space enough to sit at ease and read. She was curled there when William entered, a book in her hand, the flames brushing her hair with gold.
She looked up, smiling faintly. “I thought you would not make it tonight.”
Rising, she stepped to him and lifted her mouth for a kiss. But William caught her gently, pressing his lips to her brow instead. A chaste touch, tender but restrained. He drew her against him with a ragged breath.
“Let us just sit together,” he murmured.
He sank into her chair and pulled her into his lap, burying his face against her neck as though seeking refuge. Her warmth, her scent, undid him. God, I love this. And I am damned for it.
Ravensby’s words still rang in his ears—wives flat on their backs, dutiful, lifeless. Was that his future? And what then of Jane? He could never give her up. Yet was he not vile for taking her like this, knowing he could never make her his wife?
Jane felt his heaviness and tried to lighten it. “You should never have told Margaret she could be a general. Now she applies every lesson as if preparing for campaign. She says she may be Margaret the Conqueror. It does make her study her history, though—so perhaps this fancy is not so bad.”
William lifted his head. “You are good with her,” he said softly. And in that moment he thought: She would be a good mother, too. And I’ve stolen that from her. Who would marry a ruined woman? No one. And I would never let her go to another—God, the thought of another man touching her—
His thoughts must have shown in his face, for Jane tilted his chin, making him meet her gaze. “What is it, my lord?”
The honorific stung like a slap. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just thoughts that will not let me rest.”
“You can tell me,” she whispered. She kissed his lips lightly this time, but he barely answered. Her mouth trailed down his cheek, his throat, her hand sliding lower across his chest.
“Please, Jane—don’t. This is what torments me. Tonight I saw—God help me—I should have protected you. Instead… I took. I had the power, and I abused it.”
She stilled, studying his face. His expression was raw, haunted, as though he were confessing to a crime. Gently, she touched his cheek, urging him to look at her.
“I begged you to take me, remember,” she whispered.
“It matters not. I should have been the one to guard your honor,” he said bitterly. “Instead I let desire master me. A man in my position has every advantage. And you—” His voice broke. “You trusted me.”
Jane’s lips parted, her breath unsteady. For a heartbeat she only looked at him, her thumb tracing the hard line of his jaw. Then her eyes kindled with sudden fire.
“Do not look so stricken, my lord. I told you before, you have not ruined me.”
Her voice grew steadier, stronger, every word a defiance.
“Wollstonecraft shows that women are kept ignorant only to be ruled—yet I am not ignorant. I have chosen. Shelley says marriage itself is a chain, but passion is free and sovereign. Ovid calls love an art; Plato, a divine ascent. And yes—I read that book of a woman’s frank delight in her own pleasure, the very one you destroyed, fearing I might be further corrupted—and I laughed to know why men treat this, our most natural instinct, as corruption.
It is because this joy is ours, and in it we are equal.
Our pleasure, our passion—this is our truth. Nothing else is so honest.”
Her hand slid to the back of his neck, drawing his forehead to hers. Her whisper trembled with conviction. “So do not bemoan what is no sin, but our freedom.”
He stared at her, shaken to his core. She kissed him again, slow, deliberate—and this time he answered, a sound breaking from him, raw and wounded.
She loosed his breeches with deft fingers, her hand closing around him, feeling him stir and swell to her touch.
She straddled him where he sat, her nightshift slipping from her shoulders until she was bare in the firelight.
Glorious, unashamed. She guided him into her, sinking down on him with a gasp, their bodies locked deep.
Her hips moved, slow and sure, her hair falling loose about her face. She cupped his cheeks, her lips parted in ecstasy. “Come, William,” she whispered, fierce and trembling, “let us ascend to the divine—let our bodies join, our souls to touch.”
He groaned, clutching her tighter, undone by her words and the rhythm of her body. And as she rode him in the shifting glow of the hearth, her cries filling the room, William felt both damned and saved—lost utterly, yet bound to her in a way no guilt, no law, no power on earth could sever.