Chapter 17
Morning light spilled through the tall mullioned windows, catching on the silver tea service and setting the crystal aglow on the breakfast table.
Domed covers lifted, steam rose from eggs and rashers, and the scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air.
Charlotte filled her cup with a measured hand, her expression cool, while William sat at the head of the table, watching his guests with the restrained patience of a host already wearied by their company.
Beaufort’s voice warmed with reminiscence. “You never told me your governess is Miss Ansley. Reverend Ansley’s daughter? If she’s inherited even half his brains, William, you’re fortunate indeed to have her in your household. My late father always spoke highly of him—said he was a rare scholar.”
William stiffened, his knife pausing mid-cut. Pride warred with unease. Jane’s presence under his roof was complicated enough without Beaufort invoking her father’s name like a benediction.
Charlotte’s brow arched, her gaze flicking between the men. She knew Jane’s worth, but hearing it spoken aloud in such company left her wary.
Across the table Ravensby gave a sharp little laugh, his mouth curling in disdain. “Ah, the daughter of a ruined clergyman? How… poetic.”
The remark hung in the air, insidious as smoke in a closed room. Beaufort’s jaw tightened, but he did not waste words on Ravensby. He only set down his cup with deliberate calm.
“Sebastian Ansley was a man of principle, whatever became of his purse. Had I known the family was left in such straits after his passing, I would have intervened myself.”
Ravensby leaned back, smirking, eyes glinting with mischief. “And what would you have done, Beaufort? Paid her dowry out of charity—or kept her yourself? Is she at all pretty?”
The air went still. William’s knife struck his plate with a scrape. His tone was low, dangerous. “You will not speak that way in the presence of ladies.”
Charlotte’s smile was sweet as poisoned honey. “My lord, if you are determined to parade your vulgarities, perhaps you should have remained in London where they belong. The company here is not accustomed to gutter talk over breakfast.”
Ravensby gave a mocking bow, but the flush rising in his cheeks betrayed him.
Beaufort ignored him entirely, sipping his tea as though the man were beneath notice. “As I said, Miss Ansley’s parentage alone speaks well of her. It does her father’s memory credit that she has found a place here.”
William forced down his temper with a mouthful of coffee, but the taste curdled on his tongue. Beaufort’s words rang with respect, yet Ravensby’s vulgarity still clung like filth. And Jane’s name was caught between them.
* * *
The autumn air was crisp, scented with damp earth and the last roses clinging stubbornly to bloom. Jane walked slowly along the garden path, Margaret prancing beside her with a book hugged to her chest.
“Miss Ansley,” came a voice behind them, deep and courteous.
Jane turned. Viscount Beaufort had stepped into the garden, hat in hand, his expression softened from its usual gravity.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, inclining his head.
“But when I learned you were Reverend Sebastian Ansley’s daughter, I felt I must introduce myself.
My late father held him in the highest esteem.
Indeed, it was at his urging that Westford’s library acquired so many of your father’s works. I studied them myself as a boy.”
Jane’s breath caught. Surprise and something like pride warmed her, though she schooled her features. “I am honored, my lord. My father would have been glad to know his writings endured beyond his pulpit.”
Margaret tugged at Jane’s arm. “Miss Ansley has read me some, though I don’t find much use in them. But she’s taught me all sorts of things! I know all about maneuvering troops now and I dare the French to start another war. I am prepared for them.”
Beaufort’s lips twitched, struggling not to laugh. “Then God help Bonaparte, if he must contend with Lady Margaret of Westford Castle.”
Jane chuckled, brushing Margaret’s hair back from her brow. “Do not boast too loudly, my lady general, or you will have the whole of Norfolk in arms behind you.”
Beaufort glanced from Margaret to Jane, his gaze warming. “Then Norfolk is fortunate indeed—to have a commander so bold, and a tutor who can make the past live so vividly she might rouse an army with it.”
The words, though lightly spoken, carried a note that set Jane’s cheeks alight. She lowered her eyes, smoothing Margaret’s sleeve.
“Miss Ansley,” Beaufort added more deliberately, “it is a privilege to make your acquaintance.”
Jane curtsied, her voice steady despite the strange flutter in her breast at the open admiration. “And yours, my lord.”
They turned down the path together, Margaret chattering happily between them, while Beaufort listened with the patient ease of a man content with the company.
* * *
From the tall windows of the west wing, William paused, meaning only to glance into the grounds. The sight hit him like a hammer.
Jane walked with Beaufort at her side. Margaret trailed behind them, occasionally crouching to pluck a flower or collect some small insect from the grass. The Viscount said something low, and Jane laughed—soft, unguarded.
The sound twisted something deep within. It was not the laugh alone, but the picture it painted: Jane in the autumn sun, Beaufort beside her, Margaret skipping between them as though they were some serene family tableau. Admired, honored, not hidden in shadows.
Heat rose sharp at the back of William’s neck. His hands clenched the window frame until his knuckles whitened. He had no name for the thing uncoiling in his chest, but it had stolen his breath.
* * *
The air in the library was heavy with the scent of old vellum and ink, as though the very walls had absorbed centuries of learning.
A log cracked softly in the grate, the only sound besides the whisper of Jane turning a page.
She sat at the oak table, her palm resting lightly on the folio as though afraid to lose the thread of thought she was following.
“Miss Ansley.”
She looked up quickly. Viscount Beaufort stood just inside the door, hat tucked under his arm.
“My lord,” she said, rising.
“Do not rise,” he said gently. “I only wondered what occupied you so completely.”
She turned the cover for him to see. “Plato.”
His brows lifted, though not in displeasure. “Plato? That is unusual reading for a lady, though I suppose his dialogues are harmless enough. The schools wrangle over them endlessly—what is justice, what is virtue, what is love—and yet the questions endure.”
Jane’s smile was quiet. “Perhaps that is why he compels me. He writes of the soul as something that strives upward, always seeking truth.”
Beaufort inclined his head. “Truth through reason, through discipline—through rising above the body.”
Jane traced the margin with her fingertip. “And yet, he begins with the body. With beauty that stirs desire. He does not deny it—he makes it the first step. Without passion, the soul would have no ladder to climb.”
Beaufort’s frown deepened, a bit scandalized. “A dangerous suggestion, Miss Ansley. Desire more often drags men down than raises them up.”
Jane lowered her eyes, her voice mild. “Perhaps. Yet Plato must have thought otherwise, or he would not have written so.”
The door creaked. William entered. He halted a moment at the scene: Jane bent over the volume, her cheeks faintly flushed from argument, Beaufort leaning close, intent upon her. He had not heard the words, but the picture was enough to twist his gut.
“Nicholas. Miss Ansley.” His bow was curt, his tone clipped.
“William,” Beaufort said with an easy smile. “We have been putting Plato on trial. Will you not join us?”
“I would not disturb such lively argument,” William said, more grim than the lightness of his words suggested, pulling a thick volume from the shelf. He opened it on the table with studied calm.
Beaufort glanced at him, a little perplexed. “My dear Miss Ansley, I think I shall not dare debate you further. The afternoon is fair. Will you ride with me, William?”
“I cannot,” William said, looking up from his tome. “My father has asked me to look up a legal point—he wishes to raise it in the Lords and needs proper authority to support it. I promised I would find the passage.”
“Ah,” Beaufort said, wholly untroubled. “Then I’ll leave you to your duty. Still, if you grow weary of dusty tomes, join me.”
“I cannot spare the time.” William did not look up.
Beaufort inclined his head, then gave Jane a courteous bow before taking his leave. His tread was unhurried, relaxed, as though nothing in the world were amiss.
The door closed. Silence stretched. Jane glanced toward William, still bent over the open volume, though he had not read a line.
She began gently, “May I—”
But he was already moving. In two strides he reached her, his hands closing on her shoulders. His mouth came down hard, urgent and possessive, stealing her breath. For a moment she clung to him, stunned by the force of it, the sudden fire breaking through the serenity of the library.
Then as abruptly as it began, he tore himself away. His chest heaved, his jaw tight, but he gave no word of explanation.
“William—” she managed, shaken. “What—?”
He turned, already striding for the door.
“What of your father’s legal argument?” she called after him, bewildered.
But he was gone, leaving her standing amid the scent of vellum and smoke, her lips parted, her heart racing, unable to fathom what had come over him.
* * *
The woods were hushed save for the crunch of leaves underfoot and Margaret’s quick, eager voice. Jane walked between the child and Viscount Beaufort, a small book in her grasp, her tone animated as she spun a tale.