Chapter 18
The grounds of Westford Castle stirred with motion. Dogs strained at their leads, tails whipping, as the beaters formed their line. Grooms passed out polished fowling pieces. Two game carts stood ready. Brandy made the rounds in silver cups.
William, dark in his shooting jacket and boots, gave the briefest of nods to his neighbors.
Lord Crofford was already deep into a monologue about his new pointers.
He scarcely paused to breathe. Lord Fovargue stood silent and trim, his French wife watching from a little distance, all feathers and hauteur.
Mrs. Hughes inclined her head, her manner easy and familiar.
She had brought her daughters—wide-eyed as foals—but Charlotte placed herself firmly between them and the men.
The air snapped with expectation. At a signal, the drivesmen advanced. They swept the coverts, long poles knocking brush and stubble. The first covey burst up in a flurry of wings. Barrels lifted. Shots cracked down the line.
Fovargue felled one bird clean, expression unchanged. Crofford missed twice, then launched into a lecture on wind direction. Ravensby’s gun went off a half-second too early, drawing startled barks from the spaniels. William fired both barrels in swift succession. Two partridge dropped clean.
Beaufort walked beside him between drives, his tone unhurried. “I must say,” he began as they reloaded, “your Miss Ansley astonishes me. We spoke at some length yesterday—Plato, Aristotle, the soul’s ascent to truth. She holds her ground like a man of letters.”
William said nothing. His eyes stayed on the beaters.
Beaufort went on, unfazed. “We discussed the war as well—Spain, your campaigns. She understands more than most officers. Strategy, supply, cost. And she asks the right questions. No false delicacy. I find it…” He smiled faintly. “Refreshing.”
Behind them, Ravensby gave a snort. “God, Nicholas, you make her sound like a schoolmaster in petticoats. I came for sport, not sermons about governesses.”
Crofford, oblivious, launched into another story about one of his dogs flushing six birds at once. William barely heard him. His hand clenched on the stock of his gun until the leather creaked. The spaniels circled impatiently at his boots.
Another covey rose. He fired cleanly again. The birds fell. But Beaufort’s voice cut through the silence once more.
“And as for Lady Margaret—no wonder she learns. Miss Ansley makes history into story. I watched her yesterday. The child was rapt. It’s a rare thing, to teach without condescension. She has the mind of a scholar—and the patience of a mother.”
The words landed like blows. True. Every one of them. And unbearable.
* * *
Dinner was a blur. Silver gleamed. Wine flowed. Crofford boasted of past hunts. Ravensby laughed too loudly. William endured it with the stillness of a man under fire, every moment scraping like grit beneath the skin.
When the port came round and the talk grew lazier, he excused himself. No toast. No pretext. He simply rose and left. Nothing—not duty, not appearances—would keep him from Jane tonight.
He took the corridor at speed. No hesitation. No pause to calm his expression. The knock was soft, but the moment she opened the door, he stepped inside and closed it hard behind him.
Her hair was already unbound, candlelight brushing her bare shoulders. She smiled—warm, welcoming. He didn’t stop to savor it. He reached for her, pulling her against him in a rush.
“William—” she began, but he kissed her before she could say more. His mouth was bruising. His hands rough. One at her nape. One already sliding to her hip. She gasped, startled by the force of it. “Wait—slow—”
“I can’t,” he said, dragging her shift over her head. “Not tonight.”
He lifted her easily, carried her to the bed, and laid her down—not gently. Not cruelly. Just with the urgency of a man who feared the moment might vanish if he blinked.
His body covered hers. His breath was harsh. His eyes fever-bright.
She stroked his hair, tried to soothe him. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me. I’m already yours.”
That only made him hold her tighter. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours,” she whispered. Her voice trembled.
He drove into her with a groan, as though he could hammer the truth into place by force. His rhythm was fast, brutal. He kept her caged beneath him, as if she might slip through his grasp.
A strangled moan escaped her. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
Still she took him. Still her body rose to meet each thrust. She gasped as he found that place inside her—one hand flying to his hair, the other sliding down to grip his arse, flexing hard with every stroke.
She urged him deeper. He was everywhere—his weight, his heat, the ragged sound of panting in her ear.
She arched beneath him, so close now, eyes fluttering shut. “William—” she muttered, but the words broke apart on her lips.
He kissed her again, fierce and unsteady, swallowing whatever else she might have said. His pace quickened, each thrust like a demand. She clung to him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. Her head fell back. A shudder went through her.
He pressed his mouth to her throat, groaning her name as he spilled inside her—a sound raw with need, and something dangerously close to grief.
He stayed over her, chest heaving, face buried against her neck. His weight was heavy. His silence, heavier.
She stroked his damp hair, voice low. “Whatever it is… I’ll bear it with you. You don’t have to fight alone.”
He didn’t answer. He only clutched her tighter, as though he might shield her from every other gaze. Every other touch. Every other man.
* * *
The next afternoon, the ladies gathered on the terrace to watch the guns from a distance. Mrs. Hughes eyed Jane with the polite condescension of a woman who had never forgotten her governess’s place.
“How very fortunate Lady Margaret is to receive such constant instruction,” she said. “Of course, I’ve always believed too much learning can be… unsettling. Girls ought to turn their minds to gentler pursuits—those suited to their station, and their future roles as wives.”
Her daughters nodded at once, pretty as parlor dolls. The elder added brightly, “I should quite swoon if made to recite battles and politics, Mama.”
“And I’d rather marry a general than read about one,” her sister said, with a giggle and a glance toward the approaching line of men.
Charlotte’s lips curved. “Indeed,” she said, tone smooth as cream. “Not every girl has Margaret’s appetite for history. But then, not every girl is so clever as my sister.”
Margaret beamed and hugged Jane’s arm. Her eyes softened with fondness as she tweaked the girl’s nose, drawing a giggle.
Across the fields, another round of gunfire echoed—sharp, final. The dogs barked wildly, voices rising and falling.
A moment later, the men began to return.
Their boots were caked with mud, their guns passed off to waiting grooms. William strode at their head, face unreadable, Crofford puffing beside him.
Beaufort followed, speaking easily with Fovargue.
Ravensby lagged behind, yawning as though bored by the entire affair.
Beaufort saw Jane and smiled at once. He crossed directly to her, bowed with warmth. “Miss Ansley. How glad I am to see you among the ladies. The morning felt better for it.”
Jane curtsied, composed as ever. “You are kind, my lord.”
Margaret turned eagerly. “Miss Ansley, may I shoot partridge one day? I should like to very much!”
Mrs. Hughes gasped. “My dear Lady Margaret, such sport is hardly fit for a young lady. Noisy, bloody work.”
Beaufort chuckled. “And yet Lady Margaret intends to be a lady general. She must learn powder and shot if she’s to conquer Europe.”
Margaret squealed, delighted. “Yes! I shall be Margaret the Conqueror. But kinder—I’ll give the vanquished sweets instead of taxes.”
Jane bent to smooth her hair. “You’d charm your enemies into surrender, my lady. No need to fire a shot.”
Beaufort laughed. “England may rest easy, then—with such a commander. And such a tutor.” His gaze lingered—not on Margaret, but on Jane. Admiration, undisguised.
William stood a few paces off. He heard every word.
Saw every look. The laughter, the ease, the open warmth.
His chest constricted—sharp, unchecked. He turned in silence and walked away.
His boots struck hard against the stone, each step louder than it needed to be.
He made for the stables, his fury knotting tighter with every stride.
* * *
The stables were dim, the air thick with the smell of straw and sweat. Even before William reached the inner aisle, he heard them—sharp gasps, a grunt, the wet rhythm of flesh on flesh.
He came round the corner. Ravensby had the same servant girl from before bent over a hay bale, her skirts rucked to her waist. One hand tangled in her hair. The other bruised her hip as he drove into her with brutal rhythm.
She clutched at the straw, cheeks flushed, breath catching in her throat. “Please, my lord—don’t be so rough.”
He didn’t slow. “Don’t play coy,” he muttered. “I wasn’t the first today, was I? Can’t feel a damn thing otherwise.” She flushed scarlet, burying her face in the hay, like it might hide her.
William’s voice cut through the rafters like a shot. “Ravensby.”
The Earl looked back, grinning. Sweat shone on his forehead. “Blackmeer. Come to join us? She won’t mind, will you, sweetheart?”
The girl didn’t answer. Her hips still moved with him, out of habit, out of fear. But her head sank lower, as if trying to disappear.
“How dare you,” William said, low and deadly. “In my stables? With children in this house? What if Margaret had walked in?”
Ravensby groaned, then withdrew and tucked himself in without hurry. The young woman fumbled at her skirts.
He waved a hand. “You’ve gone soft. Once, you’d have laughed and poured the brandy. Now you scold me like a bishop.”
William stepped forward. “You disgrace yourself,” he said coldly. “And me. You think I’ll tolerate this filth under my roof?”
“Filth, is it? You’re all so proper now.” Ravensby snorted. “I didn’t come all this way for a scullery maid. I came for your sweet mother.” He smiled as he said it. That lazy, knowing smirk. “But the Duchess amuses herself elsewhere, it seems.”
The words landed like a fist to the gut. William didn’t move. Didn’t blink. To speak of her that way—the Duchess of Westford—was unthinkable. No matter what she was.
He had held her capable of many things—ambition, seduction, betrayal. But to think she might have let Ravensby in her bed. The man once closest to him. The one whispered to have dragged him into vice. His hands curled at his sides, tight with fury.
Ravensby didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. “Don’t worry—I won’t linger in Norfolk for long just for the privilege of bedding a woman who can’t even remember who’s been in her.”
The maid’s face crumpled. From humiliation. From being made a joke.
William stepped between them. “Leave,” he said. Ravensby raised a brow. “You will not return to Westford Castle. Not ever again.”
For a long moment, the Earl didn’t move. Then he gave a mock bow. “Ah. So the lion’s a lapdog now. God help England, if this is her steel.” He swept past, brushing hay from his coat.
William looked to the girl. She was young, just over twenty. Her hands clutched her skirts, eyes wide and wet. “Sir,” she said quickly, “please don’t turn me out. I’ve seven little brothers and sisters. Only my ma and me to feed them. I… I have to do this.”
His jaw tightened, but his voice was steady. “You will not lose your place here because of him. No order of dismissal will pass my lips. And I will see that your family is provided for. You will not have to sell yourself again.”
She stared at him. As though she couldn’t believe it. She trembled, tears slipping down her cheeks. She nodded.
William left her there in the half-lit stables, rage simmering in his blood. Never again, he swore, would Ravensby stain Westford Castle’s walls. And no one would abuse the people under his employ, under his protection.
* * *
William came to her later than usual that day. His knock was soft, but when she opened the door, he was pale, his eyes dark with strain.
“William?” she asked gently.
He shut the door behind him, then caught her arm as though he feared she might vanish. The words came ragged. “Ravensby is nothing to me now. He is dead to me. He dishonored every bond of friendship we had—and worse, he dishonored my family. My stepmother…” He broke off, swallowing hard.
Jane’s eyes searched his face, waiting, her hand warm in his.
“She came to me once,” he forced out at last. “Came to my bed unclothed. You’ve seen her—her beauty.
And God help me, she thought I would take her.
They all thought I had no restraint, no honor.
But even at my worst, I knew there were lines I would not cross.
Not my father’s wife. Not the mother of my little sister.
Whatever I was—I was not so… corrupt,” his voice broke.
He had lived with that memory like a stain no prayer could cleanse.
His tone dropped lower, almost pleading. “Tell me I am not. Tell me I am nothing like Ravensby.”
Jane reached up, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing the strain from his brow. “You are not,” she whispered with quiet certainty. She rose on her toes to kiss him, slow and tender. “I know you are not.”
He shuddered out a breath, his arms tightening around her. His mouth found hers again, gentler this time, almost reverent.
They undressed without hurry, every touch careful, deliberate, as if each sought to assure the other. He laid her down softly, tracing her face as though memorizing it. She drew him to her, guiding him inside with tenderness.
Their joining was unhurried, not the storm of nights before but a slow, steady rhythm—his lips brushing hers, his forehead pressed to hers—as if in her embrace he could prove himself whole again.
When they stilled, he held her close, his breath rough against her hair. And she stroked his temple with a whisper meant only for him: “I know.”