Chapter 19
After dinner, having indulged in port and cigars, the gentlemen returned to the drawing room to rejoin the ladies. Leaning back in his chair, perfectly at ease, Beaufort remarked, “I looked in the library for Livy earlier, but the shelf was bare where it ought to have stood.”
Charlotte gave a soft laugh, her eyes glinting. “Then Miss Ansley has stolen it away. She cannot abide the library draughts in this weather and makes off with volumes to read by her own fire. I daresay half our collection is hidden in her chambers.”
Beaufort’s mouth curved. “Then I must trespass upon her hoard. Perhaps she’ll spare Livy to me for a few days.”
Charlotte waved a hand. “You’ll find her above stairs. She is likely still with Margaret.”
When he reached the nursery, the door stood just open enough for candlelight to spill into the corridor. Inside, Margaret perched on a stool, crayons clutched in one hand, her lips pursed in silent concentration. She looked up and beamed.
“Lord Beaufort! Look what I’ve drawn!” She held up a page with evident pride—a riot of color that faintly suggested a house, a tree, and a hound.
Beaufort took the sheet with gravity. “A triumph. I fear my own would be worse.”
Margaret giggled, but her next yawn nearly swallowed her words.
“That’s quite enough for tonight,” Jane said gently, smoothing the child’s hair. “Come, my lady—bed, before you fall asleep where you sit.”
She gathered the crayons and papers, then held out her hand.
Margaret slid down and clutched her drawing to her chest as Jane led her through the long passage, past the nursery and schoolroom, and into the child’s own chambers—a suite tucked at the far end of the family wing.
The curtains had been drawn, the fire banked low. It was a softer, quieter world.
“One story first?” Margaret pleaded, newly changed into her nightdress and already climbing under the covers.
Jane glanced back through the half-open interconnecting doors. Beaufort lingered in the nursery, and a faint smile touched her lips. “If my lord is not in too great a hurry…” she called.
“Not in the least,” he said. “I should like to hear it myself.” He stepped no farther than the threshold, careful to remain outside Lady Margaret’s rooms—as propriety required.
Jane sat by the bed and began, her tone low and steady as she told the story of Daniel in the lions’ den.
Margaret’s eyes were wide at first, then heavy, her fingers curling into the blanket as she whispered the ending to herself.
By the time Jane’s voice fell silent, the child’s breath had steadied, her face turned to the pillow in sleep.
Rising quietly, Jane tucked the coverlet close, then crossed back into the nursery, Beaufort in tow.
“Forgive the intrusion, Miss Ansley,” he said at last. “Lady Charlotte betrayed that Livy was under your guard.”
Jane flushed but nodded. “It’s true. If you’ll wait, I’ll fetch it.”
She led him down the corridor toward her modest room. The air was cool; beside her chair sat a neat stack of borrowed volumes. She knelt, drew out Livy’s worn leather binding, and brushed it clean before rising.
Beaufort leaned against the doorframe, unhurried. “You keep good company, Miss Ansley. Not every governess makes off with Roman historians.”
She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “My one indulgence. I read by the fire when the house is quiet—when duty allows. Though truthfully, teaching Lady Margaret has become more pleasure than task.”
“That much is plain. She adores you. And rightly so. You made her story come alive—she listened as if she’d stood among the lions herself.”
Jane tilted her head. “Children take to stories more readily than instruction. Perhaps that is why Scripture speaks in parables—so the heart may climb where rules would falter.”
Their eyes met. Her voice had softened without her noticing, and his gaze did not waver. She stepped forward and placed the volume into his hands. Their fingers brushed. The warmth between them hovered, unspoken. Jane smiled, ready to draw back—
And then William came down the passage. He stopped short. Beaufort stood at her door, the book in hand, head bent toward her. And Jane, standing in her chamber—grinning.
The sight punched through him. Heat surged in him. Savage. Uncontrolled. His fists clenched until the leather of his gloves creaked. The jealousy that had smoldered for days rose like fire.
* * *
That night, Jane waited for him in bed, her back against the headboard, only a blanket drawn over her nakedness. Firelight gilded her skin, her eyes alight with welcome.
But William did not pause. He tore off his coat, yanked at his cravat with rough hands, stripped every last stitch from his body, and came to her bed with the storm still raging behind his gaze. His thick cock, impossibly hard, loomed like a weapon between his thighs.
Without a word, he gripped her waist and dragged her down to the mattress.
The blanket slipped, baring her, but he gave it no heed.
There was no gentleness in his touch—only a desperate, punishing need.
He grabbed her knees and spread her open, staring between her legs as if that part of her were both his torment and damnation. Her sex was already glistening.
He slammed into her at once, hard enough that she gasped, clutching at him in instinct.
“William,” she whispered, trying to soothe him, her hand rising to his cheek.
But he caught her wrist and pressed it above her head, pinning her there.
His grip was iron—command, not passion, as if her body existed only to take the brunt of his fury.
His thrusts were deep, harsh, unrelenting. He bent low, his breath hot against her ear, but said nothing. He gave her nothing—no glance, no word—as though she were not his lover, only flesh to sate his hunger. The silence between them was louder than words.
Jane searched his face in the flickering light, her heart twisting. She had never seen him like this—his eyes wild, his jaw tight, rage and desire bound together. She tried to ease him with a smile, breathless as she murmured, “William… good Lord, William—go easier on me.”
But instead of softening, he seized her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her words, his tongue fierce and possessive.
She gave in, her body eager beneath his, her cries breaking in the hush of the chamber.
His harsh rhythm dragged her with him to that shuddering crest, until her limbs went pliant and her core tightened around him in an endless, pulsing grip.
He followed her down, spilling himself inside her with a ragged groan, his weight pressing her into the bed.
For a moment, she lay still beneath him, her breath uneven, her body trembling from the force he had spent in her. One hand rose to touch his temple, tentative, steadying. Whatever haunted him, she would not turn away.
But William’s chest heaved as though he had fought a battle, and the unrest in him showed no sign of breaking.
If anything, it deepened. Her surrender—her yielding to his anger as if it were passion—only stoked his fury.
That she could take him so fully, give herself so pliantly, made him hate her more in that moment.
Hate her, because he could not stop wanting her.
“Something is wrong,” Jane whispered at last, her tone low, uncertain. “Your thrusts were angry, not passionate.”
He gave a bitter, mirthless laugh. “You didn’t complain. From the way you writhed, you enjoyed yourself well enough.”
Her eyes widened, hurt flashing there. “That is not the point. And you know it.”
He rolled to his side, but the words burst from him, like a dam breaking. “What have you been doing with Beaufort?”
She froze. “What?”
He turned on her, his gaze fever-bright. “I see you walk with him, I see you laugh with him. He speaks of you as though you were Minerva herself. Plato, philosophy—what is it you give him that makes him so enthralled? Your wit? Your charm? Or perhaps he’s tasted your ‘divine ascent’?”
Jane’s mouth fell open, aghast. “You—how dare you—”
He pressed on, crueler still. “Do you dare to deny he lingered outside your door this very night? What was the occasion then? Your favors?”
Jane went scarlet. “How can you mean such a thing?”
“You play the innocent well. But you’re nothing more than a ruined, fallen woman. Tell me—does he know how sweetly you yield when a man drives into you? You spread your thighs for me; why not for him?”
She stared at him, stunned. Then her voice came, cold with disbelief.
“You accuse me of this filth, and still you bed me—still you take your pleasure in me. Then it matters nothing to you if your lies are true. What makes you any different from Ravensby, who would rut with any woman he could get his hands on?”
The words landed like a musket shot. He flinched, but pride held him fast.
“I see now why you’ve been friends,” Jane spat.
He didn’t speak. He dragged on his clothes in silence, his movements violent, graceless. At the door, he stopped, his voice rough, torn. “Damn you, Jane.”
He slammed it behind him. The silence seemed to ring. Jane did not move. The candle guttered. Slowly, she drew the blanket over herself, though it could not shield her from the sting of his words.
“Fallen woman,” she whispered into the empty room. The phrase tasted like ash, burning in her mouth.
At dawn, word spread through the house: Lord Blackmeer had left for London. No explanation. Only the echo of hooves fading into the mist.