Chapter 21
The road to Westford Castle was hard with frost, the air brittle, the trees bone-white under a pewter sky.
The carriage moved steadily, pulled by two black geldings, the harnesses creaking as muscles shifted under their glossy coats.
Inside, silence stretched between father and son, unbroken for miles.
At last, the Duke of Westford spoke. “You’ll court her.”
“So you’ve said.” William didn’t look up. He sat angled toward the window, gloved hand resting against his mouth.
“She arrives by week’s end. With her parents. You’ll be attentive. Walk her through the gardens, ask about her schooling, listen while she stammers through whatever pleasantries she’s rehearsed. It doesn’t matter what you say—only that you’re seen.”
“She’s eighteen,” William said flatly.
“Yes. Fresh from finishing school. And more importantly—untouched by the Season.”
William made a sound under his breath—dry, amused, contemptuous. “That’s a selling point now?”
“It is,” said the Duke. “No parties. No suitors. No ideas. She’s unspoiled by fashion or flattery. Kept that way on purpose.”
He might as well have been describing a broodmare. William turned his head slightly, unimpressed. From what little he remembered, she was not very bright either.
“She’s Lord Stratton’s only daughter,” the Duke continued. “And Stratton is the Regent’s most devoted lapdog. I’ve watched him wave his influence about for a decade. That ends with this match.”
William said nothing.
“She marries into our house, and he’s leashed. He cannot cross us without crossing his own blood. And once you give her a son—” his mouth twitched in something like a smile “—it seals everything.”
William did not move.
The Duke’s voice flowed on. “Her mother’s blood is royal. Bourbon. A niece of the old French king. With the monarchy restored, however precariously, your children could have a claim. England in one hand, France in the other. Do you understand what I am offering you?”
Still, William kept silent.
The Duke leaned forward. “You’ve made your mark in the wars.
That’s fine. But this—this is the true game.
To stir empires without a crown. To be the hand behind the throne.
I pull the strings now. In time, it will be you.
With Lord Stratton in your pocket, no one will dare question where power lies. ”
“She’s a child,” William said.
“I want you to do your duty,” Westford snapped. “You are not marrying her for love. You are marrying her for what she brings. And you will do it by the book—the proper courtship, the proper ceremonies, even the proper sort of whispers.”
“We could wait a few years. Let her come into herself.”
“That’s folly. We don’t need her paraded about. We need her obedient. Blank. Grateful. If I’d kept my own wife from the same nonsense—” That earned a low snort.
The Duke raised a brow. “Yes. I know. But I was nearly fifty when I married her. You’re not.” His voice lowered. “Don’t pretend you don’t know how to charm a woman. Or how to keep her in your bed.”
William turned his gaze back to the window. His reflection stared faint and pale in the glass.
“Win her affection,” his father said. “Make her pliable. Get her with child. By next year no one will remember she ever had another path.”
Get her with child. He almost laughed.
He had tried. God knew he had. In London, he’d sought every distraction—seasoned courtesans in private clubs, famed Cyprians in discreet apartments with velvet drapes and perfumed sheets.
He thought he could rid himself of Jane by force.
That if he buried himself in enough bodies, he might forget her.
But his own body had refused to obey him. Not once had he risen. Not even a flicker.
The last had been one of Nadia’s girls—famed for reviving the dead, or so she claimed.
She sank to her knees with a knowing smile, rubbing her bare breasts as she flicked her tongue suggestively, eyes locked on his.
Her hands slid up his thighs, deft and sure, fingers brushing the front of his breeches.
His stomach lurched. He caught her wrists, halting her. Stared down at her in silence, face blank, disgust roiling. He left before he could be sick on her.
It wasn’t lust he’d lost. Only the ability to feel it for anyone else.
He could not imagine what it would be like with Stratton’s daughter.
So wan and willowy and horse-faced, all long limbs and fluttering nerves.
She would lie there stiff and tearful, terrified, and he’d be expected to rut like it meant something.
The bile rose again. He swallowed it.
The Duke mistook his silence for agreement. “Make her yours. And everything else will fall into place.”
The carriage rocked over a frozen rut. Outside, snow had begun to fall, light and aimless, quiet. Inside, William closed his eyes. He was not sure he could play the game his father demanded.
And God help him—he was not sure he could face Jane again without falling to his knees, begging for the right to kiss her lips once more. He needed her. No matter her betrayal. He needed her like breath.
* * *
The house was alive in a way it had not been for months.
Even from the schoolroom, Jane heard it: footsteps echoing along the marble corridors, trunks creaking up staircases, maids airing rooms and beating out dust in a flurry of last-minute preparation.
His Grace was returning. And with him—Lord Blackmeer.
The kitchens had clattered since dawn. The scent of roasting meats reached even the upper halls.
Servants chattered like birds: which neighbors would be invited to dinner, whether the Strattons would stay past New Year’s, and if their daughter’s gowns had truly come from Paris.
The very air seemed to hum with anticipation.
Jane bent lower over Margaret’s textbook, willing herself deaf to it. The fire cracked faintly in the grate. But still, the noise pressed in.
She drew her shawl tighter. The weeks had worn her thin. What little food she kept down rarely stayed. Soon it would pass, and the swelling would begin. Then there would be no hiding it.
The child beneath her stays and woolen skirts would make itself known. And when it did, dismissal was certain. She could already hear it: fallen woman, corrupting influence, unfit for Margaret.
William would not speak for her. He had made his judgment, believing her capable of an affair with Beaufort, of treachery in the vilest form. Why defend her now? Worse—he might accuse her openly. Call it Beaufort’s bastard. The thought caught in her throat, bitter and burning.
“Miss Ansley!” Margaret’s voice cut through. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. “They’re coming home today—William, and Papa, and even Mama will return soon! At last, we shall all be together.” She clasped her hands, barely containing her thrill. “Perhaps William will ride with me again.”
Jane forced a smile, brushing a knuckle over the child’s cheek. “My lady, it is winter. The ground is hard. The air bitter. I doubt your brother will take you riding.”
Margaret pouted, then rallied. “But he will want to see me. I’ve learned so much while he was away. I shall show him at once!”
Jane kissed her brow and said nothing.
A stable hand must have spotted the ducal procession; the household stirred. Someone gave the warning signal. Margaret gasped, dropped her quill, and fled: first bounding, then running down the stairs, her laughter ringing like silver bells.
Jane followed more slowly, her hand pressed to her middle as if to steady herself.
Through the tall windows, she saw the carriage sweep into the courtyard.
The crest on its door gleamed despite the dull sky.
Grooms moved forward. A footman reached for the handle. Margaret ran straight into their path.
The Duke stepped down first—regal, imposing, his sable-lined cloak sweeping behind him, his eyes already scanning the household like a general reviewing troops. Then came William.
Jane stood just within the shadow of the stairwell. She had braced for indifference. Perhaps even contempt. She had not expected his gaze to find hers at once—or for the shock in it to be so plain.
William looked at her as though struck. There was no disguising it: the hollowness in her face, the shadows under her eyes, the fragility of her frame. And for the first time since their quarrel, he seemed to see that she, too, had suffered.
Margaret was already pulling at his arm, demanding to be lifted, to be kissed, to be praised. The Duke gave orders to the steward, barely glancing at the child.
But William did not look away. And Jane—heart thudding—could only lower her gaze and step back into the shadow, her shawl drawn close like armor.
* * *
He did not know how he made it through dinner.
The Duke spoke at length with Charlotte.
Margaret, delighted as ever to dine with the adults, spoke eagerly of ponies and her history lessons.
William sat among them, a glass in hand, offering only curt replies when addressed.
The roast grew cold on his plate. He tasted nothing.
When at last the port was passed, he rose without excuse.
No one stopped him. He found the nearest decanter of brandy, carried it upstairs, and drank deep.
The first glass burned. The second dulled.
By the third, his father’s voice had faded.
By the fourth, only the emptiness remained—the aching space where Jane’s laughter used to live.
He did not remember rising. Only that he stood outside her door, bottle in hand, pulse drumming. He knocked once—too soft—then pushed it open.
Jane started, rising from her reading chair by the fire. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders. “My lord—”
“Please,” he said hoarsely, closing the door behind him. His palm pressed against the panel, head bowed. “Don’t send me away. Please… if you still have any heart left…”
She saw the bottle. The unsteadiness in his limbs. The fever in his eyes.
Her first instinct was to refuse. To protect the fragile peace she had managed to rebuild. But her heart ached, too—and the silence of her chamber had grown unbearable. She didn’t answer. She only held out her hand.
In two strides he was across the room, mouth crushing hers, the taste of brandy hot on his tongue. His arms locked around her with desperate force, dragging her close as though to anchor himself.
They stumbled toward the bed, tearing at one another’s clothing. His hands were rough, frantic, roaming her like a man starved. She gasped when he cupped her breasts—fuller now, more tender. He stilled for a breath, startled by the change, but moved on without understanding.
She burned under his touch. Every caress made her shiver, every kiss pushed her closer to the breaking point. He groaned at her responsiveness, blind to its cause, drunk enough to believe it was want alone that made her tremble and gasp.
When at last he entered her, the cry that broke from her lips came not only from the force of it—but from the ache deep in her womb, sharp and unfamiliar. Still, she clung to him, welcoming his weight, his heat, his desperate rhythm.
For a little while, she let herself forget—the dread, the secrecy, the child pressing inside her. She gave back what she could, clutching at his back, her mouth meeting his, her body tightening around him.
He drove into her as if drowning, each thrust a bid to lose himself, to quench the fire that devoured him. When he finally shuddered and fell still, she held him fast, her fingers tangled in his hair, her breath ragged beneath his.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her close, his face buried in her neck. The scent of drink clung to him, but under the haze of it, she felt the heat of his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest. For the first time in weeks, she let herself rest there—if only for the night.
* * *
Morning light crept pale across the chamber. Jane stirred first, her head pillowed against his shoulder. He still held her, heavy with sleep, his arm curved possessively around her waist. For a moment, in the hush, she almost believed it. All would be well again.
Then he moved. A low murmur, his lips brushing her temple. “God… Jane. I wish you had been true to me.”
Her eyes flew open. She pushed herself upright, staring at him as though he’d gone mad. “What did you say?”
He looked at her—bleary, bare, utterly earnest. “If only you hadn’t betrayed me… if Beaufort had never touched you—”
The words struck like a blow. She pulled back, fury blooming. “You still believe it? After everything—after last night—you still dare to call me false?”
He flinched. Pride stiffened him. “I can’t unsee it. The way you laughed with him. The way he spoke of you—”
“Enough.” Her voice was low, edged like a dagger. “Get out.”
“Jane—”
“Get out.” She seized the blanket, wrapping it tightly around herself. “You come to me drunk, take what comfort you please, and still you call me false in your heart. I will not hear another word. Leave me.”
His face hardened. He dressed in silence, each movement rough with shame. At the threshold, he turned once more. “When will I be free of you?”
The door slammed. She stood trembling in the silence, breath jagged. Slowly, she sank back onto the bed. Her hand rose instinctively to her middle. The swell was small—but real.
Her palm rested there, protective. Desperate. He hadn’t seen. Hadn’t even thought to look. And now he was gone.