Chapter 22
The December air cut like a blade. Frost silvered every hedge and field, the breath of waiting grooms rising pale in the stillness. The household gathered before the front steps, the hush broken only by the caw of rooks circling above the bare trees.
At the very front, the Duchess waited with regal poise—velvet skirts sweeping the gravel, fur trim framing her proud, beautiful face. The Duke stood beside her, gloved hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the approach. He looked every inch the statesman, stern and watchful.
Lord Blackmeer loomed just behind them both, flanked by his sisters. He gave nothing away, save for the hard set of his jaw. At Lady Margaret’s back, Jane stood watchful, her old wool pelisse fastened tight. Her cheeks stung in the cold, but she welcomed the numbness.
The roll of wheels carried up the drive before the carriages appeared—three in all: two for family, one overloaded with baggage, as though the Strattons came to take up residence, not pay a Christmas call.
The lead carriage pulled up, glossy black, drawn by six matched grays. Liveried footmen sprang down and opened the door with pomp fit for a coronation.
Lord Stratton emerged first. Broad in the belly, pompous in bearing, he moved with the confidence of a man unaccustomed to refusal. He swept the assembled party with a glance that both acknowledged and commanded, then stepped forward with ingrained courtesy.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing low over the Duchess’s gloved fingers.
She bestowed upon him her sweetest smile, her lashes lowered, eyes glinting with warmth that verged on flirtation. “Lord Stratton. Westford Castle is honored to receive you.”
William’s expression hardened. Embarrassment heated his face at her open play. His father, standing tall at her side, betrayed no displeasure. Indeed, the Duke regarded her with faint approval, as though her coquettish charm were but another tool in their arsenal.
Lady Stratton followed. Tall and thin, with unfortunate features and a mouth set for complaint, she stepped down and paused to look up at the estate.
“So this is Westford Castle. Imposing enough. Almost a palace. Of course, nothing like Versailles. The grounds are—small. But charming, if one appreciates neatness.”
The Duchess inclined her head. “We are always looking to improve. Your suggestions are welcome, my lady.”
“Indeed,” the Duke added smoothly. “Westford Castle ought to feel like home.”
Charlotte, standing at William’s side, pressed her mouth into a thin line. Her teeth caught her lower lip—biting back the retort that must have burned on her tongue.
At last, the daughter emerged. Lady Henrietta Stratton descended with care, her gloves immaculate, her skirts perfectly arranged—until she curtsied too deeply, nearly overbalancing. She recovered, just.
“Your Grace,” she said, directing her gaze toward the Duke with dutiful composure. “Your Grace,” she added, with a second, fainter curtsy for the Duchess.
Then her eyes turned—sharply, nervously—to William. Her breath caught. She flushed scarlet to the roots of her platinum blonde hair. “My lord,” she stammered, her voice pitched too high. “I’m so pleased to renew our acquaintance.”
Her greeting to Charlotte was cool. To Margaret, cooler still. The child lifted her face, hopeful, but received only the barest nod.
Polite greetings exchanged, the party moved inside. The great doors swung wide, and the warmth of the entrance hall rushed out to meet cold-reddened skin. As the Strattons admired the gilt-framed paintings that adorned the walls, Margaret hung back, disappointment etched in her features.
Then she turned and ran—straight to Jane, flinging her arms around her waist. “She didn’t even look at me,” she whispered fiercely. “Mama didn’t even see me.”
Jane bent at once, drawing her close, smoothing her hair with gentle fingers, kissing her brow. “You are seen, darling. Always. I promise you. If you hadn’t looked every inch a proper young lady, your mother would have said so at once.”
William entered last, and paused. Jane knelt on the stone floor, Margaret wrapped around her, the child’s head tucked beneath her chin. She held her without effort, without calculation. No performance. Only warmth.
The sight pierced him—sharp and sudden, almost physical. How could he not compare? Jane, with her constant care, her keen intellect, her innate grace. And Lady Henrietta—pale, stiff, trembling with effort.
It pressed on his chest like a weight, steady and merciless, until he could scarcely breathe.
* * *
The dining room gleamed in candlelight, the long table glittering with cut crystal and polished silverware. Servants moved with practiced ease, clearing the first course and setting down the second with polished ceremony. Steam curled from the dishes, the scent of roasted meat rich in the warm air.
Lord Stratton carved into the haunch of venison with visible relish, his cheeks already flushed with wine.
“Ah—this is proper food,” he declared, his voice carrying easily over the table. “Your cook has the right hand for game. This venison is tender, the Yorkshire pudding light as air, the carrots and beans sweet as they ought to be. This—this is the fare of an Englishman.”
He speared a slice, gesturing with it before he ate.
“I tell His Royal Highness often enough: a man needs no German inventions to feed him. A proper roast, with proper sides—what else could a king desire? And I may say, the Regent listens. We are close enough that he takes no offense at my frankness. Indeed, he values it.” He laughed, expansive, and drank deep.
“Beer over port, pfah! What man of England would choose it?”
Lady Stratton raised her brows with faint disdain. “My husband finds virtue in bluntness. But in truth, French cookery is far superior. It is the fashion, and my daughter is accustomed to it. You should engage a French chef, Your Grace.”
The Duchess offered a small nod, smiling brightly. “But of course. Any man you might recommend, Lady Stratton, would be most welcome at Westford Castle.”
The Duke acquiesced. “The French excel in ingenuity, that must be admitted.”
Charlotte’s lips twitched. Her tone, however, remained mild. “Yet we have fought them long enough to hate their ways. One hopes this new taste for frog legs will not infest our table as well.”
Lady Henrietta, who had sat in breathless silence until then, at last ventured a remark.
“But I adore frog legs, Lady Charlotte. You must try them.” She hesitated, then, cheeks flooding crimson as she turned to William, added shyly, “I suppose the food during the campaigns was dreadful, was it not, my lord?”
They sat opposite each other. She leaned forward in her eagerness, nearly knocking over her glass. William, however, seemed intent on his plate, and answered only when courtesy required it.
“My lady, I endured what was necessary. My duty was the same as every soldier’s—performed as best I could under the circumstances.”
Charlotte rested her chin in her hand, eyes gleaming with mischief. “On the contrary, the Iron Duke is famed for employing the best of chefs for his officers. Some say it’s half the reason they made him a duke.”
Henrietta’s eyes widened, utterly earnest. “Truly? How marvelous! Then you did not suffer dreadful fare after all, my lord.”
“Henrietta, my love,” her mother said with a warning smile, “Lady Charlotte is only teasing you.”
She blushed, but her resolve steeled. She would not give up her chance to impress Lord Blackmeer so easily.
“You are too modest to speak of your duty so, my lord. A paragon of bravery and moral standards. The common man is a beast, after all—it is for his betters to keep him in check. That is what Father always says.”
Charlotte’s laugh slipped free, sharp and bright. “Yes, my dear, all England knows my brother is famed for his virtue. No doubt it is why he was raised to general.”
Even William could not help but chuckle, the irony biting deep. “I assure you, Lady Henrietta, all men are capable of both honor and disgrace, if given the chance and the cause.”
Her brow furrowed prettily. “But surely some men are born better—of superior blood—and that makes them better in morals as well.” She said it with such unthinking innocence that a silence fell, brief but absolute.
Charlotte set down her fork with a deliberate click. “You have never met the Earl of Ravensby, I see.”
The duchess started, her hand jerking, and a splash of claret bled across the white damask. The footman darted forward at once, but not before the damage was plain.
William’s gaze snapped to her. His face hardened, disgust flickering openly before he mastered it. She smiled too brightly, dabbing at the stain with her napkin, her cheeks burning beneath the thick layer of powder.
Lord Stratton, oblivious or pretending to be, boomed on. “Ravensby? Yes, yes, a wild one. But such men have their uses. He gave good horses for the Regent’s races, and a hand like his on the gaming table—ha! He could strip a man to his shirt in an evening.”
“Or leave him in worse condition still,” Charlotte murmured.
Henrietta blinked, perplexed, her eyes darting between them all. “But surely… if he is an earl…”
William set down his glass. “Titles do not make men. Some choose virtue and duty; others fall to vice and weakness. Each proves himself—or fails—by his deeds.”
His father cleared his throat smoothly, guiding the conversation toward safer ground. But the damage had been done. The Duchess’s laughter never quite recovered, and William did not lift his gaze from his plate again until the servants brought in the sweets.
* * *
The gentlemen lingered over their port long enough for Lord Stratton to exhaust every possible virtue of roast beef and game, claret and port. At last, they joined the ladies in the drawing room.
The fire glowed. The chandeliers glittered. The air hummed with the expectation of entertainment.
Lady Henrietta spoke first. Her gaze flickered to William, then slipped away again. “I should dearly love to sing,” she announced, her voice trembling with eagerness. “Lady Charlotte, will you not accompany me at the pianoforte?”
Charlotte, standing at the hearth, arched a brow. “I am no true performer, my lady. You must ask our governess another evening—Miss Ansley plays far better than I. But I know a song or two well enough to stumble through.”
She took her seat at the keys and struck the opening chords.
Lady Henrietta began with great solemnity, her tone high and nasal, striving for grandeur.
Lady Stratton looked on with rapt pride, as though listening to an angel’s hymn, but the effect was closer to a goose in distress.
The Duchess nodded graciously in time with the music; whether impressed by Lady Henrietta’s talent—or her lack thereof—was anyone’s guess.
Charlotte kept her hands steady, though her lips curved and her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. The longer Lady Henrietta drew out her notes, the harder it became to disguise her mirth.
William, leaning against the mantel, felt as though he were sinking into quicksand. To think his father meant to bind him for life to such a creature—awkward, graceless, pompous—was almost beyond bearing.
When at last the Strattons withdrew for the night, Charlotte exhaled a soft laugh behind her kerchief, unable to hold it any longer.
* * *
The port decanter still stood on the sideboard in the drawing room, its ruby glow catching the firelight. The Duke poured with calm precision. He and William were the only ones left.
“You cannot truly mean me to marry her,” William said, his voice taut.
The Duke looked up, composed as ever. “I do. She is Stratton’s only daughter. That is all that matters.”
“She is a simpering fool. And uncomely besides.”
The Duke’s mouth thinned. “You do not have to like her. You have only to beget an heir or two. That is your duty.”
A harsh laugh broke from William. “You forget how men beget heirs. I do not think it will be physically possible for me. Not with her.”
His father’s eyes sharpened, but William did not wait. He turned and strode out, the door slamming behind him.
* * *
The corridors of Westford Castle stretched vast and echoing in the winter night. William wandered without aim—through long galleries lined with portraits, past the tall windows, the frost glittering on the lawns outside. His fury gave him no peace.
At last, his steps brought him to a familiar door. He knocked once, then opened it. Jane sat by the fire, needles in hand, a skein of wool across her lap. The flames lit her face in profile, calm, composed, intent on her work.
He stopped short. “You… knit?”
Jane glanced up, her gaze cool. “On occasion.”
“I have never seen you at it before.”
“No,” she said, laying the half-finished piece aside. “You have not.”
She offered no explanation. She could not. The small blanket lay across her knees, each stitch meant for her baby—a baby that was his too, though she doubted he would ever claim it as such.
He stepped forward. “Jane—”
Her composure broke; her voice rang sharp. “Do not ‘Jane’ me. You still believe me false. You think I betrayed you with Lord Beaufort.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then ask him!” she cried, rising. “Ask him, if you dare. Nicholas Beaufort is an honorable man—far more honorable than you—to lie about such a thing. He will tell you the truth you refuse to hear.”
She pointed to the door, her eyes blazing. “Until then, you are not welcome here. Not as a lover. Not as anything.”
William stood rigid, then turned and left. He did not slam the door—though his whole body ached for it—but closed it hard enough that the latch rattled. As if he would abase himself by asking his oldest friend whether he had taken their governess to his bed.
In the library he found a decanter of brandy, poured until the glass overflowed, and drank deep. Anything to burn away the image of Jane standing in the firelight, proud, furious, untouchable—and still, unbearably, the only woman he desired.