Chapter 24
William carried her swiftly through the corridors, his steps long and unrelenting, Margaret pattering behind in frightened pursuit. The child’s voice shook with panic.
“Will she be well, William? Oh, poor Miss Ansley—please, please make her well!”
“Hush, little one,” he said, not breaking stride. His tone gentled despite the fear knifing through him. “Go to your chamber. Wait there for me.”
But Margaret clung stubbornly, her small feet racing to keep pace, curls bouncing with every desperate footfall.
Servants scattered before them like startled birds.
A housemaid, arms full of linen, stopped dead, her mouth falling open.
A lady’s maid nearly collided with them at a turning.
Even the butler—stolid as stone—froze as William swept past, Jane insensible in his arms. None dared speak, but their eyes followed him wide with alarm, as though the household itself held its breath.
At Jane’s door, he halted. He commanded as if on the battlefield. “You. Open it.”
A footman sprang forward, fumbling at the latch, bowing low as he pulled the panel wide.
Margaret had pressed herself against the wall, her fists twisted in her skirts, small and afraid.
For an instant, she made to follow, but a maid bent swiftly to her, murmuring low.
Margaret’s sob caught in her throat, but she let herself be led away, casting one last, frightened look as William carried Jane inside.
He strode to the bed and laid her down, her dark hair spilling across the pillows, her face ashen against the linen. She seemed weightless in his arms—too light. Too still. The sight struck him harder than any blow, dread pounding so fiercely in his blood that his hands began to shake.
“Send for a doctor,” he said hoarsely. “At once.”
The footman flinched at the order, but before he could move, Jane stirred. His voice had dragged her back.
“No.” The word came faint but firm. She reached out, clutching his sleeve with sudden strength. Her eyes fluttered open, glazed with tears. “Please, my lord—no physician. If you ever cared for me—ever—you will leave me be.”
He stared down at her, stunned. “Cared for you?” He broke off. God help him, he needed her like air, and still she doubted.
“Please,” she whispered again, the sound frayed and thin. “I know what plagues me. I don’t need a remedy. Only… only rest.”
For a moment, he could not breathe. He had never seen a man fall in battle and failed to call for a surgeon. But Jane was not a soldier, and this was not war. His jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed against it—but at last, he gave a sharp nod toward the footman. “Leave us.”
The servant hesitated, then bowed and withdrew, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Silence pressed in. Slowly, as though surrendering to something stronger than will, William bent. His lips brushed her brow—lingering, trembling.
But it was not enough. His hand found hers, warm and frail, and he pressed it to his mouth. Then, before reason could recall him, his lips found hers—soft at first, then deepening, desperate. The kiss of a man starving.
For a heartbeat, she yielded. Her lips answered his, quivering; her fingers curled into his palm, as if she could not let go.
The world narrowed—breath, warmth, the salt taste of tears.
For that moment, he almost believed. Believed she was his.
That no dukedom, no chain of duty and expectation could come between them.
Then her sob broke against his mouth like a volley, shattering what little of his composure was left. She turned her face away, pressing it into the pillow, her shoulders shaking. “Stop,” she gasped, the plea ragged. “Stop. You are marrying another.”
Shame flared hot through his chest—what was he doing? He had meant to comfort her, not drive her to tears. He drew back as if struck, his pulse pounding.
“No,” he said sharply, gripping her hand once more, pressing it again to his lips. “I will not marry Lady Henrietta.”
She turned, meeting his eyes through a shimmer of sorrow—broken and shining. “If not her, then someone else,” she said, barely audible.
The words cut deeper than steel. She was right. But she had never minded before. Why now? What had changed?
He stared at her, stricken. Her collapse, her trembling weakness—it terrified him. Whatever ailed her, he was sure it was his doing. He should never have touched her. Never allowed this.
Disgusted with himself, he wrenched upright and crossed the room in two strides. The latch rattled as he pulled the door closed behind him—hard enough that the sound echoed long in the stillness.
He did not look back. To do so would undo him. Her broken whisper clung to him through the long hours that followed, driving him at last to drink.
* * *
William had drowned his fear in brandy the night before.
It dulled the edge of panic, steadied his resolve.
He would not tie their line to a silly, awkward girl who could barely command her lady’s maid, let alone a household, let alone London society.
By morning his mind was clear. His course fixed. He would tell his father so.
The corridors of Westford Castle stretched long and echoing, portraits of grim ancestors watching as he passed. Each step toward the east wing and his father’s study steeled him further, their painted eyes seeming to weigh him, to demand he not falter. The dukedom could not be handed to fools.
The study lay at the end of the passage, its oak doors gleaming with polish. He was halfway to pushing them open when they swung wide from within. The Duchess stepped out, silks rustling, a look of welcome already waiting for him.
“William,” she breathed, her voice warm as honey.
A curl had slipped loose from her coiffure; her lips were a shade too red.
Beneath the heavy sweetness of her perfume lingered a note less easily dismissed—a musky trace not her own.
She smoothed her bodice with languid fingers, her smile deliberate, assessing.
“How fortunate. I was just with your father.”
Her gaze rested on him, gleaming. “You look as though you mean to do battle. I dare say you’ll find him more… malleable now.”
He inclined his head stiffly. “I intend only to speak with him.”
She moved closer, far too close. The air about her was heavy—the warm, earthy scent of recent pleasure clinging to her skin. “Ah. About Lady Henrietta Stratton, no doubt. So now you know what it is to marry at another’s bidding. It stings, does it not? To have your fate decided for you.”
The smell hit him; his jaw tightened, his body recoiling before he mastered it. He said nothing. She only chuckled, dark and knowing.
“At least,” she went on lightly, “I was fortunate in my match. Your father was most attentive—and a fine teacher in the arts of love. They say I’m incomparable.
I suppose I owe him for that.” She gave a low, amused laugh.
“Of course, I was a delight to teach. That cannot be said of your future bride.”
William’s mouth curved, but without warmth. “I should hope not, Your Grace. My future bride will be nothing like you.”
Her gloved hand came to rest lightly on his chest, a touch so casual it was almost intimate.
“Do not think him ignorant. If he wished to forbid me, he could. He does not. He profits. I pass him whispers from beds where other men speak freely. Doors open for me. Houses bow to me. You must know, William—your father enjoys the arrangement.” Her fingers drifted lower, hovering just above his manhood.
He caught her wrist before she could move farther, his grip firm but controlled. Their eyes locked. “You would do better to stop,” he said quietly.
She only arched a brow, with teasing promise.
“When you are duke, perhaps you’ll think differently.
Why chase courtesans when comfort waits beneath your own roof?
I could be convenient—more than convenient.
We might be of use to one another. A man of your consequence need not be ruled by scruples.
You could take what you want. What I offer.
” She leaned in, her breath hot at his ear. “Even now.”
For a heartbeat, he studied her—beauty polished to its peak, poise unshakable, corruption disguised as grace. Compared with Lady Henrietta’s simpering, she was almost formidable. But it wasn’t the Stratton girl who came to mind.
It was Jane. Pale and trembling, her body too light in his arms. Jane, who had once seemed the opposite of this woman—unguarded, sincere. And yet… she had lied. She had let Beaufort in. Let him believe he mattered, while all the while—
He shut the thought down before it could finish. The Duchess’s sins were vulgar and obvious. Jane’s had slipped under his skin, quiet and soft, like trust. And somehow, that hurt worse. And still she haunted him.
His grip on the Duchess’s wrist tightened a fraction.
“When my father is gone and I am duke, I will not offer you a liaison. I will offer you an estate in Scotland, where the sun seldom shines and the earth never dries. I’ll send you where even the Romans refused to go.
Make use of your ‘connections’ as you please. ”
For the first time her mask slipped. The smile faltered, her eyes flashing with something raw—anger, perhaps fear—before the armor slid back into place.
“Banish me if you will,” she murmured, lips curling. “But remember, my lord—men speak freely in my bed. Some of what I know could warm even a Scottish winter.”
William released her hand as though she were something foul, then stepped past her, pushing open the study door without a glance.
* * *
The oak doors closed behind him with a heavy click, shutting out the Duchess—but not her scent. The study reeked: burned pine, fresh cigar smoke, and beneath it, the musky remnants of what had just transpired.
The Duke sprawled behind his desk, waistcoat askew, shirt half-unbuttoned, the flush of exertion still fading from his throat. His chin caught the light, slick with the sheen of recent pleasure. He looked utterly smug and sated.
William halted, shoulders taut, blood hot with disgust. It wasn't the act that sickened him, but the ease. His father still took her—without hesitation, without shame. As if she weren’t the same woman who offered herself to any man she found useful.
For power. For pleasure. Or any blend of the two.
That abundance, taken like any other indulgence, galled him most.
The Duke lifted his cigar, lips curving in a faint smile. “Well? You look as though you’ve come to air a grievance. Let us hear it. I am in a mood to be more amenable to requests.”
“Yes, your wife told me so,” William said, the words nearly spat, judgment plain in his tone.
The Duke chuckled, utterly unrepentant. “I will not apologize for bedding my own wife.”
“The problem, Your Grace,” William shot back, “is that you are not the only one bedding her.”
His father’s expression curdled. The easy humor vanished, replaced by a look that could have cut a man down. Some things were known in whispers but never spoken aloud—his relationship with the Duchess, and the liberties he allowed her, chief among them.
“I told you before,” he said, his voice knife-sharp, “she has done her duty by our house. What about you, William? Are you here to neglect yours again?”
William’s jaw clenched. He had not meant to start this way, but that woman tested the last of his restraint. “Father, my concern is for the dukedom. Lady Henrietta is unfit for such a post. I will not marry her.”
“She is young,” the Duke allowed with a dismissive flick of ash, “but that only means you may shape her. She is already half in love with you. She will be easily handled.”
“It is not her age,” William answered tightly. “It is her very constitution. You must see she would leave us open to ridicule. I will not see our name debased.”
The Duke straightened, color rising. “A Bourbon, debasing our halls? By God, sir, you make my blood boil—and I was so very relaxed. Do you take me for a man to arrange matches in vain? You will marry her!”
“I am no maiden to be forced, and you know it.” William’s voice struck like steel.
“I trusted your judgment, for I had been at war and could not know who was the better match. But you chose a woman to suit your court intrigues, not the future of our bloodline. Her children will be shaped by her. What if the heir inherits her wits? I will not see our house ridiculed, nor our seat in the Lords held by fools.”
The Duke’s teeth clenched around the cigar. “I hand you the empire, and you spit on it.”
William’s mouth curved, but without mirth. “I have little stomach for your games at Court, Father. Influence takes other forms. I am a general, respected on my own right.”
The Duke searched his son’s face, saw the iron resolve in it. “And what am I to tell Lord Stratton?”
“Tell him we must wait a few years,” William said, sharp as a blade. “She needs them. Perhaps they will make her less silly.”
“How many years?” his father pressed, grasping at hope.
“Indefinitely.”
The word fell like a hammer. William turned and strode out, his steps thudding heavy on the rich carpets. The door slammed behind him, the smoke curling in the silence that followed.