Chapter 25
The days between Jane’s collapse and Christmas dragged like lead.
William had sworn he would stay away—for her sake, for both their sakes.
God knew, he had tried. But willpower was a poor defense against need.
Each morning, his steps led him back to the one room in Westford Castle where he might catch her alone. The library.
There, beneath the tall windows and carved shelves, he lingered in silence. The fire crackled, casting amber light on the spines of books he did not read. His heart quickened at every soft footfall beyond the door, only to sink again when it passed him by.
She never came. At last, he began to suspect the truth: she was avoiding him. Slipping away whenever she heard his tread. Jane was resolute when she chose to be. If she had decided not to see him, then see her he would not.
And yet still he sought her. When the longing became unbearable, he went to the schoolroom instead.
Margaret squealed with glee at the sight of him, flinging herself into his arms. He laughed—lifted her high, spun her about until her curls flew and her shrieks of joy echoed off the walls.
He sat with her through halting recitations of history and scripture, joined in her little games, arrayed toy soldiers into mock battles that made her giggle.
She was radiant. Blissful. Starved for affection, and he gave it gladly. But in truth, he did not return for the child.
It was the governess he came to see—the quiet figure at the table, her hands resting lightly on Margaret’s textbooks. She greeted him with perfect composure, eyes lowered to her work, voice steady as though he were no more than any visitor for her little charge.
The restraint gutted him. He caught every faint sign of change in her—the paleness, the way she pressed a hand to her side as if against some hidden pain, the looseness of her gowns.
She seemed frailer, more distant. He told himself it was only fatigue, but doubt gnawed at him.
Something was wrong, and she would not tell him what.
That distance was a wound he could not staunch.
Once, he had believed her incapable of deceit.
It was her mind—quick, unguarded, achingly sincere—that had set her apart.
But she had secrets now. Perhaps she had given her trust to another man.
Perhaps even her tenderness. Her sweet self. The thought sickened him.
And still, he could not stay away. Each hour near her was torment; each hour apart, worse. He had never known such punishment—to worship and doubt in the same breath, to crave what he no longer trusted. And every day, he came back again.
* * *
Christmas Day arrived, and with it all the spectacle Westford Castle could summon. The dining hall blazed with candlelight, garlands of holly looped the walls, and a roasted boar’s head—glazed and crowned with rosemary—glared down the length of the table. The scent of spiced wine filled the air.
At the Duke’s bidding, Lord Stratton carved into the haunch of beef with theatrical relish, his jowls reddened with wine. He had muttered for days about insult and squandered opportunity. Now, emboldened by food and drink, he let his grievances fall with calculated weight.
“His Royal Highness is always eager for news from his friends,” Stratton said, brandishing the carving knife as a ragged strip of meat clung to it.
“I daresay he’ll be curious to hear how matters proceed at Westford Castle this Christmas.
He has a long memory for promises—especially those not kept. ”
The last word came with a flick of his wrist. The scrap of roast flew, struck his wife’s cheek, and dropped onto her napkin.
The silence was immediate. William’s fork paused on his plate, but he did not raise his eyes. Charlotte bit down on a laugh.
Lady Stratton’s spine stiffened. “Indeed,” she said. “To cast aside the most noble lady in England—a Bourbon’s daughter—would be incomprehensible.”
The Duke smiled, unbothered. “Come now, my lady. No insult is meant. Lady Henrietta is a rare jewel. But even a jewel requires time and polish before it can dazzle.”
Henrietta blushed to the base of her pale throat. “Your Grace is too kind.”
Charlotte’s gaze gleamed with mischief. “Indeed. Though polish may brighten a stone, it cannot change its nature,” she murmured. “Isn’t that true, William? One’s nature seldom changes.”
Her brother looked up at last, his expression unreadable, though his mouth curved in something dry and sharp. “True enough,” he said evenly, “yet some stones are valued not for polish, but for their strength.”
Lord Stratton gave a genial smile, tinged with calculation.
“Well, whether polished or strong, a jewel is wasted if it lies unused. It would be a sorry day for England if our best families squandered alliances out of whim. The Regent values loyalty, and I have always found it pays to be… dependable.”
The Duke raised his glass, urbane as ever. “And so you are right, my lord. But the Regent also knows the worth of patience. Some grapes must ripen before they are pressed into wine.”
Charlotte set down her knife with a quiet clink. “Or turn to vinegar, if one waits too long,” she said, sotto voce.
“England must be preserved—that is all I strive for,” Lord Stratton pronounced with ponderous dignity.
Charlotte’s eyes gleamed, her voice sweetly guileless. “Ah, then I see why you are so determined to banish the King’s sausage-makers back to Hanover, my lord.”
Lord Stratton choked on his wine. He coughed, dabbing at his cravat, while his wife stiffened beside him. Henrietta stared ahead, uncomprehending.
William bent over his plate, jaw locked against a laugh.
The Duke, serene as a bishop, lifted his glass as if England’s fate depended on his composure.
The Duchess turned to Lady Stratton with a smile too sweet.
Her gaze was soft with placation, as though the insult might be soothed away.
No one spoke again until the desserts were served.
* * *
When the final dish was cleared, the company rose with relief and moved into the drawing room, where the fire blazed high and the scent of pine and orange peel clung to the air.
Candles flickered in every alcove, catching the gilt edges of carol books.
Port was passed. Lord Stratton, already ruddy, launched into some anecdote no one had asked for; his wife followed, lips tight, saying nothing, features edged with disdain.
A gentle knock interrupted. The door opened.
Jane stepped in, leading Lady Margaret by the hand. The child’s holiday frock shimmered faintly in the firelight, her ribbons neat, her face solemn with effort. Jane wore black—severe, unadorned. Yet even so, William could not look away. She seemed to still the air as she entered.
The Duchess turned her head. “Ah. Miss Ansley. I believe Lady Margaret has something prepared for us this evening?”
Jane inclined her head, composed as ever. “A short recitation from the Gospel of St. Luke, Your Grace. She’s practiced it daily.”
Margaret made her curtsy—low and careful—and waited. At a slight nod from the Duke, she stepped forward and began, her voice high but steady:
“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night…”
She hesitated. Her eyes darted to her governess, lips parted.
Jane whispered with a smile, “You know it by heart.”
Margaret inhaled, squared her shoulders, and went on. When the last line fell, silence followed. Then came a light, scattered swell of applause. Margaret flushed with pride and darted straight to William’s chair. He lifted her easily into his lap and kissed the top of her head.
“Did I not recite better than Lady Horse-face?” she asked, delighted.
The room froze. Henrietta flinched. Lady Stratton turned her head, slow and cold.
William’s mouth tightened. “Margaret,” he said evenly. “You will not use that name again.”
“Miss Ansley said it was rude—but everyone calls her—”
“That will do.” He pressed a quick peck to her temple and set her gently down.
No one dared move. The flames cracked and spat like it had grown too loud. Then Jane crossed to the pianoforte. She sat, adjusted the fall of her skirt, and began to play.
Christmas carols—simple, familiar—rose into the hush. Her voice followed, clear and pure. Unadorned. Unaffected. It moved through the room like warmth through frost.
Gradually, others joined in. The edge of the moment dulled. Laughter returned—tentative, thin, but enough.
William did not sing. He sat rigid, his eyes fixed on her hands, her face, the soft curve of her throat. She had regained her strength. Her color. Her calm. He could not look away.
When the music faded and the room eased into quiet conversation, Charlotte found herself beside Lady Henrietta. The girl sat very still, her hands twisting in her lap. When she spoke, her honesty was unexpected.
“I had so looked forward to marrying Lord Blackmeer,” she confessed in a low rush. “He is so handsome, so imposing—a hero of war. I should have been proud to call him my husband.”
Charlotte arched a brow. “And you still may, if my father has his way.”
She shook her head. “No. I know I may not measure up to his ideal of beauty. I am not as dazzling as the Duchess… nor even as pretty as your Miss Ansley—with her face he cannot stop staring at.”
Charlotte blinked, momentarily struck dumb. “My brother objects to no woman’s beauty, my lady,” she managed, though her voice faltered. Her gaze drifted across the room. William was watching Jane still, his features taut, fighting the hunger he could scarcely disguise. A chill stole over her.
Henrietta sighed, her shoulders drooping. “Perhaps it is for the best. I do not think it would be a happy marriage, if he is so taken with another.”
Charlotte said nothing. Pity for Henrietta lingered, but beneath it something sharper. She looked at her brother again, unsettled to her core. The truth was plain now, and she could not unsee it.
* * *
All through the evening William tried to school his face, to sit as though Jane were nothing to him.
Yet he betrayed himself with every glance.
Again and again his gaze sought her out across the room, drawn as if by gravity.
Once he caught Charlotte watching him, her expression stricken, but he could not bring himself to care.
At last, the house quieted. Candles guttered low in the corridors, the great estate settling into sleep. William paced his chamber like a man caged, fighting against the impulse that consumed him. But the struggle was useless.
Her door was unlatched. Inside, the flames roared in the hearth, unruly and hot. Shadows danced over the walls. The bed curtains were open. She lay still beneath the coverlet, her head turned toward the door, toward him.
Their eyes met. Slowly, without speaking, she pushed the blanket down. The firelight caught the bare curve of her breasts, the soft roundness of her belly, the parting of her thighs—the slick, glistening heat between them.
His pulse kicked hard. She was ready for him. Waiting, exposed, as if she had always known he would not stay away tonight. And God help him, he hadn’t.
He undressed without haste, without words. Her eyes never left him. When at last he reached the bed, she opened her arms.
His mouth met hers. The kiss was slow, deep, aching. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, pulled him to her. He laid his body over hers, groaned low as she pressed up to meet him.
His lips traced her throat, his tongue circling her taut nipples, suckling one breast, then the other, before grazing the tender hollow between her ribs. His hands slid over her—greedy, reverent, desperate. She gasped his name. Her thighs parted.
When he entered her, he nearly sobbed. Her tight, enveloping warmth threatened to overwhelm him.
She wrapped herself around him, her legs locking behind his back, her hands buried in his hair.
They moved together without urgency now, without violence—only need.
His hips rocked into hers with steady force, deeper each time, her breath breaking in stifled, helpless moans.
He could not look away. Her face in the dim light, the flush across her chest, the way she whispered his name—he drank it in as a man dying of thirst. His control frayed. His rhythm faltered.
She clung to him, trembling. He bent his head to hers, their mouths finding each other again just as the pleasure crested—raw and shattering.
They cried out together. Then silence.
He lay still inside her, breath harsh in the hush.
Her hands stroked his bare form, her limbs still twined around him as if to keep him from vanishing.
His own body shivered with the force of his release, her walls fluttering in aftershock, pulsing softly against him.
For a long while they lay there, as if the world itself had narrowed to their joined bodies, the shared beat of their hearts.