Chapter 38
Charlotte was fussing. She had already retied Jane’s sash twice and adjusted the sleeves, though they lay perfectly well.
Mary, quieter but no less determined, was working at Jane’s hair with a small tortoiseshell comb, smoothing the last glossy strands into place.
She was not a trained lady’s maid, but she had done her best—and Charlotte, to her credit, had helped without complaint.
The golden gown shimmered faintly in the morning light.
Its low décolletage framed Jane’s collarbones and the soft swell of her breasts, which had grown fuller with the pregnancy.
The empire waist clung just beneath them, then fell in straight lines over her belly, skimming her figure like poured silk.
“You look like a queen about to receive tribute,” Charlotte said, adjusting a curl. “All you’re missing is a throne and a line of trembling courtiers.”
Jane gave a quiet smile. “You are trying very hard not to cry.”
“I cry at everything.” Charlotte paused. “Well. Not everything.”
Downstairs, the drawing room had been transformed. Laurel garlands framed the mantel, while two small vases of lilies stood at either end. It was no grand ballroom, but the fragrance of fresh flowers and beeswax polish lent it an air of dignity.
The chaplain had arrived at half-past eleven and was already deep in conversation with William near the hearth. They spoke in low tones—war, mostly. News had traveled fast: Napoleon had escaped. There would be orders. There would be movement. None of it could be ignored.
“They say he landed with hardly three hundred men,” the chaplain muttered, adjusting the cuffs of his plain clerical coat. “But you know what he can do with three hundred.”
“If he marches quickly, he’ll take half the country with him by June.” William straightened his coat, every movement crisp. “We’ll be sent across before that. The orders will come any day.”
The chaplain was still nodding when a hush fell. His eyes lifted—then his brows rose slightly. “Good Lord,” he murmured under his breath.
William turned. And for one long, stilled moment, he couldn’t breathe.
She was stunning. Not merely beautiful. She moved like something half-sacred and not entirely human, her swollen belly unmistakable beneath the fine gold fabric, her skin glowing with life.
Her dark hair, coiled at the nape, gleamed against the pale cream of her neck and the soft flush of her cheeks.
She was not what a duchess should be—and yet, in that moment, there was no one else in the world who could have stood where she stood.
She walked toward him without hesitation, her gaze steady on his. Charlotte followed behind her like a shadow, proud and silent.
The chaplain leaned in slightly, voice low enough not to carry. “I understand why you couldn’t wait, my lord. I think God will forgive you.”
William’s head snapped toward him, his look sharp and cold. “You’re a man of God. Try to speak like one.”
The chaplain blinked—then chuckled. “Good Lord. I wouldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Lord Blackmeer, well and truly leg-shackled.” William’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The ceremony began. There were no pews. No organ. No guests. Just the hearth and the garlands, the six of them standing in a quiet room in Bloomsbury while outside, the city carried on without pause. And yet for William, no one else existed. There was only Jane.
Her hands in his. Her breath on the air.
She repeated her vows with unwavering dignity, her voice low but clear.
When it was his turn, he found the words came without faltering.
He did not feel trapped. He felt content.
Not triumphant, not even proud—simply content, as if for the first time in months, something had been set right.
“I pronounce that they be man and wife together,” said the chaplain gently, “in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
The silence that followed was not broken by clapping or celebration. Only William’s hand tightening in hers. Then—he pulled her toward him and kissed her.
It was not chaste. It was not polite. His mouth found hers with hunger—possessive, unyielding, as if the ceremony had not made her his but this kiss would. Jane gasped softly against him, her fingers clutching at his coat. The room disappeared. Time stopped.
When they finally parted, Jane’s cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen, her breath catching. She could think of only one thing: If she’d ever doubted they would consummate the marriage tonight, this kiss had cured her of the notion.
Charlotte cleared her throat loudly. “Right. Delightful. I shall have to rinse my eyes in rose water for a week.” She gave Jane a sidelong glance. “I do hope you're marrying him for his better qualities, because his manners are clearly beyond salvation.”
The chaplain looked faintly amused. “I suppose that’s one way to seal a union.”
William said nothing. His eyes hadn’t left Jane’s. Not once.
* * *
The wedding supper was plain but comforting—a roast capon, stewed greens, and a tart of preserved plums served warm from the oven.
Mrs. Scott had outdone herself despite the short notice, bustling in and out of the dining room with ill-concealed pride while Charlotte poured wine and kept up a running commentary about Bloomsbury’s air being better for infants than Mayfair’s.
Jane could barely eat. Her nerves pressed against her stomach, dulling even the scent of the roast and the sweetness of the plums. She forced down a few bites, nodding politely when addressed. Her hands remained folded in her lap for most of the meal.
William, seated at the head of the table, replied to questions with clipped formality.
He made no attempt to mask his impatience.
When the chaplain lingered too long over the roast, William’s fingers tightened around his wine glass.
When Charlotte poured a second glass of claret and leaned in to recount a particularly irrelevant tale about a christening gown, he gave a noise that might have been agreement—or dismissal.
Charlotte noticed, of course. She always did. Her smile widened with mischief, but she said nothing until the plates had been cleared and the chaplain leaned back with a satisfied sigh.
“Well,” Charlotte said, brushing her hands lightly on her napkin.
“Now we’re sisters. Imagine that. And as your sister, Jane, I feel it my duty to warn you—this man behaves like a dog too long on the leash.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw you over his shoulder the moment the door shuts behind us.
No wonder he insisted Mrs. Scott and Mary accompany me back to Westford House. ”
Jane flushed, unable to help the answering flutter deep within her. William’s eyes snapped to Charlotte, his mouth a thin line. The chaplain chuckled, sipping his wine.
“Don’t mind me,” the chaplain said, raising his glass. “I’m merely here to make it official. Though I daresay it’s time for some port and a cigar, don’t you think, my lord?”
William shot him a look that might have sent a lesser man running. The chaplain only laughed. “I’ll take this as my cue to leave.”
“That would be poor form, wouldn’t it? To hint a guest has overstayed, even if the clock says otherwise,” William said coolly.
The chaplain blinked, then smiled as he reached for the decanter. “A glass of port, then—strictly to steady my nerves.”
“You’ve had enough.” It was not a suggestion.
Charlotte stood with a rustle of silk, biting back a grin. “Right. Time we were off. The carriage is already called, I assume?”
William rose and moved to the window. “Waiting outside.”
Charlotte crossed to the stairwell and called down, “Mrs. Scott, Mary—bring your things.”
Then she turned to Jane, who had risen for the farewell, leaned close, and kissed her cheek. “You’ll be all right,” she whispered. “He looks at you like he’s been wandering the desert and just found his oasis. Try not to let him drive you mad.”
Jane nodded, silent. Her pulse thudded. The heat in William’s gaze had become unbearable.
Moments later, the front door shut. The house was quiet. William stood in the dining room doorway, watching her. The candlelight flickered against the line of her neck, the curve of her breasts.
He did not speak. He crossed the room in a few strides and caught her face in his hands, kissing her deeply—without preamble, without question. She leaned into him before she knew she had moved, one hand reaching for his lapel to anchor herself.
He broke the kiss only to lift her—easily, as if she weighed nothing. Her arms circled his neck in reflex. He carried her up the stairs, every step echoing in the quiet house.
In the bedchamber, he set her down with care. For a moment he looked at her, chest rising and falling.
She stood uncertainly. “William…”
He silenced her with a tender touch to her cheek. Then his fingers went to the sash at her waist. The gown fell away slowly under his hands. She flushed, trying to hold the fabric in place, but he stopped her.
“No,” he said gently. “Let me see you.”
She let the gown fall. Her body had changed. The swell of her stomach was unmistakable, her breasts full and heavy, her figure softer, rounder in ways she barely recognized. She looked down, ashamed—until his hands cupped her face again.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”
He knelt before her, reverent. His fingers skimmed the curve of her thighs, his lips blazing a trail over her skin until she gasped. She clutched the bedpost behind her.
He licked at her core slowly, then with purpose, until her knees buckled. Only his grip on her hips kept her upright. Then, without a word, he guided her to the bed.
He stripped off his clothes with swift, deliberate movements, and joined her there. His mouth was on her again, brushing his tongue over every inch of exposed flesh until she trembled.
“Now you’re mine,” he murmured into her skin. “Truly mine. And whatever dreams I sacrificed to have you—Good God, you’re worth it.”
The words struck her deeper than she expected. She looked away. If he noticed, he didn’t ask. Instead, he kissed her again—slow and thorough—then moved between her legs.
She was wet. Eager. He lapped at her until she arched, until she gasped his name, until she forgot his cutting words. But he didn’t enter her. Not yet. Not until he made her come with his mouth, once—then again—until her thighs quivered around him and her hands fisted the sheets.
When he finally rose to his knees, he placed her legs over his shoulders with care, drawing her hips to his. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he said, voice hoarse.
“You won’t,” she whispered, flushed with need.
He pushed inside her slowly, inch by inch, groaning at the feel of her. She tightened around him, mouth falling open. He moved carefully, the rhythm deep but measured, watching her face for any flicker of discomfort. There was none. Only want. Only wonder.
She urged him deeper, her hips meeting his. The bed creaked. The room filled with the sounds of breath, of skin, of two people who had denied themselves too long.
When he came, it was with a groan torn from somewhere deep. Her release followed, like a wave cresting. He did not move for a long moment. Only looked at her.
Then he lay beside her and pulled her into his arms, as if the world outside did not exist. They had wed in secrecy. But here—now—he felt like there was nothing hidden between them. Nothing at all.