Chapter 39
She woke in the crook of his body, cocooned in warmth, her back curved against the hard line of his chest. She could only hear a blackbird singing somewhere beyond the window, its call clear and solitary in the morning quiet.
His breath was steady against her nape, his hand curled loosely beneath her breasts.
But it was the press of him—insistent, unmistakable—that truly woke her.
“Jane,” he murmured, low and gravelly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
She stirred, unsure if it was tenderness or want that laced his voice. Before she could answer, he eased her thigh forward and slipped between them, aligning himself in the cradle of her hips. His fingers moved over her belly, then down. She gasped, heat flaring at his touch.
“Stay still,” he breathed. “Just for a moment.”
He eased into her from behind, careful. She was slick and ready, but he held back, as if afraid to go too far.
“You won’t break me,” she whispered, half-turning her face toward him.
His lips grazed her shoulder. “You’re sure?”
She nodded, “I need more.”
His rhythm deepened, slow but sure, one arm wrapped around her body, the other bracing her thigh to angle her hips just so.
The silence between them pulsed with the sound of skin on skin and the loud creak of the bed.
His thrusts were steady, filling her completely as their pleasure built.
Time seemed to stop; all she could feel was him inside her—the fullness, the sweet ache.
A soft moan escaped her, helpless and wanting. At the sound, he slid a hand between her legs, rubbing in time with each stroke. She couldn’t take it any longer. She came with a cry stifled in her arm, and he followed moments later, groaning against her throat.
When it was over, they lay there without speaking. His palm remained splayed across her stomach, possessive even in stillness.
“I wish I hadn’t sent the servants away,” he said at last, voice muffled against her hair. “But I didn’t want to worry about who might be listening. This house is small.”
She gave a tired smile, still catching her breath. “Not that small,” she murmured. “We had a drawing room to marry in. Could’ve been worse—we might’ve had to use the kitchen.”
He chuckled, then said, low and fervent, “God. I wish I could stay in this bed forever. With you. Just like this.”
She turned her head. “Then why get up?”
He kissed her temple. “Because I have to earn my keep.” He eased away from her, rising from the bed. “My duty to my wife and child, apparently, is breakfast.”
“I can make it,” she offered, reaching for the blanket.
He turned, already pulling on the loose nightshirt Mary had let out for him. He hadn’t worn it last night, preferring the press of his skin against hers. “Absolutely not. You’ll have to live with the indignity of being served by your husband just this once.”
“You’ll never do it again?”
“Highly unlikely,” he said with a shrug. “So enjoy the memory of going hungry on your first day as a married woman—because your useless husband attempted toast.”
She laughed—genuinely laughed—as he disappeared downstairs.
Mrs. Scott had laid out most of the meal the night before: bread, preserves, cheese, a dish of cold sliced ham. William managed to prepare tea without burning the house down—he'd done it a few times in the army, though he wouldn’t boast of the results.
By the time he returned with the tray, Jane was sitting up in bed, her hair tousled, now wearing her chemise.
The thin linen clung to her form, revealing more than it concealed—her breasts full, her belly round, her skin still flushed from the morning’s exertions. He paused in the doorway, tray in hand.
His eyes darkened. He set the tray aside.
“William—”
He was already there, kissing her, tearing the chemise down her body as the linen gave way beneath his touch, too desperate to be gentle.
His mouth found her breasts, her stomach, lower still.
She gasped and twisted in the sheets as he worshiped every inch of her skin, drawing cries from her lips until her body was writhing.
He kissed his way back up, slow and hungry, until he reached her mouth and claimed it with a groan. “You’re mine,” he said, voice low and rough. “All this sacrifice—surely it must count for something.”
She stilled. The words struck like a lash. She’d heard them before. Last night, too. And again now, as though she were some prize that cost him too dearly. Something he had to justify. Something he couldn’t simply love—without cost, without consequence.
His lips grazed her belly as he slid his arms beneath her, easing her back against the pillows.
He knelt between her thighs and angled her hips with measured, steady hands, settling her just where he needed her.
He entered her then with aching care—slow, deep thrusts that made her clench around him, each movement a silent surrender.
“I gave up so much for you,” he whispered as he drove into her, lost to the force of his pleasure. “But you’re worth it. You’re fucking worth it.”
Her mind was no longer wholly in it. Not this time.
His words… her heart bristled, raw and wounded.
Still, the rhythm built. Her body responded to his as it always had, unresisting, drawn by the force of his need and the ache in her own blood.
He moved within her until they shattered again, together.
Afterwards, she turned her face to the pillow, her hands curled near her face. A single tear slid down her cheek.
He brought the tray to the bed, with slightly burnt toast and now lukewarm tea, and kissed her temple, noticing nothing amiss. “Eat,” he said softly. “Please. For both of you.”
She stared at the tea, trying to steady her heart. The silence stretched. And then—
“You keep saying I am worth it,” she said quietly. “Worth the sacrifice. I suppose I should thank you.”
His brow furrowed. “You think I did what I did for you—lightly?”
“You left me shut up for weeks. You moved me into this house under cover of night. You married me in secret. I couldn’t even tell my mother. She only knows I’m ruined and disgraced. But I’m to be grateful—because you set aside your dreams?”
He bit out the words. “You have a home. Protection. A name.”
“A name no one will speak aloud. And no family. No future outside these walls. But I was worth it. Because now you can bed me whenever it pleases you.” Her voice shook now, but her eyes never left his. “Would you like a monument, William? For all that you gave up to have me?”
He recoiled as if struck. “You think this was easy for me?” Anger sharpened each word.
“I risked everything—my reputation, my command. People used to cross the street to avoid me. I bled to clear my name. I earned society’s respect back in war.
I could have married the loveliest girl in London and kept my title pristine, my bloodline clean, the Westford legacy unblemished. But I chose you.”
She cut him off sharply. “And what did I risk? My position. My body. My child’s name. Myself. And still, it is your sacrifice we are meant to honor?”
He stared at her, lips parted in disbelief. Then, coldly: “I made you my wife. That is a great sacrifice, and you should see it as such. You should feel grateful. You have nothing without me. Nothing. I married you—but if I cast you off, you’ll be ruined. And I’ll still keep my heir.”
“Get out.” Her voice cracked the air.
He flinched. “Jane—”
“Wait for your heir, then throw me to the streets once I’ve delivered him. But until I do, you won’t dare touch me, will you? You’d never risk your precious heir. Now get out!”
“Jane, listen to me—”
She screamed, “Get out!”
Then, suddenly, her breath caught. Her hand went to her belly. Her face twisted in pain.
He rushed forward. “Jane—what is it?”
She doubled over with a groan. “A cramp—just… give me a moment—”
Panic flared in him like lightning. “I’ll call the doctor.”
“The servants—”
“They’ll be back at noon. I’ll go myself if I have to—just stay there. Don’t move.”
She lay back, eyes squeezed shut, breathing shallow and quick. William stood frozen, hand trembling as he poured her a glass of water. The world felt fragile. He had never been so afraid.
When the physician finally arrived and examined her, his verdict was swift: the cramp had passed, the baby was strong. She needed rest, calm, and food.
By the time the servants returned, William had gone. And Jane, sitting alone in the bed with the cold tray untouched, stared at the door he had closed behind him.
* * *
The knock came late in the afternoon, soft but insistent. Mary, smoothing her apron with nervous hands, stood at the front door for some time before opening it.
Lord Blackmeer.
He looked worn. Not unkempt—he had never been that—but something in the rigid line of his shoulders suggested that sleep had not found him easily these past days. His cravat was tied too tightly. He held his gloves, the knuckles white where his fingers gripped the leather.
“I wish to see Mrs. Strathmore,” he said.
Mary hesitated. “The mistress is unwell, my lord.”
“I know that.” His tone was low, tight. “But I will not stay long.”
She glanced behind her, uncertain. Then: “I’ll inquire.”
Jane’s voice, from the stairwell, came calm and clear. “No need, Mary. He’s not to be admitted.”
Mary turned back, unsurprised. William went still.
“I will not see him,” Jane said again. “Not today. Not tomorrow. He can stop coming every day—it’s been almost a fortnight.”
There was silence. Mary cast him an apologetic glance before quietly closing the door.
William stood motionless on the step, as if uncertain what had struck him. But after a moment, he turned and walked away.
* * *
He came again the next day, this time with Charlotte in tow. The carriage pulled up quietly before noon. Inside, Charlotte fussed with her gloves as if trying to decide which hand she might throttle him with first.
“You look worse than usual,” she said tartly. “Have you been prowling about like some ghost haunting the halls of Westford House? You could at least moan properly.”
“I’ve been occupied. There’s a war brewing, if you’ve forgotten.”
“Occupied? Please. I hardly think you’re plotting your stratagems, General, when you pace the house until dawn, glowering at shadows and frightening the servants—only to drink yourself unconscious in the study. That’s not strategy. It’s self-pity.”
He ignored that. “You’ll speak to her?”
Charlotte gave him a look. “If she lets me in.”
* * *
Jane was abed. She had been more cautious since the cramp, though the doctor had declared her well enough provided she took things slowly. She obeyed without protest and spent less time in her study than she had intended. But no one could coax her into conversation—not Mary, not Mrs. Scott.
Charlotte knocked lightly and entered without waiting for a reply.
Jane was propped against the pillows, one hand resting absently over the curve of her stomach. Her nightgown was modest, the fullness of her figure unmistakable. Her hair was braided simply down her back. She looked pale, but not fragile—only tired. Distant.
Charlotte crossed the room and sat beside her without ceremony. “You look awful,” she said. “But better than my brother.”
Jane smiled faintly. “Then I suppose I’ve won something.”
Charlotte took that as permission. She reached for the edge of the coverlet and folded it back, masking her nervousness by keeping her hands busy. “He’s in the carriage.”
“I assumed.”
“He’s been in agony.”
Jane’s expression did not change. “Has he?”
“He is not a man given to poetry, Jane. He may not say the things you wish he would. But I have never seen him like this. Snapping at footmen. Refusing to eat. I suspect he nearly hit someone at Horse Guards.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Jane said softly, “but I have nothing left to offer him.”
Charlotte frowned. “You’re his wife.”
“In secret.” Jane’s voice was very even. “With witnesses who cannot speak of it.”
Charlotte paused. “He was trying to protect you.”
“I know,” Jane said. “I do know that. And for the child’s sake, I will not keep him away once he is born.
But as for me—” she looked down at her belly “—I’ve done what I must. I married him.
I let him claim what he thought he needed.
He may visit the child—if he decides it doesn't stain the purity of his bloodline. But I do not wish to see him.”
Charlotte was quiet for a long time. Then she rose. “He’ll be heartbroken.”
“I was already broken,” Jane said simply. “He only saw the pieces he wanted.”
* * *
Back in the carriage, Charlotte shut the door with more force than necessary. William sat motionless, staring ahead.
“Well?” he said.
Charlotte adjusted her skirts. “She’s not ready.”
He inhaled slowly through his nose. “Did she say anything else?”
Charlotte turned to look at him properly. “Yes. She said you may visit the child when it’s born—but she won’t be yours.”
She let that hang, then added, her tone deceptively calm, “Did you actually imply to your pregnant wife that her child—your child—might somehow taint the bloodline?”
William’s jaw flexed. “I might have said something… unfortunate.”
Charlotte raised a brow. “Unfortunate?”
“I was angry,” he muttered. “Not in control of what I said.” A pause. “Not that I was wrong, exactly.”
Her voice was ice. “Christ, William.” She turned back to the window. “And you wonder why she won’t let you through the door.”
His teeth clenched. He did not speak again for the rest of the ride. A hollow ache settled in his chest. What if this was permanent? What if there was no way back? He could not imagine a world where she was lost to him—truly lost.