Chapter 46
Freshly bathed and dressed in the spare suit he had brought with him to their wedding—back when he still believed he’d be staying here often—William descended the stairs.
His splinted arm nagged at him, the damaged joint tugging whenever he moved.
He crossed the hall with measured steps and pushed the drawing-room door open.
The room was nearly empty. Only one figure lingered: a young man whose looks had clearly never failed him, with dark curls artfully disordered and a neckcloth knotted with careless elegance. He turned at once, beaming as though William were an old acquaintance.
“Sir! You missed us—we’ve only just ended our gathering.”
“Why linger, then?” William asked, tone clipped.
The young man’s smile widened, unbothered by the chill.
“She promised me notes—on my anthology. She has the keenest mind of any critic I’ve met.
But—ah—” He toyed with the edge of his neckcloth, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“Her beauty, sir. Her beauty is unparalleled. I’ve written a new poem…
about her. She is my muse, my Venus, my Dulcinea. ”
A vein pulsed hard at William’s temple.
The young man leaned closer, turning smug.
“Many fine ladies—especially married ones—have sighed my name. I’ve made something of a study of seduction, you see.
A poem here, a glance there, a light brush across their bosom where the gown allows, and the matter is done.
And Mrs. Strathmore is precisely the sort I should like to know in the biblical sense. ”
William’s hand tightened on the chair back, knuckles white. The thought of Jane—the woman who held his heart—reduced to a boy’s idle boast made his vision blur with rage. “Have you made any progress in your present attempt?” he asked, his tone edged with danger.
The boy laughed easily. “Alas, no, sir. The lady is different. Too sharp for my usual tricks. She dissects the poem instead of sighing over it. Terrifying, really. I’ve yet to find my way. Tell me, sir—have you ever seduced anyone?”
William’s jaw eased, but only slightly. The jealousy gave place to something colder: contempt.
And still the young man, no more than two or three years Jane’s senior, prattled on, blithely unaware of the storm gathering before him.
“She is married to a soldier, poor thing. He fights the French and never writes. She thinks it’s a delay in the post, but what if—what if he’s dead already?
Then she’ll be inconsolable. That’s when I’ll make my move.
Perhaps sooner. She need only doubt his return, and I’ll be there to take her in my arms, to soothe her with kisses until she forgets him.
” His smile sharpened, triumphant. “She would be ripe for the taking. I may even marry her after. She is worth more than a mere tumble.”
William’s eyes darkened dangerously. The young man faltered, finally sensing peril.
At that moment, Jane entered, a bundle of papers in hand. She stopped dead. “Good God. William. I did not expect you.”
He drew himself up, cold and imperious. “Clearly, madam, you did not. Imagine returning to one’s wife only to hear talk of her seduction, of her marriage to another.”
Jane’s brows snapped together. She turned on the young poet. “Mr. Matthews, I know you are young and reckless in your talk, but what nonsense have you been spilling to my husband?”
Matthews looked between them, paling rapidly. William stepped forward, towering over him, his bandaged arm forgotten. “I injured this arm serving my King. But my other still suffices to throw you out by the neck. If you ever set foot in this house again, sir, it will be the last thing you do.”
Matthews stumbled backward, nearly tripping over a chair in his haste to the door. He fled without another word. Jane’s laughter followed him out, bright and unrestrained.
William turned on her, still burning with fury. But she only laughed harder. “You think he had any chance, William? Truly?”
He stared at her, and something in him shifted. Her face was rounder now, softened with new curves. Her breasts full from nursing, her body changed, radiant. Awe overtook his anger.
“You wouldn’t prefer him to me?” His voice was strained, almost tentative. “You don’t hate me anymore, then?”
She chuckled. “Not enough to choose the likes of Mr. Matthews over you. Besides, you’ve a champion now. One who’s swayed my heart in your favor.”
The last of his rage bled away. “May I meet him?”
Her smile gentled. “Come, then. I’ll take you to him.”
Jane crossed the hall with her usual steady stride, unhurried and upright. But her fingers, still ink-stained from the papers she held, tightened imperceptibly around them as she led him past the staircase and toward the small study at the back of the house.
The room was narrow, hardly built for two people, let alone one of William’s height and breadth.
Books lined the walls, and every available surface was covered in notes and journals.
The window was open, the curtain stirring faintly in the evening air.
On the wingback chair sat a wicker basket, draped in muslin.
A soft sigh escaped, nothing more than the shifting breath of a sleeping infant.
“He’s just there,” Jane murmured. “I only left him a moment. I thought I’d be right back before that foolish man declared for my hand to my own husband.”
William followed her in, the space too close, his presence too large. When she turned to put the notes away, he caught her hand before she could lay them down and pulled her to him.
There was no warning. He didn’t think, didn’t plan, didn’t ask.
He simply kissed her. Not to claim, but as if gasping for air after nearly drowning.
One hand cradled the back of her neck; the other, his injured arm, rested awkwardly but firmly against her side, as if he couldn’t bear to hold her with less than his whole self.
She froze for a heartbeat, then melted into him.
When he pulled back, he did so slowly, as though tearing himself from her were unnatural.
“I couldn’t put it into words when Charlotte’s letter came,” he said hoarsely.
“There was no language for what I felt. I sat with pen in hand more times than I can count, but nothing I wrote seemed enough. I fought. I did my duty. I led men into hell. But at the earliest possible moment, I came back to tell you this—” His eyes burned into hers.
“That I love you, Jane. That even the thought of losing you made me suffer more than I thought a man could bear.”
Her lips parted in silence. She had never cared to hear the words—only the deeds that would prove them right. But now that they came, they shook her more than she’d expected.
He went on, lower now, with none of the poise she had once associated with Lord Blackmeer. “I don’t care merely for my son, Jane. If you had not lived—” He swallowed. “I wouldn’t have wanted to see the boy. Not if he had taken you from me.”
She drew in a sharp breath. Her spine stiffened.
“Do not say such things, William,” she said, her voice calm, yet laced with steel.
“Do not. Because if I were truly lost—if I had died—my soul would not have rested if you mistreated my boy. And I will not allow you to. You hear me?” Her gaze was unwavering.
“If you hurt him in any way, I will never forgive you.”
There was a long silence. And then—quietly, almost boyishly—he asked, “But you have forgiven me… haven’t you?”
Something in her softened. Her eyes shone with a gentler light. “Well,” she said slowly, “I am willing to work through any differences we have.”
She turned toward the bassinet and reached down, lifting the small bundle with practiced ease. The baby stirred, grumbling faintly as he was roused, and she cradled him close, brushing a kiss to his fine downy head.
“So,” she said, with a look that was both teasing and ceremonial, “let me introduce you to little George. Though in this household, for the time being, he mostly goes by rabbit.”
William blinked. “Rabbit,” he repeated, incredulous. He remembered the line in Charlotte’s letter and had dismissed it as one of her ridiculous jests. “You call my son—a future duke—after a rodent?”
Jane only shrugged, untroubled. “It began as a joke. Charlotte said he resembled a rabbit Margaret once doted on. And then it stuck.”
He looked at her as if she’d grown two heads. “He is my heir. He is to inherit Westford Castle, the seat, the title, the responsibilities of a noble line. He is not,” he said with grave emphasis, “a rabbit in any form, woman.”
Jane smirked, and without waiting for his further protest, she stepped close and eased the bundle toward him.
“Careful,” she murmured. “Support his head. I’ll steady the rest.”
William obeyed, sliding his good arm beneath the child. The baby settled easily into the crook of his elbow, light and warm, his small body pressing against the breadth of his chest. One tiny hand wriggled free of the swaddling and curled tight around the fabric of his coat.
And just like that—William forgot how to breathe.
The child weighed almost nothing. He was warm.
Alive. Fragile. And he needed him. Not in some abstract, dynastic sense.
Not in the way one thought of a legacy or a lineage.
But truly, bodily, needfully. This tiny thing—this soft, strange creature—could not survive without care. Without protection. Without love.
William swallowed hard. He had led thousands into battle. He had faced death more times than he could count. But nothing had ever made him feel this helpless—or this responsible.
“He’s so… small,” he said at last. “So… light.”
Behind him, Jane gave a huff of laughter. “He seems small. You’re the size of a cavalry horse, William. Everything looks tiny to you.”
William glanced back at her, but she was grinning now, arms folded, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“That child came into the world with his fists already clenched,” she added. “He weighed over nine pounds, and I felt every ounce of it. Try pushing him out and then tell me he’s small.”
“He’s… strong,” he murmured, conceding the point.
William looked down again, into the sleeping face of the boy who bore his name, his blood, the likeness already plain. And for the first time in his life, William Strathmore, Lord Blackmeer, future Duke of Westford, felt something that shook him to his core: A need to be worthy.
Not of the title. Not of Jane. But of this. Of the child in his arms. The child who would one day look to him not as a nobleman, or a commanding officer—but as a father.
Jane stepped forward, her hand brushing lightly across William’s arm. “You see?” she murmured. “He’s not so frightening after all.”
William didn’t answer. But his hold tightened slightly, instinctively, as if to shield the boy from a world too large and too cruel.
And when he finally spoke, it was only this: “I won’t fail him, Jane.”
She touched his cheek, her thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw. “Good,” she said. “Because he’ll never forgive you either.”