Chapter 47
Jane gathered the child in her arms and started up the narrow staircase. William followed close, his step heavy on the boards. At the landing, she paused outside her chamber.
“I’ll put him down,” she whispered.
“In the nursery,” William said.
Her head turned at once. “He sleeps with me.”
“Tonight, I’ll sleep with you,” he answered simply.
Color rose in her cheeks. “And if he cries?”
“We’ll keep the door open,” he said, steady as command.
She bit her lip, then murmured, “But he can hear us. Not only him. Mrs. Scott, Mary…”
He bent suddenly, brushing his mouth over hers, tender but final. “Then you should not make a sound, my love.”
Her blush deepened; she lowered her eyes. Still, she nodded, and slipped across the hall to lay the baby down in the nursery cradle. William waited, every nerve taut.
When she returned, he didn’t let her speak. He caught her by the waist and drew her in, kissing her hard, as though the months apart could be erased in one breath.
Her hands went to his coat. “Your arm—”
“I’ll manage,” he said roughly. “But you’ll take me, Jane. Ride me. Let me lie beneath you.”
She flushed again, but her fingers moved swiftly over his buttons. He shed the coat, the waistcoat, the linen beneath, until his skin gleamed pale in the candlelight. He helped her with the laces of her gown, then stilled his hands when she hesitated.
Her eyes dropped, hesitant. Her body was not as it had been—softer, fuller, her breasts heavy with milk, her waist thickened, faint lines etched along her hips.
But William’s gaze was reverent, almost stricken.
He reached up, fingers brushing the curve of her shoulder as he gathered the fabric of her shift.
“Lift your arms,” he said gently. She obeyed, and he drew it slowly over her head.
“You’re beautiful. God, Jane, you’re beautiful.
More than before. You carried my son. You let me back.
” He hesitated, then added, hoarsely, “Perhaps I don’t deserve you. ”
Her throat tightened. Perhaps he didn’t.
But when he lay back, guiding her astride him, she let herself be drawn in.
His need was already fierce, straining against her, notching at her entrance.
She hovered, breath shallow, then sank down slowly, inch by inch.
A moan caught in her throat as he filled her.
The stretch was sharp, exquisite, a sudden rush of sensation that made her tremble. It had been so long—too long.
William groaned, his head tipping back. He grasped her hip with his good hand, urging her on.
She moved over him, slow at first, testing the rhythm they’d once known by heart.
But it came back to her—how to rise and fall, how to draw him deeper, how to take him until she felt nothing else but him.
Pleasure surged through her. Her body clenched around him, greedy, aching.
He reached the deepest part of her, until she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.
He drew her closer, her breasts brushing his mouth. Without thought, he bent and took one nipple between his lips, suckling until milk flowed over his tongue. She gasped, startled, pushing weakly at his shoulder.
“No—William. That’s for the baby.”
He looked up, wonder in his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I forgot myself.” He touched her as if afraid to break her. “But Jane—what a miracle. That your body can give life, that you can feed him from yourself.”
Her face burned. “It feels indecent when you do it.”
“No.” His eyes held hers. “It’s you. And I want to know every part of you. If you’ll let me.”
She wavered, her breath uneven. The child was strong, thriving; she had more than enough. And the feel of his mouth had not repulsed her—it had kindled something else. Slowly, she nodded.
He bent again, gentler this time. The faint sweetness touched his tongue again, and he groaned low in his chest. “Extraordinary,” he whispered against her skin. “I love you, Jane. I love you.”
Her resistance melted. She moved faster now, her hands braced against his chest, her hair tumbling loose around her shoulders.
He steadied her with his arm, lifting into her, thrusting from beneath until her cries broke loose in ragged gasps.
He drank her sounds the way he had drank from her—reverently, hungrily, as though every part of her might sustain him.
Her strength gave way at last. She clung to him, shuddering as pleasure overwhelmed her. He followed, surging deep, his release tearing through him like fire.
She collapsed against him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her body shaking in the aftermath. His good arm wrapped tight around her, his lips resting in her hair.
For the first time since their hurried vows, there was no distance, no doubt. Only this: the woman he loved, the mother of his son, in his arms. He did not know how long this peace would last. But for now, it was enough.
* * *
Jane lay with her head on his chest, her hair spilling loose over his bare skin. Her eyes stayed open in the dark. He had told her he loved her, plain and unguarded. She had not said it back. Now she wondered if she should—or if silence kept a part of herself he could never own.
The baby’s wail shattered the quiet. William stiffened beneath her, panic threading his voice. “What’s wrong?”
Jane pushed herself up on one elbow, amused. “At three months old? His needs aren’t so complex. He either wants feeding or changing.”
Relief softened his face, and he gave a short, almost sheepish chuckle. “That simple.”
She reached for her robe, slipping it on loosely, and crossed the room to the cradle.
A moment later she returned, the child squirming in her arms, his small mouth latched greedily at her breast. She climbed back into bed beside William, nestling the boy comfortably against her.
With a sigh, she let herself sink into the pillows.
The infant nursed in eager gulps, his tiny fists flexing.
William turned on his side, watching them both with awe. “He seems very hungry.”
Jane laughed softly. “Always. Every three hours or so. You’ll never get any sleep in this house.”
But William did not laugh. His gaze stayed fixed on her, the baby at her breast. “Jane—you won’t live in this house any longer.”
Her brow creased. “What do you mean?”
“I came back from war. It is truly over. We can announce the marriage now. Tomorrow, you and the boy will come with me to Westford House. Tonight is the last you’ll spend here.”
She went very still. The softness drained from her expression, her eyes hardening. When she spoke at last, her calm was deliberate, each word a restraint. “So. Now you are ready to take me out of the shadows, and I am to leap at your call?”
He frowned, incredulous. “Jane, you must see it is for the best. The secrecy was always temporary. I told you that.”
“And in the meantime,” she returned, “you set me aside when it suited you. But now you think to summon me—to show me off like some trinket.”
“You never seemed to understand,” he said tightly. “I was protecting you.”
“But surely it could have been done with more care for my feelings,” she said in a low tone, trying not to startle the baby.
“I almost died, and my mother wasn’t even there.
She still thinks I’m a fallen woman—likely in a brothel by now, if my uncle’s letter is any indication.
” Her voice sharpened, though she did not raise it.
“I did what I had to,” he forced out. “And I did it for us.”
“How can you say that?” Her eyes flashed with restrained fury. “When it was clearly not enough. I felt alone, isolated, at your mercy.”
His temper stirred, but he fought for calm.
That was astute. She was at his mercy. “Jane. I am not merely a man. I am the heir to a dukedom. And you are my lawful wife. You should obey me of your own accord.” The next words escaped before he could stop them.
“Do not mistake my patience, for weakness. Know—I have means to do with you as I please. I could take our son, drag you back to Westford House by force… chain you to my bloody bed. No one could stop me.”
He stilled. God help me, why did I say that? I promised I’d swallow every bitter word, every scrap of pride just to be with her again. And the moment I bed her, I am back at my old self.
Her hand tightened on the baby, who suckled on, oblivious.
For an instant her pulse leapt in fear—he could do it, God help her, he had the power.
But when she spoke, composed and cold, her tone was edged with dry sarcasm.
“William, when you threaten me, you do not invite my obedience. You only drive me further from you. I can be a dutiful wife, but I doubt you’ll like it. ”
He swallowed hard. He did not want to drag her with him only to be tolerated out of duty. The thought of her lying still beneath him, eyes fixed on the ceiling while he spent himself, filled him with dread. She pressed on.
“I am your wife, yes. But I am also my own person. I have built something here—a circle, a name, a place where I am valued. I will not abandon it only to be paraded as the upstart your father’s world delights in despising. Here, I have respect. I will not give it up, not yet.”
Anger surged hot in his chest, the words unbidden. “Respect? From those poets who flock to you like flies to honey? Shall I endure my wife surrounded by men who dream only of bedding her?”
Jane lifted her chin, her gaze unwavering. “They value my mind. My writings. I am published now, William. I am read.”
He laughed, harsh and cold. Every thought of restraint dismissed as jealousy reared its ugly head. “Read? By Matthews? That boy wanted nothing but to get between your thighs. That is all any of them want. Not your mind. You think grown men come here to be lectured by a twenty-two-year-old girl?”
She looked down at the child, blinking hard. Then drew a breath, lifted her head, and met his eyes—her own blazing. “Do not mistake your weakness for theirs. There are men who value my mind above what I have between my thighs. You, William, are the one who speaks as though it is all that matters.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw, his voice edged with scorn. “Then tell me more of how men think, wife. You seem to know far better than I.”
She had no wish to quarrel further, and only shook her head. “I have made something of my own. I will not abandon it. I am not saying I will never come to Westford House. But not yet. Give me this time.”
His jaw set, disbelief raw on his face. “You wish to stay here. To deny me. To refuse your place at my side?”
She lifted her chin. “Call it refusal if you like. I call it reason. And if you love me, you will wait.”
His hand tightened against the sheets. “And in the meantime, what? I steal into your bed at night while you play Mrs. Strathmore by day?”
Her lips curved faintly. “If you wish. That is my compromise.”
He gave a jagged laugh. “Generous. That I may sleep with my own wife—if she permits it.”
Her reply came clipped, each word edged. “Do not forget, William—I could withhold even that. After all the agony you’ve put me through, I could deny you entirely. And as you’ve seen, there are men who would gladly take your place.”
His temper snapped. He caught her chin, forcing her gaze to his. His tone was low, dangerous. “You would not dare.”
She met him unflinchingly, even as the baby continued nursing. “It is not a matter of daring. It is a matter of will. Show me you can bend, William. Show me you can do this on my terms. Or try force, and see what it costs you.”
He stared at her, nearly shaking with fury and something perilously close to despair. At last, he released her, his voice rough. “Very well, Jane. Have it your way,” he conceded, barely able to master his temper.
* * *
Jane eased the child from her breast, wiped his mouth gently, then lifted him to her shoulder and rubbed his back until he gave a soft burp.
Afterward, she swaddled him again and carried him to the cradle.
William sat rigid, following her with dark eyes, every nerve thrumming.
When she returned to the bed, she hesitated at the edge.
He caught her wrist and gave a hard tug, pulling her down beside him.
“It is night,” he said, hoarse with feeling. “And you are my wife—by your own agreement.”
His lips claimed hers before she could speak, hot and demanding. In the same breath, he rolled them, using his strength and momentum until he was on top of her. She opened her legs instinctively, making space for him between them, her pulse kicking hard.
His splinted arm braced along the mattress for balance, useless for anything else, but with the other he gripped the back of her neck, forcing her gaze to his as he kissed her as he pleased.
The weight of him came down on her unshielded—broad chest, solid thighs—pressing her into the bed.
She felt caged, pinned, the heat of him enclosing her, and inexplicably she felt slick with wanting.
He did not wait; he entered her with a grunt and drove into her with anger and need, hips snapping, each thrust fierce and sure. His voice tore out through clenched teeth, dark and guttural. “You’re mine,” he muttered against her mouth. “Mine.”
There was no tenderness this time, no marveling reverence. Only the fierce rhythm of possession. He gave her deep, sharp, unrelenting strokes, and she winced at the force of it. His grip at her neck tightened, and a low sound broke against her ear.
“You’ll take all of me—every inch—as I please,” he growled. “That is your duty, dear wife.”
The words should have stung, but the feral heat of him, the sheer strength of his body pinning hers, sent a shudder of pleasure through her.
She could not move beneath him, could only yield, breathless and aching, to the rhythm he set.
And in yielding, she discovered something sharper still: the exhilaration of surrender when it was her choice.
He might claim her with his body, but he had already bent to her will.
That knowledge gave her a deeper, secret triumph, even as she clung to his shoulders.
And so she let herself revel in this, in him—dominated and adored all at once, trembling with rapture, as they burned together.