Chapter 48
The summer light woke her early, warm and insistent against her face.
Beyond the open window, she could hear the streets beginning to stir—hooves on cobblestones, a milkmaid calling out, the creak of shutters being drawn back.
Jane stirred beneath the sheets and turned her face toward the empty pillow beside her.
He was gone. She lay still for a moment, not surprised—only heavy-limbed and sore in the way that came after too many nights of too little sleep.
And last night had been long. Between the baby’s feedings and William’s hunger for her—twice more before dawn, each time slower, but no less intense—they’d hardly slept at all.
Her body ached in every way. But it was a contented ache, almost unfamiliar. Not pain, exactly. Something more primal. Sated. Marked.
She sat up carefully and reached for her dressing gown just as a knock came at the door. “Come in,” she called.
Mary entered with a breakfast tray, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor, her cheeks crimson. Jane stared, and then—horribly—understood. Of course they had heard.
Mary cleared her throat and all but tripped over the words. “His lordship asked me to let you know—he’s gone to Westford House. He… he hadn’t been yet. Came straight here, he said, once he arrived in London.”
Jane’s fingers went still as they reached for the cup of tea. “Oh,” she said softly.
He hadn’t even gone home. The realization moved through her slowly, warmth spreading in her chest. That he had come to her first. Straight from the docks, probably, after months of marching and fighting.
Covered in road dust and heavy with exhaustion.
He could have sought the comforts of Westford House, where an army of servants waited to fulfill his every whim—but he had come here.
“Thank you, Mary,” Jane said at last, accepting the tray.
Mary gave a swift, awkward curtsey and nearly fled the room, muttering something about boiled eggs.
Jane took a sip of the tea. It was strong and hot, and for a moment she only breathed in the steam.
She had not expected this: to feel so calm.
So quietly whole. Her limbs were tired, her body worn, but the house was still.
The baby was still sleeping. And though he had left without waking her—without even a note—it did not feel cruel.
It was a retreat, perhaps. A chance for him to regroup.
* * *
At luncheon, Mrs. Scott served her a portion fit for a ploughman: nearly half a roast chicken, a mound of potatoes, a thick slice of bread, and a generous wedge of tart to finish.
Jane blinked down at her plate. “I think you’ve mistaken me for a regiment.”
Mrs. Scott gave her a look as she ladled extra gravy over the meat. “You’ll need to regain your strength, after your husband’s visit.”
Jane nearly choked on a bite of bread.
Mrs. Scott smirked. “Blushing to your roots, you are, my lady. And here I thought his lordship had cured you of modesty by now.”
“I am not blushing,” Jane lied.
The older woman ignored her. “Keep it up and you’ll give little George a brother or sister in no time. Don’t you worry, they’re rich enough, you can have as many as you like.”
Jane covered her face with one hand. “Mrs. Scott…”
“Oh, hush. You may wonder why I say it, but I’ll tell you—you do nothing wrong by making him sweat a bit. It’ll do him good to learn his place.”
Jane lowered her hand, her eyes wide.
Mrs. Scott leaned in slightly, voice dropping as she picked up the empty tray. “Only… if last night’s any indication, he’ll put another baby in you sooner than you’d like.”
Jane opened her mouth. Closed it. Her face burned. And for the first time in what felt like months, she laughed. It burst out of her in a helpless, startled sound, and she had to set down her knife before she dropped it.
Mrs. Scott looked back over her shoulder with a wink. “Aye, that’s better. You laugh more, my lady. And don’t give up on that foolish boy.”
She paused at the doorway, her tone softening. “He’s all jealous, for no good reason. Thinks he’s got to hold you tight or lose you. He’ll get there. Just be patient with him, my lady.”
Jane sat very still, her laughter faded—but not her smile. “I’ll try.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Scott, with a nod. “And don’t let him forget what he’s got.”
* * *
The discussion was in full swing when the parlor door opened and Mary stepped in, cheeks slightly flushed, posture rigid with nerves.
“The Most Honorable the Marquess of Blackmeer, Major-General in His Majesty’s Army, Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honorable Order of the Bath…” She paused, brow furrowed. “Colonel-in-Chief of… something. I forgot, my lady—I recited it three times with no mistake, I swear.”
Lady Charlotte turned in her seat with a frown. “Mary, what in God’s name are you doing?”
“I am announcing his lordship, my lady,” Mary said, flustered but resolute.
Charlotte stared. “My brother is here?”
Jane, seated on the sofa beside Mr. Colborn with little George nestled in her arms, looked up calmly. “Apparently he is. Did you expect him?”
Charlotte gave a short laugh. “Oh yes, I must have asked him to collect me in his barouche. Though he never does what I ask, so I had quite forgotten. I suppose today he chose to be obedient.”
Mr. Colborn glanced up, intrigued. “Perhaps he’s come to patronize one of my poets. Mr. Matthews—”
“I doubt he would favor Mr. Matthews’ style,” Jane said mildly, cutting him off without looking away from her son, who was cooing at her, bubbles forming at the corners of his mouth.
“Mary,” she added, “do not keep his lordship on the doorstep. Show him in.”
A moment later, William entered in full ceremonial uniform—dark blue, with gleaming gold epaulettes and polished buttons, not a hair out of place.
Broad-shouldered and commanding, he cut a striking figure.
He nodded at Charlotte and gave a formal bow to Jane, who kept her expression neutral, though her heart clenched at the sight of him in all his glory.
“Mrs. Strathmore,” he said evenly.
There was no seat beside her. Nor did she look inclined to accommodate him in any way.
She was speaking animatedly with Mr. Colborn, whose posture leaned a fraction too close for William’s liking.
He thought he saw the man’s fingers brush her sleeve—his lips, perhaps, at her ear—as he bent in to murmur a remark.
The baby made a contented sound, utterly unaware of the tension thickening the air.
Charlotte, ever the diplomat, rose and said lightly, “You came too soon, William. You can’t expect me to leave just yet.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, his voice cool. “I am far too interested in modern verse.”
One of the ladies, Miss Fielding, tittered. “Oh, but surely you must read aloud for us, my lord. Do you write poetry?”
“I write orders,” William said dryly. “They tend to rhyme less.”
That earned a ripple of laughter, but his gaze never left Jane. She was radiant, calm, absolutely in command of the room. The poets hung on her words. Not even the infant in her arms seemed to dull their admiration. Mr. Colborn, in particular, never left her side.
William barely noticed the young woman beside him trying to draw him into conversation. His jaw was tight. He smiled at nothing.
Eventually, the salon drew to a close. The guests began to rise, gathering gloves and hats, offering compliments and promises to return.
When the door shut behind the last of them, silence settled like dust across the floorboards of an abandoned house.
Charlotte turned on her heel. “Well, William? What exactly are you doing here?”
He glanced toward Jane, then back at his sister. “I have an arrangement with your friend. She has her salon by day... and she has me by night.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Good God.”
Jane stood as well, cradling George, her voice measured. “You are in breach of our agreement, William. I said you could have me at night—but not if you barge in like a jealous husband during the day.”
He didn’t flinch. “The agreement, as I recall, was that you might host your salons. I never promised not to attend them. And I must say”—his gaze flicked to the stack of pamphlets and the half-full teacups—“I’ve developed a sudden and profound interest in literature.”
Charlotte gave a small, horrified laugh. “You cannot be serious. You're not going to start haunting these little gatherings, are you? Lurking in corners while Jane draws parallels between modern verse and Ovid or Catullus for the delight of every radical poet in town?”
“And what do you think you’re achieving by this display of petty jealousy?” Jane asked coolly, shifting the baby to her other arm.
“It is not petty jealousy,” he said. “It is the natural instinct of a man protecting his family.”
Charlotte made a strangled sound. “Oh, marvelous. We’ve moved from husband to guard dog.”
Jane exhaled, biting back a smile. “For your peace of mind, I should inform you that Mr. Colborn is far too professional to behave improperly. And I am not in need of protection from a few young men with more sonnets in their heads than sense.”
He looked at the baby, then back at her. “And yet they all seemed terribly eager—despite the infant against your breast.”
“Eager to hear what I have to say. Because I’ve earned their respect,” she replied, calm but firm.
He stepped closer, gaze sharpening. “I’m not so sure about that. Besides, that child is mine. You are mine. I need them to know.”
Charlotte snorted. “You do know she’s not a horse, don’t you?”
Jane raised a brow. “Do you even hear yourself? This was not our agreement.”
William’s voice dropped, low and rough. His eyes were half-crazy with jealousy. “I do believe it is past eight, which means you are mine now—per our agreement. So, Charlotte, be a dear and have Mary summon your carriage.”
Charlotte looked at him incredulously, as if he'd gone mad. Then turned to Jane and said, “Do take care not to break my brother. We’re quite inbred, and lunacy runs in the family.”
Jane’s eyes sparkled with amusement, though she didn’t dignify the remark with an answer. The baby gave a soft, hiccupping sigh in Jane’s arms, and she laid him gently in the baby basket resting on the floor beside the settee.
The moment the door closed behind Charlotte, the latch barely clicking, he was on her—hand in her hair, mouth pressing hungrily to hers. Jane gasped in surprise, laughter rising in her throat, muffled by the force of his kiss.
“William—” she managed, breaking free just enough to speak. “The baby—he’s right there.”
“In his bassinet,” he muttered, already dragging her backward toward the sofa. “And far too young to understand anything but hunger and sleep.”
Before she could protest, he pushed her over the arm of it, gathered her skirts with impatient hands—his splintered arm a minor concern—fumbled with his own clothes, and entered her with a single, brutal thrust.
It was fast. Desperate. His good hand gripped her hip, his breath ragged against her ear. There was no gentleness—only need, and some fierce, unspoken demand. He was driving into her like a man possessed, as if the mere sight of Mr. Colborn leaning too near had snapped the last of his control.
And she wanted it. God help her, she met every thrust, the ache of it mingling with the maddening pleasure, until she shuddered around him, trembling and undone.
He came with a low groan, collapsing forward to bury his face against her shoulder, holding her there—caged beneath him, his lips hot on her neck.
They stayed like that for a moment, neither of them speaking, the baby still silent across the room.
Then he shifted, just enough to ease out of her and settle onto the sofa, dragging her with him.
She didn’t resist. Still flushed, still trembling, she let him pull her into his lap.
He cradled her against his chest, one hand curled protectively around her thigh, the other—his injured one—stroking her back, awkward but intent.
His mouth brushed her damp temple as if the contact steadied him.
Her breathing remained uneven. Her eyes—half-lidded, dazed—still held the shock of pleasure.
After a moment, she smiled, alight with mischief. “I didn’t take you for the insecure type. Making poor Mary announce your full rank as though we were at Court.”
That made him lift his head, scowling faintly. “It was protocol.”
“Oh, yes. Protocol. Of course.”
She gave in to laughter now, loose and bright in the quiet room, murmuring something under her breath that sounded very like ‘silly man.’ He kissed her again—fierce, unrepentant, and entirely possessive.
She knew she shouldn’t encourage him—but God, there was a certain levity to it. He’d strutted in like a peacock in full regalia, bristling with medals and masculine pride.
“Jealousy suits you, William,” she murmured, trailing her fingers down his torso. “It makes you desperate. I think I like you desperate.”
He caught her hand before it slipped below his waist. “That’s enough,” he growled. “Unless you want me to take you again, right here.”
“That was exactly my intention, my lord.” She arched a brow, entirely unbothered, then leaned in, slow and deliberate, to nip at his ear.