Chapter 49
True to his word, William began attending Jane’s salons. At first, he stood near the fireplace or the window, hands clasped behind his back like a sentry posted in peacetime. He rarely spoke unless addressed, and when he did, his tone was cool, his phrasing military, and his opinions few.
He listened—though God help him, he often had no notion of what he was listening to.
Arguments about poetry he could tolerate, though most of it struck him as overwrought.
He held no opinion on whether Lucan’s vision of doomed resistance was more honest than Byron’s self-indulgent despair, nor could he fathom how these arguments could last hours.
When the young radicals turned the discussion toward Rousseau, Wollstonecraft, or the collapse of monarchy in France—Mary went pale in the doorway, clutching the tea tray as if it might shield her from sedition.
It didn’t help that they seemed utterly unfazed by the presence of a marquess in their midst. They spoke of revolution as if it were a dinner invitation.
One had even referred to the House of Lords as a ‘festering relic.’ William had been halfway through a sip of claret at the time and nearly choked.
They weren’t afraid of him. Worse, they seemed to think he was irrelevant.
He tried, in his way, to keep up. He brought up Tacitus once, clumsily, in a discussion of classical liberty, and was met with indulgent nods, like a child had repeated a grown man’s phrase with appropriate seriousness.
Jane didn’t correct him. She didn’t need to.
She simply seemed amused. Always amused.
And that drove him mad. Not as mad, however, as the way they looked at her—familiar, reverent, far too comfortable for his peace of mind.
One called her a “brilliant flame.” Another referred to her voice as “music of reason.” A third had nearly kissed her hand—her hand, for God’s sake—before William stepped forward just enough to make the man retreat like a tide going out.
One particular afternoon, the tension boiled to its slow, simmering peak. The topic had turned to the legal fiction of marriage.
Mr. Harrison—a slender, long-limbed man with easy charm and the eyes of a fox—was speaking. He had the kind of voice that unfurled like perfume: languid, beguiling, and just a touch unctuous. William already loathed him.
“Marriage,” Harrison said, leaning forward, “is no sacrament. It is a construct. A legal apparatus designed to reduce women to property. A woman of wit such as yourself, Mrs. Strathmore, must surely see that. You are far too clear-eyed to mistake a chain for a garland.”
Jane didn’t smile. Not yet. She answered him plainly, but her words carried across the room with quiet authority.
“It is true the law grants women little enough. A wife’s property becomes her husband’s.
Her wages—if she earns them—are his. Even her children may be taken from her.
” She glanced at the baby sleeping in his basket, then looked to William, level and pointed.
“But to say that marriage itself is a mere legal trick is another matter. Since the beginning of time, men and women have lived together—and called that bond by one name or another. That is no invention, but nature itself.”
Harrison inclined his head, unbothered. “And yet nature requires no priest, no magistrate. Only mutual will. Why should not men and women live free? Love whom they please, when they please?”
It was a provocation, and William knew it.
He stood straighter, his voice cutting across the drawing room like a blade.
“Marriage,” he said, “is not simply a matter of law. It is the framework upon which our society rests. It protects women—not only from gossip but from destitution. From being cast off the moment a man tires of her. You would see it demolished—for what? A poet’s fancy? ”
From the corner, Charlotte gave a theatrical sigh. “I did not know you were such a stalwart defender of marriage, William,” she said dryly—biting back the rest, wondering how many married women he had debauched over the years.
“This is not the time, Charlotte,” he bit out.
Jane, who had remained composed throughout, lifted her eyes to him.
“And yet I should hope marriage offers more than protection, my lord,” she said, tone low but sharp.
“More than law or safety. It should be companionship. A promise—to stand together, in joy and in sorrow. A promise made not in law alone, but before God. And witnessed by those we love.” She held his gaze a beat too long.
A murmur rippled through the room. William said nothing. He couldn’t. Not when her words stabbed so cleanly at the hidden truth between them.
Mr. Harrison leaned forward again, triumphant. “And where is your husband, Mrs. Strathmore? He has abandoned you, has he not? Surely you, of all women, can see the emptiness of such chains.”
Jane’s lips curled faintly. She glanced across the room—to where William stood, stiff with fury.
“He has not abandoned me, Mr. Harrison,” she said, cool and unbothered. “He serves his King.”
Another poet—a rosy-cheeked youth barely out of Cambridge—jumped in, desperate for attention. “I would only serve you, Mrs. Strathmore,” he said earnestly. “I would never let you out of my sight.”
William’s jaw flexed.
“You and Lord Blackmeer are alike in that, then,” Charlotte murmured.
Mr. Colborn, seated near the pianoforte, looked vaguely irritated. “I should hope, madam, that when your husband returns, our gatherings will not suffer.”
“I think I can decide whether or not to continue hosting my salons, Mr. Colborn,” Jane said, her voice sharp as glass.
Mr. Harrison seized the moment. “He can forbid it with a single word. He has every power over you.”
Jane’s smile turned sly. “Yes. And I hope, sir, he does not abuse it. Because if he does— ” she glanced at William with glinting amusement, “I do believe I have ways to retaliate.”
Gasps and laughter. “Ah, but he can,” Harrison said, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “Whereas in a true marriage—of souls—there would be no such tyranny. Only equality.” One of the younger ladies, seated near the window, looked positively dreamy-eyed.
William stepped forward then, unable to keep back any longer. “Then find a lady, sir, who wishes to enter such a marriage with you. Because Mrs. Strathmore—by her own words and by the law—is already married.”
Jane arched a brow. “This is an argument, my lord. I do not believe Mr. Harrison means that he personally would like to wed me.”
“I think,” Harrison said, smiling thinly, “you are overly protective of your… cousin, my lord. This is merely a philosophical question. Though of course, being legally married would not preclude a deeper—spiritual and physical—union with another.”
Jane groaned inwardly. She saw the flicker of movement—William shifting, his fists clenched at his sides. For a breathless moment, she thought he would go for Harrison’s throat. But he stopped himself. Barely.
“Perhaps we might turn,” she said sweetly, “to the Romans when discussing the trappings of law. Among the patrician class, a wife could end her marriage simply by leaving her husband’s house.
Divorce required no court, no priest, no scandal, only intent.
She kept her property, her legal identity, her dignity.
Imagine—Rome was in some ways more forward than we. ”
The room followed her lead, thank God. But she could feel William’s fury vibrating beneath his composed exterior, even as he stood silent at the edge of the room. He would say nothing now. But when they were alone—God help her—he would say something.
* * *
The moment the last guest departed and the door clicked shut, William fixed her with a look. “A word, if you please, wife.”
Jane faced him with foreboding. “Please, William. I cannot understand why you feel so threatened by all this. It was only argument.”
From the basket, the baby stirred and began to cry. She bent instinctively over him. “See now?” she said softly. “I have no time to be chastised. I must tend to my son.”
“Your son? I gave you that son,” William snapped before he could stop himself.
From the corner, Charlotte snorted. “Heaven above, William. You’re acting up again. No one is stealing your wife and son from you.”
He swung his gaze on her. “See to the baby, Charlotte—and if you cannot, have Mrs. Scott do it. I must speak with my wife.”
Jane straightened, eyes narrowing. “William—”
Before she could protest further, he stepped forward, lifted her bodily, and swung her over his shoulder. Jane let out a startled sound that turned, despite herself, into a laugh—she could already imagine the sort of words he meant to hurl at her. Charlotte, however, flushed crimson.
He carried her upstairs in charged silence.
In her room, he set her down on the bed—not roughly, but with a force born of frustration—and his mouth was on hers before she could draw breath.
His hands bunched her skirts; his lips trailed lower until his tongue found her sex.
Jane gasped, the sound catching in her throat, one hand clutching at his hair as he worked her with a furious, reverent hunger—lapping, suckling, determined to make her forget any other man had ever existed.
When at last he lifted his head, he looked wrecked, eyes still dark with need. He wrenched open his breeches, freed himself, and pressed into her in a single deep thrust.
“This is no construct,” he growled against her ear. “You feel me inside you, Jane. I am real. If that wretch thinks he can replace me—”
She moaned in time with his thrusts and whispered, “Silly man.”
The teasing only urged him on. He drove into her harder, faster, his hips slamming into hers with punishing rhythm, each stroke forcing her higher.
She clung to him, legs wrapping tight around his waist to draw him deeper.
His hand slid to her thigh, holding her open as he ground into her, merciless, until she cried out, shattering beneath him again.
He groaned at the feel of her body gripping him, hips jerking in broken thrusts as he spilled inside her. He stayed pressed to her, forehead against hers, their breaths ragged and mingling, his body moving in small, desperate rolls as if he couldn’t bear to stop.
At last, he stilled, chest heaving, his weight heavy but sheltering over her.
She reached up, caressing his cheek with the back of her fingers. Mrs. Scott’s words came to her: Just be patient with him. Her tone was soft, but firm. “Why would you think I’d replace you with anyone? I wouldn’t—unless you gave me reason to.”
His eyes closed. When he spoke again, his voice was low, and fraying. “I just love you so much, Jane. I don’t know how to act around you. I know you’re true. It’s me I don’t know how to govern.” He swallowed. “Will you forgive me?”
From somewhere in the house, the baby’s cry rose again. Jane turned her head toward the sound. “Not if, because of you, my baby suffers,” she said gently. “Now, let me go to him, William.”
He rolled aside, ashamed. “Heaven preserve me. I carried you over my shoulder—in front of Charlotte.”
Jane straightened her gown, a small smile curving her lips. “She’ll never let you forget it. Thank you for that,” she teased, bending to give him one last quick kiss before she slipped from the bed.
* * *
From upstairs came the unmistakable squeak of bedsprings, rhythmic and insistent. Charlotte blinked, color rising in her cheeks.
“Good God,” she whispered. “Is he always like this?”
Mrs. Scott gave a warm, throaty laugh. “Like this? My lady, you’re hearing him at his best behavior.
Lord save us all when he forgets to be considerate.
I only hope they make the marriage public soon and move to a bigger house.
Neither I nor Mary is like to get a decent night’s sleep through much of this. ”
Charlotte pressed her lips together, torn between being scandalized or amused. “Well. That explains why Jane always looks half-exhausted and half—well.” She stopped herself, cheeks pink.
Mrs. Scott winked. “And half-glowing, if you’ll pardon me saying so.”
“Yes. That is one way of putting it,” Charlotte said with a wry twist of her mouth.