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 darkeyes, 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 hisbody, 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.
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.”
