“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.
