“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 marriedwould 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.
