Jane lifted her chin. She would not allow her son to be branded a bastard before strangers. Her tone held firm. “He is not, sir. Lord Blackmeer is my husband. We were married in secret, long before he marched to Waterloo.”
William straightened, his words slicing through the room. “Yes—the boy is my heir. We called him George, in your honor and in your father’s. I trust we shall remain in your good graces, Your Royal Highness.” He bowed again, deeply.
For once, even the Regent seemed caught off guard. Then he laughed, booming and delighted. “By God, Blackmeer—your family never disappoints. I dare say I will tease your father endlessly for this.”
Jane swayed, her vision tunneling. Mr. Davenport was no Mr. Davenport at all, but the Prince Regent. “Merciful heaven…” she whispered, before crumpling in a dead faint.
* * *
She woke in her own bed, the candlelight soft. William was at her side, her hand clasped in his, little George nestled in his other arm.
“Jane,” he said, his voice rough with relief. “You’re awake.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “I dreamed the strangest thing—that—”
“It was no dream,” William cut in gently. “Mr. Davenport is the Prince Regent. And Mrs. Davenport his mistress. Youimpressed him, Jane. He wants you at Court—he calls you his dearest friend already.”
He had never believed his Jane could truly measure up to the duchess his mother had been. But over the past few months, he had seen it with his own eyes. She could command a room with quiet tenacity, grace woven with intellect. And though it had gnawed at him that these were not his peers or titled ladies, but poets, critics, and tradesmen, the fact remained: she had impressed the Prince Regent himself.
That was proof beyond dispute. He had been a fool to ever doubt her. She was not only worthy—she had surpassed every expectation he’d ever held. It shamed him. And it humbled him.
Her lips parted in astonishment. “The Prince?”
“Yes.”
William hesitated, as if something else pressed on him. His gaze darkened, pained. “The doctor came while you were insensible. I am sorry, my love. I did not mean for this to happen.”
Her heart lurched. “William—what is wrong? What did he say?”
He looked away, jaw tight. “You are with child again.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then—to his shock—laughed. “Is that all? Did you truly doubt I would be, given how often you dragged me to bed?”
His expression faltered, guilt flickering across it. “I did not wish to burden you so soon after George’s birth—he’s not yet six months old. You mean more to me than all the sons in the world. Especially after how close I came to losing you.”
She reached for his hand, smiling. “They are my children too, William. And I would gladly risk everything for them. This is my battlefield.”
He dropped his head, overcome. She had become the mother his own never was, and the wife he had never dared to hope for.The weight of it settled in his chest, not as a burden, but as a quiet reckoning. He would have to become more than he was. She deserved more.
And yet, it wasn’t the only burden he carried. “Jane… there is no going back now. We admitted our marriage to the Prince Regent. The secrecy has ended. You may have your salon at Court, if you wish—he desires it. He thinks they’ll call him a wit, if he’s seen with one. You may preside over the world of letters. But…” His voice faltered. “I know I’ve no one to blame but myself for what happened with George, but I beg you—let our second child be born at Westford Castle, as every child of our line has been. Please, Jane. For me. If you still don’t wish to be my wife in the open…”
Her expression mellowed. She touched his cheek with trembling fingers. “You silly man. You know I love you. I would gladly return to Westford Castle with you and be your wife.”
“You would?” he asked, still unable to believe the joy that swelled in him, even as what lay ahead kept him from full peace.
“Well,” she said with a wry smile, “I do miss Margaret awfully much.” She paused, then added tenderly, “But yes—I would.”
She reached for him, catching the edge of his collar and drawing him down to her. He leaned in—George still nestled in his arm—and kissed her, tasting her lips and knowing they were indeed the only ones he would ever taste again.
Epilogue
Westford Castle, Norfolk, May 1816
A scream tore through the marble halls. William paced the antechamber pale as a ghost, his boots sinking into the thick carpet with each turn. Another scream followed, longer this time, ragged and full of pain. He stopped mid-step, fists clenched at his sides, eyes fixed on the thick wooden door as though sheer will might open it.
“I’m going in,” he muttered, already moving.
“No,” said the Duke of Westford, rising from the bench beside him. “Your presence would not be appreciated in there, I assure you. She has her mother with her—and your sister, as usual, despite the indecency.”
