The silence between them stretched, sharp as broken glass.
Finally, the Duke’s voice dropped low, heavy with command. “Go to Westford Castle if you must. Hide there for now. But not for long. You will marry. You will produce an heir before you march off to another damned campaign. Or so help me, I will cut you off. I will denounce you.”
William stared, momentarily shocked. Denounce him? His father could strip nothing that mattered. And yet—after years of marching, fighting, killing, all he wanted was quiet. A few months of stillness before duty called. If that duty meant marriage—a woman with the right name, the right breeding—he would do it. But not now. Not yet. He had only just set foot back in England. And already, the shackles of expectation rattled around him.
* * *
Lady Charlotte sat alone in the drawing room, a half-finished cup of tea cooling at her elbow. The long windows stood open to the garden, the scent of lilac drifting in on the breeze, but she was too distracted to notice. Across her lap lay a letter from one of her protégées, a spirited young woman whose verses she quietly sponsored in London. Charlotte was, in her own discreet way, a patroness of young women writers, slipping them encouragement and coin where she could, though society would hardly approve if it knew.
She was still smiling faintly over the girl’s untidy script when Mr. Harding entered, silver tray in hand. “A letter, my lady. From Lord Blackmeer himself.”
The moment the name left his lips, Charlotte’s hand shot out, uncharacteristically eager. She broke the seal with a speed that made the butler raise a brow. Her eyes skimmed the lines—and then she gave a little squeal, the sort of girlish sound she had not made in years.
“He’s coming!” she exclaimed, laughing at her own outburst. “At last—after so long, William is coming home!”
Mr. Harding, wisely, only inclined his head and withdrew, leaving her to her excitement.
Charlotte pressed the letter to her chest for a moment, then set it on the tea table and immediately began to plan. If William was returning, she couldn’t be his only company, after years deprived of society and civility. He must be entertained, welcomed back, made to feel that Westford Castle still pulsed with life.
Her mind began to tick through the neighborhood. Mrs. Hughes, of course—solid, dependable, with her two daughters, eighteen and sixteen. Pretty enough, and new enough, to provide William with fresh faces. Then Lord Crofford, though Heaven help her if her brother was subjected to more than half an hour of horse pedigrees. Lord Fovargue too, who never said much but looked very fine in a chair, and his French wife, Lady Fovargue—perhaps William might enjoy trading stories of the Continent with her. Still, that would not be enough. She needed more ladies, more sparkle, to hold his attention.
And then her thoughts turned, inevitably, to Jane. Dear, clever Jane Ansley—how quick her mind was, how passionately she applied herself. Ever since Charlotte had pressed those volumes on women’s rights into her hands, any hesitation in Jane’s self-confidence had vanished. She had thrown herself into her studies with a zeal that humbled Charlotte, devouring not only the classics but also the bold, unsettling philosophies that proper ladies were warned against. Conversation with her could be as stimulating as with anyone in London.
But Jane was only a governess. Charlotte sipped her cold tea, frowning at the thought. No—perhaps she could contrive something. If Jane were dressed properly, in one of her own gowns perhaps… yes, that might do. No one need know. For oneevening, Jane could be a lady among ladies, helping her keep William entertained.
A dinner then, something intimate, tasteful, in his honor. The neighbors gathered, candles blazing, music playing. William deserved nothing less after so many years away. And if, in the midst of it all, Jane should shine as brightly as Charlotte knew she could… well, that would be no bad thing either.
Charlotte smiled to herself, already reaching for pen and paper. There was much to arrange, and only days to do it.
Chapter 8
Lady Charlotte stood before the bed, studying the gown she had laid out—a forest green silk that caught the afternoon sun in gentle ripples. She had chosen it with care, thinking it would give the governess a touch of elegance without calling undue attention.
Jane stood before the tall mirror in her shift while the lady’s maid fussed with pins and stays. The linen clung, and after years of wear, it offered more to the light than was proper. Charlotte’s gaze sharpened in spite of herself.
The figure that could be half-dismissed in the governess’s sober black revealed itself at last: the full, high swell of her breasts, a narrow waist that curved sweetly into rounded hips, and the graceful line of her legs with full, feminine thighs—rounded in a way that was sensual rather than soft. Shorter than Charlotte, yes, but proportioned so that every curve of her body drew the eye.
“Hold still, miss,” the lady’s maid muttered, tugging the silk into place over Jane’s shoulders.
Charlotte stepped closer, arms folded, her expression carefully neutral. The bodice settled, and at once she saw the change: what had always seemed modest on her own person was transformed on Jane. The deep décolletage, which on Charlotte gaped discreetly, now brimmed with succulent flesh, the fabric molding itself to her frame. It was fashionable—no morethan many ladies would wear—but on Jane, it looked almost indecent.
Jane’s cheeks flushed, though her eyes in the glass were bright with unease rather than meekness. “Are you certain this is proper, my lady? I have never worn anything like it. I feel… exposed.”
Charlotte lingered on her reflection before answering. “It is not only proper, Miss Ansley, it is expected. The cut is nothing unusual. The fashion is for display—though I grant you, not every gown is filled so…” She caught herself, smoothing her tone. “Not every figure does it justice.”
Jane bit her lip, half-smile flickering. “I fear I am better suited to my plain black. It at least covers what it ought.”
Charlotte tilted her head, studying her with cool detachment. “On the contrary. Your black only makes you disappear. This gown shows the truth: you are… well-formed.”
The lady’s maid stepped back, smoothing the last folds of fabric. Jane turned slowly before the mirror. The deep green set off the fairness of her skin, lending it a faint glow, and made the brown of her eyes seem richer, almost luminous. The garment’s cut gave her an air of effortless allure, yet her blush betrayed her innocence, as though modesty still clung to her despite the daring fashion.
Charlotte drew in a quiet breath. She had meant only to make Jane presentable, a pleasant companion at dinner. Instead, she had unveiled her. Her mind strayed, unbidden, to her brother. William, returned from war, hailed as a hero, but was he really tamed?
She frowned faintly at her own image behind Jane’s in the mirror. What was she doing, dressing the girl like this? Helping her show her worth? Or leading her to danger? Jane had no family to guard her, no father or brother to defend her honor. Her uncle, the Viscount, would hardly trouble himself; he hadsent a letter of recommendation only after they had already hired her.
If William took an interest… what protection would she have? None at all. No reparation, no recourse. Only disgrace.
And yet—Charlotte’s voice came calm, measured. “You need not fret, Miss Ansley. It is no more than any lady would wear in London. You will pass very well.”
