Jane glanced at her reflection again, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “If you say so, my lady.”
Charlotte turned aside, hiding the shift in her thoughts. Some gifts, no dukedom could bestow. But what Nature gave in seeming blessing might, in the end, turn to her undoing.
* * *
The Norfolk countryside unfurled in long, gentle lines beyond the carriage windows. Green fields rippled beneath the late May sun, hedgerows bright with blossom, and here and there the pale spire of a parish church pierced the sky. William sat back against the leather squabs, a pang catching him unawares. After years of smoke, mud, and blood, the freshness of England’s countryside seemed almost unreal—too clean, too peaceful. Home.
The carriage rattled to a halt at a coaching inn, the horses steaming, the sour tang of hay and manure drifting in through the open window. His coachman appeared at the door. “Last stop before Westford Castle, my lord. They’ll change the team directly.”
William stepped down, stretching his limbs, and drew a long breath of air heavy with honeysuckle and sweat. It was scarcely mid-afternoon, the days long now, the light still strong. He looked at the waiting gelding the ostler had led out. “Never mind the carriage,” he said. “I’ll ride on ahead.”
He swung into the saddle with practiced ease. The horse shifted beneath him, restless. William gave him his head, and they surged forward, hooves drumming against the packedearth. The wind rushed hard against his face, streaming through his hair, stinging his eyes with its cool force. Every stride jolted through his frame, the animal’s power beneath him a living, breathing force. He had known this sensation since boyhood—the fierce exhilaration of speed, the freedom of being part of the beast and the earth together. He laughed aloud, the sound carried away by the wind. For the first time since France, he felt wholly alive.
And then, cresting a rise, he saw it. Westford Castle.
The great towers and classical facades caught the late sun, pale stone rising above the green of parkland. The sight struck him with a force almost reverent. This was no mere estate—it was his inheritance, his charge, the blood and stone of centuries. A weight, yes, but no longer a burden. It was his sacred duty to preserve its grandeur for generations to come.
Charlotte would be there, waiting. She had always been the one closest to him since childhood. Their parents, often absent, had never shown them much warmth. After their mother’s death—he only thirteen, Charlotte but seven—it fell to him to be more parent than brother, offering the tenderness she had never known.
Yet his mother had been formidable: a true lady, grace bound by iron. He remembered her as elegant, poised, her frown enough to wither reputations at a glance. Revered, feared, indomitable. Her example burned in him still. A duchess must be such a woman, worthy of the coronet, able to command a room, to guard the family’s honor. For Charlotte’s sake, for the family’s, he must choose well.
He slowed as he reached the gates, trotting into the familiar sweep of the drive. At the stables, a boy sprang forward, his face alight. “Lord Blackmeer! Sir—it is an honor!” He took the reins reverently, almost as if touching something sacred. “We followed your victories in the gazettes. If there’s anothercampaign, sir—” his voice quivered with eagerness—“I’d give anything to serve. For glory. For England. For the King.”
William smiled faintly, though the words fell heavy in his ears. Glory. He had seen too much of it in smoke and shattered bodies. He clapped the boy’s shoulder but said nothing, only: “Is Lady Charlotte at home?”
“Of course, my lord. And Lady Margaret too.”
Inside, the butler came bustling, his manner full of anxious pride. “My lord, you are most welcome. We had expected you tomorrow. But your rooms are prepared, the servants stand ready—if there is anything—”
“Later,” William said, brushing past with easy authority. “Where is Lady Charlotte?”
“In the drawing room, my lord.”
He crossed the hall, his boots echoing on the marble flags, throat dry from dust and speed. He would see his sister first—before wine, before rest.
The drawing-room door stood half-closed. He slowed, the voices within drifting out—Charlotte’s bright, quick tones, raised in animation.
“…But as you’ve seen yourself, Byron cannot be dismissed so easily,” she was saying. “There is fire in him, however scandalous.”
And another voice answered—clear, low, touched with intelligence. A voice he had never heard.
“It is passion that unsettles, my lady,” Jane said quietly, her eyes steady. “Not the word, but the truth of it—set down without disguise. That is why his verses burn. They shame us only because they refuse to be ashamed.”
William pushed the door wider. His gaze caught first on Charlotte, vibrant as he had not seen her in years—and then on the figure opposite her.
For a heartbeat he stilled, almost staggered. He had never seen her like. The gown clung scandalously, the low cut straining with the swell of her breasts: full, heavy, near to spilling. A body made for sin, and yet without a trace of artifice. Chestnut brown hair in a simple coiffure. No jewelry. Not a trace of powder or rouge. And then her face—caught in the glow of the westering light, eyes alive with thought, her mind lending her beauty an even sharper edge.
He stood in the doorway, unseen yet, pulse hammering. The question came sudden and uninvited, almost fierce:What in Heaven’s name have I walked into?
Chapter 9
William cleared his throat as he stepped into the drawing room, his boots leaving faint smuts on the carpet’s rich weave. Both women turned at once. Charlotte’s face lit with genuine delight, her hand rising to her chest.
“William!” she cried, rising from her chair in a rustle of skirts.
He bent to kiss her cheek, something he did rarely enough, then drew back with a faint, self-conscious smile. “Pray forgive me. I come in no state fit for company—dust, sweat, and the stench of horseflesh. Hardly the manner to present myself before ladies.”
Charlotte laughed softly, brushing at his sleeve as though that might rid him of the marks of his journey. “Nonsense. You are always welcome, in any state.”
