But William’s gaze had already shifted—drawn irresistibly to the woman standing opposite his sister. She had risen at his entrance and held herself with unstudied grace. When she dipped a curtsy, he bowed in return, yet his eyes lingered, unwilling to release her. A strange warmth stirred in him, sudden and undeniable.
“Forgive me again,” he said, straightening. “I could not help but overhear your conversation as I entered. Byron? And talk of passion, no less?” His mouth quirked, teasing, even as his tone carried an edge of irony. “Surely dangerous ground for ladies who—” here his attention fixed on Jane, deliberate and unhurried “—can hardly have known much passion themselves.”
It was meant lightly, as banter. The effect, however, was instant. The young woman flushed to her very hairline. Ripe curves straining at silk, despite the look of a startled innocent—virginal allure in a body made for sin. The contrast shot straight to his groin, the thought blazing at once: he could be the one to teach her passion.
“Surely passion is not only of the flesh, my lord, but of the spirit also. A poet writes to both,” she said quietly, her voice soft but steady despite her embarrassment. “It is his candor most people fear. He writes of what all men and women feel, though few dare admit. That is why his verses unsettle.”
The words, spoken so calmly, caught William off guard. He had expected a stammer, a flustered silence—not an answer of such clarity. He raised his brows slightly, regarding her anew. Charlotte’s smile deepened, a spark of triumph in her eyes.
“You see, William?” she said lightly. “I told you—Byron and the modern poets belong among our finest. It would be foolish to ignore them—not when they provoke such reflection.”
William gave a short chuckle, a sound that was more concession than amusement. “I grant you, he awakens something. But fire burns as often as it warms. The world needs cooler heads than Byron’s.” He turned back to Jane. “I confess my own tastes lie elsewhere. I read little poetry. The ancients suit me better. Marcus Aurelius, perhaps. Cato. Men burdened not with fancies, but with command and statecraft.”
Jane’s eyes brightened, her earlier uneasiness forgotten. “Then you are fortunate, my lord, for Westford Castle holds them all. I have spent many hours with the Stoics, and with Tacitus too. It astonishes me how their thoughts still breathe across the centuries.”
He stared at her, momentarily speechless. “You read Latin?”
“I do, my lord. Not with the ease of a scholar, but enough.”
Charlotte’s laugh rang out, light and pleased. “Enough? William, she is too modest. She lives in the library. I doubt there is a volume within those walls she cannot master.”
William could not look away from Jane, whose face shone with quiet conviction. For a moment, he forgot himself—he only saw the curve of her lips, the rise and fall of her bosom straining against the gown, the flush still warm on her cheeks. A maiden’s modesty, paired with a mind clear and sure.
He cleared his throat. “Have you dined yet?”
“Not yet,” Charlotte said. “Had I known you would arrive a day early, I would have ordered something more elaborate. As it is, you must forgive us our simple fare.”
“More elaborate?” William echoed faintly, still half-distracted. His eyes flicked once more to Jane, lingering, then back to Charlotte. “How remiss of me—I let myself be carried away by the talk. Will you not introduce me to your charming friend? I do not have the honor of knowing her name.”
Charlotte’s smile widened, all natural poise. “Of course. William, this is Miss Jane Ansley. She is a marvel, is she not?”
He inclined his head with grave courtesy. “A pleasure, Miss Ansley.”
“And are you visiting us?” William asked, his tone deliberately light. “Or staying for dinner only? If the latter, I must insist you spend the night. I’ll have the carriage prepared for you in the morning.”
Charlotte gave a quick, nervous giggle, while Jane looked instantly abashed. “Oh, William,” Charlotte said. “Miss Ansley is not a guest. She is with us always. She is Margaret’s governess.”
The words hit hard. For a moment William did not move, did not speak. His expression, so recently softened, hardened visibly. He turned slowly to Charlotte, his voice cutting.
“Explain.”
Charlotte blinked, playing at confusion. “Explain what, brother?”
He gestured sharply toward Jane, whose color had flamed again. “Why is the governess dressed like that? Does she perform her duties in such attire?”
Jane’s eyes fell to the floor, mortification flooding her. The heat in her cheeks burned worse than fire.
Charlotte’s chin lifted a fraction. “Of course not. Do not be absurd. I dressed her for a reason. I meant to invite her to your welcome dinner tomorrow. Tonight is rehearsal—to see how she carries herself at table. You know well that at this season most of the county is still in London. Our neighbors are few, and hardly dazzling. Miss Ansley is clever, well-read, and better company than most ladies of my acquaintance. She would add sparkle where otherwise there would be dullness.”
“Sparkle?” William repeated, his voice iron. His focus snapped back to Jane, her fingers unsteady against the fabric of her skirt at Charlotte’s words. He meant to hold to her face, but his eyes betrayed him, drawn lower. With a visible effort he wrenched his gaze away, his jaw set hard.
“This is madness,” he said flatly. “You are left here to run wild, Charlotte, with no sense of propriety. To dress up a governess as if she were a guest—worse, to present her at table as if she were one of us. It is outrageous. Do you not see what tongues would say? Do you not see the danger you put us in?”
Charlotte’s color rose, though she met his stare unflinching. “I see nothing but a young woman with a mind worth hearing. If society cannot stomach it, then so much the worse for society.”
William’s hand came down hard on the back of a chair, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Do not trifle with such things. You gamble with the honor of this family, Charlotte. Do you wish it said you’ve taken leave of your senses? They whisper it already—that you hide yourself in this house and will not face society.”
Jane stood silent, every nerve alive with humiliation. The gown she wore seemed suddenly to scorch her skin. She wished only to flee, to vanish.
