“You are dismissed, Miss Ansley,” William said, his tone clipped. “And I rescind any invitation my sister may have extended to you. You must know it is not proper.”
“As if you alone know what is proper,” Charlotte rebuked, then held her tongue.
The silence that followed was heavy as storm clouds. William’s lips pressed into a line, Charlotte’s chin held high, and Jane—caught between them—could only lower her gaze before fleeing the room as if her very life depended on it.
* * *
Jane hardly knew how her feet carried her from the drawing room. The sting of Lord Blackmeer’s reproach echoed in her ears—You are dismissed—and her chest rose and fell in a quick, shallow rhythm, shame crawling across her skin like something alive. The silk skirts caught against her knees as she hurried along the passage, nearly stumbling as her sleeve brushed a porcelain vase on its stand. It rocked perilously before settling back with a faint clink.
Two footmen, passing in the corridor, looked up in surprise. She caught their glances—raised brows, a flicker exchanged between them—and her mortification only deepened. They must think her a fool, fleeing like a chastened child. She could hardly bear it. The door to her chambers had never seemed so far away.
At last, she reached it, breathless. She slipped inside and closed it behind her, leaning her back against the panels as though to shut out the house beyond. The room was quiet. She took it in slowly, the faded floral paper on the walls, the canopied bed drawn up neatly, the desk by the window stacked high with books—a few her own, most borrowed from Westford Castle’svast library. She let her eyes rest on them, drawing a little steadiness from their familiar presence.
She pressed her palms to her burning cheeks, and his face rose in her mind unbidden. Not the painted boy she had seen in the gallery, caught in oils at sixteen, all smooth skin and earnest gaze. That had been a youth. But the man who had arrived today—command in every line of him, broad shoulders filling his dark blue coat, the sun glinting in his ash blond hair, the stern cut of his mouth softened by gray-blue eyes that saw too much. Those eyes.
It was not only anger she had glimpsed there. For a heartbeat—before he hardened against her—something else had flared, fierce and startling, a heat that made her blush hotter than all their talk of Byron’s verses. She buried her face in her hands.
How foolish she had been to let Lady Charlotte persuade her. To don that gown, to play at something she could never be. What must he think of her now? She had not chosen the scheme, but she had not resisted it either. Would he believe her complicit? Would he think her vain enough to imagine herself fit for a duke’s table?
She drew a shaky breath, her neat chamber pressing close about her. It was safer here, among her own plain things. Yet the memory of him lingered, sharper than she wished, her heart pounding with a mixture of dread and something she could hardly name.
Chapter 10
The breakfast parlor smelled faintly of freshly baked rolls, poached eggs and fried ham, the silence broken only by the dry crackle of a newspaper being turned. Lord Blackmeer sat at the head of the table, one booted leg stretched long beneath the linen, his traveling coat exchanged for a dark green jacket of soft wool. A silver coffee service stood before him, polished bright enough to catch the sun. He had acquired the taste for coffee in the army and now preferred it to tea—strong, hot, and unsweetened—the only thing he could stomach before he faced the day.
The room itself seemed to hold its breath. The footmen stationed by the walls stood as if carved from stone, their gazes fixed forward, not daring to move a muscle. Even the butler, old Mr. Harding, looked somehow taller—his spine rigid, chin lifted with the gravity of serving the master on his first morning back at Westford Castle. Each plate set down, each cup filled, was a ceremony.
William scarcely noticed them. He skimmed the columns of the Times without taking in a word. The black print blurred, the rhetoric of Parliament and dispatches from abroad dissolving into nothing. His mind had wandered elsewhere—against his will, against his judgment.
To her. He saw again the way her lips parted as she spoke, plush and ripe as if meant for kissing, the quickening flush, the earnest brightness in her eyes when she spoke of Tacitusas though she were born to scholarship. He had not expected that, not from a governess dressed up like a lady for Charlotte’s amusement. And yet—those eyes, clear and intelligent, had unsettled him almost more than her luscious curves.
He cursed under his breath and folded the paper sharply. Charlotte. This was her doing. But for her meddling, he might never have noticed Jane Ansley at all—or not so immediately, not so ruinously. Had she only remained in the schoolroom, quietly unseen, he might have passed his days in peace. He had come to Westford Castle to recover, to rest after the campaigns, not to debauch young governesses.
But the thought would not be banished. In days past, he would have coaxed her with a smile, with soft words and practiced charm, until she yielded in secret. He might have found some excuse to linger near her door, to slip inside under cover of night. And if he wished it now, he could do the same—no one would gainsay him. She held no position that could shield her. He could bed her as often as he liked and the world would scarcely stir.
But he was not that man any longer. His rake’s days were behind him, left on the gaming floors and in the boudoirs of London. He had earned respect and he meant to keep it. He had not fought his way back into the good graces of society through battle and command, only to squander himself on such liaisons. She was a temptation he could not afford.
The door opened. Charlotte swept in, muslin skirts whispering over the carpet, her expression still tinged with last night’s vexation. She settled herself on his right-hand side, and her eyes, bright in the morning light, were fixed on him with deliberate steadiness.
“You might at least look contrite, William,” she said at last.
He lifted his coffee cup. “For what?”
“For speaking to me like a schoolmaster with a cane,” she retorted. “You chastised me as though I were a difficult child, and talked to poor Miss Ansley as though she were less than nothing. She fled the room as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.”
William set the paper down entirely, his expression cooling. “Charlotte—”
“No,” she cut in, her shoulders squared in open defiance. “You forget yourself. This is still our father’s house. You are not the duke yet. To sit there glowering and issuing dismissals—who appointed you judge?”
His jaw tightened. “Someone must remind you of propriety. You dress up the governess in borrowed finery and parade her before me—what did you expect?”
“I expected you to behave like a gentleman,” she said crisply. “You might have corrected me without striking her down with your tongue. She had done nothing but answer you honestly, and you made her pay for it.”
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “Perhaps I was… blunt.”
“Blunt?” Charlotte gave a little laugh that was all scorn. “You were cruel, William. Admit it. You made her run.”
His gaze flicked away to the tall windows and the gardens beyond. “I spoke too sharply,” he conceded at last; the words seemed dragged from him.
