“It is true!” Margaret cried eagerly. “I know all sorts of things. Shall I show you, William? I can recite a fable—even now, if you like.” She looked at him with the desperate hope of a child longing for notice.
He regarded her closely. How had he not seen it before? The shape of her brow, the set of her eyes—so like his own, and nothing of her mother in her face. More than mere resemblance, she was his sister, in ways he had been blind to until now. His heart softened.
“Yes,” he said gently. “Let us hear it.”
Margaret stood very straight, clasped her hands, and began to recite. The words of Aesop fell from her lips, clear and confident, only once hesitating before she hurried on. When she finished, she smiled at him with shining eyes, her small chest rising and falling quickly.
William clapped his hands together, loud and decisive. “Bravo! Splendidly done. You will make something of yourself yet, Margaret, with such a sharp memory.”
Her pride was plain as sunlight, her cheeks glowing. She darted a glance at Miss Ansley, who beamed at her with quiet triumph. And William, watching them both, felt a warmth in his chest that startled him.
Chapter 11
The day had slipped into late afternoon, the air outside warm and mellow, shadows stretching long across the lawns. Lady Margaret had been seen to the nursery after lessons, a tray of milk and biscuits brought up by her maid, her governess finally released from duty for a precious hour.
Jane carried a small stack of volumes against her breast as she made her way toward the library. The serenity of that vast, quiet room soothed her more than any other corner of Westford Castle. Over time, returning books had become a small ritual she had come to cherish. She meant to exchange her finished works for fresh ones, perhaps even linger a while at one of the broad tables to make her notes.
But when she pushed open the heavy door, she halted at once. Lord Blackmeer was there.
He lounged indolently on one of the leather sofas, his long legs stretched, a book resting open on his lap. A glass of port gleamed red at his elbow, catching the last light slanting in from the tall windows. His coat was loosened, his cravat tugged free; the faintest air of dissipation clung to him. He carried himself with the ease of a man who knew his power, and the careless pose did nothing to blunt the force of his gaze.
Jane’s heart lurched. She had never found herself alone in his presence. “My lord,” she managed, her voice thin.
His eyes settled on her, steady, unreadable. There was a heat there she could not decipher, sharpened by the faint glaze of drink. He did not move at once, and the stillness unnerved her.
Flustered, she lowered her head and moved toward the shelves. “I only came to return these,” she said, striving for composure. She faltered, weighing whether it was worth the attempt, then pressed on. “It was never my intention to deceive you. I acted on Lady Charlotte’s judgment. I had no notion how improper it would seem—and I do not wish you to think—”
“Miss Ansley.” His voice cut across hers, quiet but firm. She froze, looking up.
“It is fine. Clearly it was not your fault. But you are not a puppet, to have your strings pulled by my sister. Not a child to be swayed by your elders.” His mouth curved faintly, though his countenance remained grave. “You might have protested.”
She flushed hotly, fingers tightening against the spines of her books. He was not wrong, yet she had no words to answer him.
William regarded her for a moment, and for an instant, the mask slipped.Not a child, no—not with those lush curves hidden beneath her austere dress. But young still, and hardly worldly.The thought sobered him.
He took a sip, then set his glass aside and leaned forward slightly, softening his tone. “You are good with Margaret. I see it. We did not have much warmth or tenderness ourselves when we were young, and I think she feels it keenly now. Our governesses were cold creatures, useful for little more than drill and correction. I was sent away to school early enough, but Charlotte…”
His eyes shadowed briefly. “Charlotte had only me for affection, and what little I could give. You at least provide that for Margaret, and I am grateful. Do not think, even for a moment, that I do not care.”
Jane blinked, startled at the gentleness in his tone. She had braced for censure, but this—this was something else.
He gestured toward the volumes in her arms. “So then—what are you reading today?”
Jane hesitated, then drew one forward. “Plutarch’sLives.” Her voice steadied as she went on. “I was rereading the account of Cicero. His defiance of Mark Antony—how he spoke though he knew it would cost him his life. There is something… stirring in that.”
William’s brow lifted. “Cicero?” He leaned back, regarding her with new interest. “Most would call him a fool. He might have saved himself by silence.”
“Perhaps,” Jane said quickly, her thoughts tumbling out before she could stop them. She lit up as she spoke, her earlier nervousness gone. “But then the Republic itself would have been silenced. He believed words mattered—that to speak truth, even when dangerous, was duty. That is why his murder seemed so monstrous: not only because they struck him down, but because they tried to silence what he stood for. And he was right. Octavian became the gravestone over which the Republic was buried.”
Her face warmed, her hands clasping the book tight against her. William studied her, a slow smile curving his mouth. “You defend Cicero admirably.”
“I only think,” she said softly, “that history remembers more of those who spoke, than those who stayed quiet.”
For a moment he said nothing, watching the glow in her eyes, the passion animating her features. A governess, seated before him, discoursing on Cicero with more spirit than many men he had heard in the House of Lords.
“Remarkable,” he murmured, almost to himself.
* * *
