* * *
The library was hushed but for the slow crackle of the fire. The last log had sagged, its heart glowing, spitting now and then as resin hissed in the embers. Shadows leaned long across the room, the smell of smoke and old leather heavy in the air.
The liquor had dulled the sharpest edge of Charlotte’s words, but not the ache beneath them. He tried to think of Andrew, to remember his friend before the war. At Talavera, under cannon fire and musket shot, Andrew had faltered. Many had—even men who thought themselves unshakable. William had steadied the line and lived, while he ran and fell. In his report he lied, granting his friend a glorious death—the least he could give.
Yet even as he clung to that memory, another image intruded: Jane Ansley, her voice alight with Cicero, her arms about Margaret as if she were family. Too innocent, too far out of reach. All the same, something in him had stirred when her eyes had brightened, when her lips had curved in that fleeting, unguarded smile. He dragged a hand through his hair, despising himself for it. He had sworn those days were over, that no woman under his roof would ever again be shamed by him. Still, the thought of her lingered, burning more than the brandy down his throat.
The creak of the door pulled him up sharp. Light spilled across the carpet—a candelabrum, three flames trembling as it was carried into the room. Jane entered quietly, barefoot, her hair unpinned and loose, a shawl drawn about her thin shift. She moved with the ease of someone who thought herself alone.
She crossed toward the tall shelves, and set the candlestick on a side table near the library steps—a narrow wooden contraption with shallow treads that led to the upper ranks. The flames flared upward, casting her into relief from below.
William froze. The light carved her in sharp detail: the curve of her behind beneath the threadbare linen, the pale swell of her breasts, nipples peaked tight from the night’s chill, the faint thatch between her thighs revealed through the worn fabric. It was as if some vision had been conjured from his drink and guilt, sent to test what resilience he still possessed. His blood surged hot; he was already feeling himself harden, the sight a pure agony.
Almost against his will, he rose and drifted toward her—surely a figment of his imagination—his steps slow, as if through water.
“Miss Ansley,” he rasped.
She started violently, the stair creaking under her weight. She clutched the shelf, twisting to see who was there, and the shift of balance sent her slipping.
He lunged, catching her, but her momentum dragged him off-balance. They toppled together onto the carpet, he flat on his back, she sprawled across him.
Jane gasped, writhing to get up, but each frantic movement ground her soft body against his arousal. His groan tore out of him, raw.
“For God’s sake—stop moving, if you know what’s best for you,” he ground out, voice thick.
She stilled, breath hitching, suddenly aware of something hard pressing against her. She had never touched nor seen such a thing, yet her novels had whispered enough, and her body told her the rest. She knew what it meant.
She renewed her squirming, the exquisite drag of her hips against him driving his control to the edge. With a pained roar he rolled, pinning her beneath him.
Their eyes met in the flickering half-light—hers wide, startled, yet bright with excitement she didn’t understand; his fevered, unsteady, drunk with brandy and desire.
Something in him broke. He buried his face against her throat, kissing down, tasting her skin. She went rigid, trembling, but where his lips brushed fire bloomed, an unfamiliar thrill spiraling through her. She could not summon a protest.
And then, without thought, he seized the neckline of her shift in both hands and tore. The linen gave with a low rip, baring her to the candlelight.
For a moment he paused, mesmerized. Her breasts, pale as moonlight, rose and fell in rhythm with her racing heart—full and heavy, achingly lovely. Of all he’d seen, none matched such perfection.
“My God,” he muttered hoarsely. As if entranced, he cupped one, lowered his mouth, and closed it over the peak, suckling with insatiable hunger.
Jane gasped, half-in awe, half-in dread. She had never felt anything like it. The heat of his swirling tongue, the pull of his lips, the roughness of his palms—awe warred with all she had been taught was proper. It was not decent or right, he was drunk—and yet the sensation inflamed her, rooted her in place.
He groaned against her skin, lapping, lost to instinct. She could feel his hand trailing lower, over the curve of her hip, reaching shamelessly between her thighs, reveling in the moisture he found there. His thumb pressed against her swollen bundle of nerves, and a wave of pleasure tore through her. She couldn’t stop herself. She moaned, breathless, against his ear.
He circled that hardened nub again and again, never relenting in his worship of her breasts, until her body began to move beneath his, chasing a crest unlike anything she had ever known. And then—emboldened—he slid one finger into her slick heat.
Panic tore through the haze of lust. She couldn’t let this happen. She found her voice. “Please, my lord… stop.”
Her plea stilled him, mouth lingering against a rosy nipple, his pulse hammering. The drunken fog tore back, and he lifted his head, staring down at her, his lips damp from her. Her bosom rose with each trembling breath, bare in the flickering candlelight, the peaks flushed and taut.
“It is true,” he muttered hoarsely. “You are real.”
For an instant neither moved. Jane’s eyes, wide with fear, softened into something else—bewilderment, a glimmer of wonder. She faltered, frozen beneath him, her mouth parted. And in her gaze he saw the thought she dared not speak: what would it be like, if she let him continue?
His own body screamed for it. His gaze dragged helplessly over those perfect mounds, the torn fabric fell away to her sides,the heat of her pressed against him. He wanted nothing more than to bend again, to savor, to take.
“Go,” he barked, rough, desperate. “Run, Miss Ansley—before I forget myself again.”
She startled, a gasp escaping her as she clutched at the tattered shift with quivering fingers. She remained motionless for one heartbeat longer, then she scrambled up, seized her shawl, and fled. The door banged shut behind her, the light of her candelabrum fading down the passage.
