Her steps quickened, almost a run, as though speed might quench this thirst unlike any she had ever known. But she was so consumed with dread, with this sweet ache, that she scarcely saw where she went—until she struck something solid and unyielding.
Someone. The shock of the collision sent her staggering, but strong hands caught her by the waist before she fell. Shelooked up in dismay—straight into the gray-blue eyes of Lord Blackmeer.
The light from the tall windows caught his hair, his broad shoulders filling the space with effortless authority. He turned to her at once, his gaze sharp and questioning. “Miss Ansley,” he said, his tone low, touched with concern. “What is the matter? You seem fevered—has something happened?”
Jane could not speak. She froze, burning to her marrow, certain he could see straight into her soul.
He regarded her, his features sharpening until something darker stirred in his eyes. The way her chest rose and fell, the tremor in her lips, the betraying peaks of her breasts straining against thin muslin—God help him, he could see. And worse, faint as it was, he caught the scent of her arousal, sweet and unmistakable.
He stilled, his voice a growl now. “This is no fever. What—or who—has put you in such a state?”
The words struck her like a lash. She felt her knees weaken, her mouth parting soundlessly. When he let her go at last—as if she scorched him—she looked up like a deer caught in a hunter’s snare.
“I will know,” he pressed, storm rising in him. “Tell me. If some man has dared—” His jaw tightened. “I will see him punished, you have my word.”
“My lord—please—” Her voice faltered, her breath heaving. “It was… Ovid.”
He blinked. “Ovid?” His frown deepened. “We have no one of that name in our employ. Or if we do, I’ll have him dragged before me—”
Her heart lurched. Was he mad, or mocking her? “Not a man,” she gasped, “a book. In the library. Ovid’s Ars Amatoria—” Or what was hidden within it, but she could not admit that. Her cheeks burned hotter still.
Something flickered in his face—recognition, then dread. The color drained from his cheeks. “Dear God.”
Because he knew. It was his book—part of the collection he had once hoarded, concealed behind more respectable bindings. There had been others too: engravings showing every posture of coupling, volumes bound in calfskin that promised philosophy but delivered only filth, novels more debased than Ovid’s sly verses. He had hidden them in the library years ago, believing them safe from innocent eyes. And now the unworldly Miss Ansley had opened the worst of them all.
“How much?” he demanded hoarsely. “How much did you read?”
She pressed a hand to her breast, trembling. “I… I cannot say. Please, my lord—do not press me.”
A silence fell, the air stretched thin between them. His gaze held her, stormy, searching. Then at last he said, hard as stone: “You may go.”
She should have fled. She almost did. But she lingered, her whole body taut with want. Her lips parted, a whisper escaping before she could master it.
“Please… my lord,” she said, her voice scarcely sound. “Is there nothing you can do? Something—like that night in the library?”
He stared at her, incredulous. “You cannot mean—”
But she did. He saw the faint tremor in her, the way her eyes shone with both shame and desire. God help him, she was begging for it.
He dragged a hand down his face, battling himself. One more step and he would ruin her entirely. He had tried to avoid this very thing for nearly a month. Yet he saw her innocence too—the reverend’s daughter, raised in ignorance of the world, caught in a fire she could not master.
At last, with a steadiness that cost him everything, he spoke. “I will help you ease this torment, Miss Ansley,” he said, his tone low and deliberate. “But you will do only what I command. Nothing more. I will not see you ruined.”
She nodded her agreement feeling like she was being saved from certain death. After a long breath through clenched teeth, he said low:
“Very well. Go to your room. At once. I will follow presently.”
Jane’s knees all but failed her. She nodded, shaken, and walked quickly down the hall. The walls of Westford Castle blurred about her; she scarcely knew how she reached her door.
Once within, she pressed her back against it, her whole frame sagging. She waited, pacing, heart thundering. Every creak in the hallway made her jump; every sound wound her tighter. Then, at last, the latch shifted, and Lord Blackmeer slipped in, silent as a thief.
They were alone in her small room. A bed stood waiting. He looked at it as if it held the mysteries of life and his damnation all the same. Then his gaze turned to her, grim, as though struggling to master himself.
He gave a low, humorless laugh. “God help me, Miss Ansley. After this, I may apply for sainthood.”
Before she could answer, he came forward. His mouth claimed hers, a firm, brief kiss, and then he began undressing her with care—each hook, each lace, each fold of fabric sliding away under his hands. With every inch of skin revealed, he pressed his lips there, reverent and hungry at once: the slope of her shoulder, the line of her collarbone, the soft mounds of her breasts.
Jane trembled beneath the attention, her whimper breaking in gasps. By the time the last garment fell, she stood utterly naked before him, flushed scarlet but unable to hide.
