His head snapped up, incredulous. “You forget yourself, Miss Ansley. I am master here. I take no orders from you.”
“Then act like one,” she fired back. “Why are you in such a state?”
He gave a broken laugh, rubbing his face. “Because I promised myself I was done with it. No more vice. No more ruin. And then you…” His words cracked. “I took you. I took your innocence. And God help me, I will take you again—because I cannot think of anything but your cunt around me. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is this what I should confess to Margaret—that her brother is a cur with no honor?”
Jane stared at him as though he had grown another head. “You did not dishonor me, my lord.”
“Please,” he said bitterly, “I know what I have done. And what I swore never to do again. And when it is discovered—and it will be, for I cannot stop now—you will be cast out, and I will not be able to protect you in that regard. It is what the world expects.”
Her tone steadied, calm but fierce. “Then no one must find out. Because I do not plan to stop either.”
He blinked, stunned. She stepped closer, her eyes blazing. “Now go upstairs. Wash off that stench—you reek like an old barrel left to rot—and take Margaret to her lesson. Becausehear me, my lord: if you fail that child again, if you wound her faith in you, then you will not lay hands on me again. Do you understand?”
For a long moment he only stared. Then slowly, shame burning in him, he bowed his head. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.
Her fury softened, but only a little. He had been chastened, and he admired her all the more for it.
* * *
Weeks turned into months, and life settled into its old patterns—at least on the surface. In the schoolroom, each day followed its familiar course, brightened by Margaret’s eager chatter and, more often than not, by lessons taken outdoors. They sought shade beneath the trees of Westford Castle’s woods, where all lay quiet and the breeze tempered the summer heat. Sometimes they strolled the grounds, and Jane would recount fables or parables from Scripture, her lilting voice threading through the hum of bees and the fluting call of a blackbird in the shrubberies.
William seemed to keep himself occupied with every small matter of the estate—long talks with the steward, meetings with tenants, overseeing repairs to the stables and fences, and walking the woods with the gamekeeper in preparation for the autumn hunt. He spoke to Jane only when he must, cool and correct, his manner so distant she sometimes thought she had dreamed everything.
Yet she knew better. For at night, when the corridors lay still and the household slept, the latch on her chamber door would lift and he would be there.
The first nights he was urgent, almost rough, his mouth claiming hers before she could even draw breath. He took her with an intensity that made her cling to him, desperate to match his hunger. But soon her curiosity took a better hold of her.
At first, when Jane whispered her wish, her cheeks aflame, William only stared.
“You cannot mean it,” he said hoarsely. “That posture—Christ, Jane. I let women ride me when I was too drunk or too weary to care. You are not a—” He stopped himself short, but the word whore hovered between them, unspoken.
Her blush deepened, though her chin lifted with quiet defiance. “And yet I want it,” she whispered. “Not because I am one of them, but because I want to take you as you’ve taken me. And it is not just that. You have explored every part of me, William. Will you not let me do the same for you?”
The sound that left him was half-groan, half-laugh, torn from the deepest part of him. He wanted to deny her, to pin her down and drive into her—but her words, her boldness, unraveled him.
She pressed against his chest, urging him down, and he let himself fall back against the pillows. His breath came ragged as her hands—small, trembling, curious—wandered his body. She traced the hard planes of his torso, the ridges of his stomach, the scars he had never thought twice about. Her fingers slipped lower, greedy now, circling the rigid length that strained for her. It was soft to the touch and hard beneath—so thick she could hardly wrap her grip around him, and the way she struggled to do so made his blood surge.
“Jane—” he choked, his hips jolting beneath her touch. But she only bent, her lips grazing him, then her tongue—hesitant, exploring, tasting him as he had tasted her. Then she took as much of him as she could, sucking gently, her motions tentative at first, then spiraling with growing intent. The shock of it nearly made him lose himself. His hand flew to her hair, not to guide, but to hold himself back from thrusting into her mouth like a brute.
When she drew back, eyes wide, lips damp, he thought he might spill at the sight alone. But then she lifted herself over him, guiding him to her, and sank down with a moan.
William’s world tilted. He had meant to resist—meant to keep her from this—but the sight of her taking him in, inch by inch, undid him. He gripped her waist, watching with helpless awe as she moved, as she found her rhythm.
He couldn't look away from their joining, from the way her slick folds parted to take him—stretching wide, impossibly so, to fit the full girth of him. And higher—the heavy mounds of her breasts, bouncing with every rise and fall, as though mocking his restraint. He wanted to seize her, to flip her beneath him and pound into her until the bed shook. God, how he wanted it.
But he did not. He let her have it—her rhythm, her pleasure, her mastery. And when she gasped and fell apart around him, her nails digging into his chest, he surrendered too, shuddering with a release that stole the breath from his lungs.
For a long moment after, he lay stunned, her form still draped over his, their breaths mingling. It was not only his body he had yielded—it was something more dangerous. Something deeper.
And with it came the jagged edge of guilt. He had meant to keep her above such things, meant never to reduce her to what he had known with women he’d bought. And yet he had let her ride him, as they had. He told himself it was different—that she was different—but his conscience pricked all the same.
But her boldness did not abate. That night, he had meant only to steal a kiss, a caress—perhaps hold her until his heart stopped hammering in his chest at the mere sight of her. But when his eyes fell on the bed, his breath caught.
She was already waiting—naked, luminous in the candlelight, her hair loose about her shoulders. She did not shy away from his stare. Instead, with slow, deliberate movements, she shifted forward, settling on her hands and knees, her back arched, her sex offered in shameless display.
It began with a whisper, her voice steady: “William… I want to try what I saw in the engravings. With you behind me.”
For a moment, silence. Then his expression hardened, his jaw clenching. “Jane,” he said hoarsely, “that is not for you. Only women who are paid take a man so.” He gripped her arms, almost shaking. “I will not treat you as I treated them.”
