She stilled, studying his face. His expression was raw, haunted, as though he were confessing to a crime. Gently, she touched his cheek, urging him to look at her.
“I begged you to take me, remember,” she whispered.
“It matters not. I should have been the one to guard your honor,” he said bitterly. “Instead I let desire master me. A man in my position has every advantage. And you—” His voice broke. “You trusted me.”
Jane’s lips parted, her breath unsteady. For a heartbeat she only looked at him, her thumb tracing the hard line of his jaw. Then her eyes kindled with sudden fire.
“Do not look so stricken, my lord. I told you before, you have not ruined me.”
Her voice grew steadier, stronger, every word a defiance. “Wollstonecraft shows that women are kept ignorant only to be ruled—yet I am not ignorant. I have chosen. Shelley says marriage itself is a chain, but passion is free and sovereign. Ovid calls love an art; Plato, a divine ascent. And yes—I read that book of a woman’s frank delight in her own pleasure, the very one you destroyed, fearing I might be further corrupted—and I laughed to know why men treat this, our most natural instinct, as corruption. It is because this joy is ours, and in it we are equal. Our pleasure, our passion—this is our truth. Nothing else is so honest.”
Her hand slid to the back of his neck, drawing his forehead to hers. Her whisper trembled with conviction. “So do not bemoan what is no sin, but our freedom.”
He stared at her, shaken to his core. She kissed him again, slow, deliberate—and this time he answered, a sound breaking from him, raw and wounded.
She loosed his breeches with deft fingers, her hand closing around him, feeling him stir and swell to her touch. She straddled him where he sat, her nightshift slipping from her shoulders until she was bare in the firelight. Glorious, unashamed. She guided him into her, sinking down on him with a gasp, their bodies locked deep.
Her hips moved, slow and sure, her hair falling loose about her face. She cupped his cheeks, her lips parted in ecstasy. “Come, William,” she whispered, fierce and trembling, “let us ascend to the divine—let our bodies join, our souls to touch.”
He groaned, clutching her tighter, undone by her words and the rhythm of her body. And as she rode him in the shifting glow of the hearth, her cries filling the room, William felt bothdamned and saved—lost utterly, yet bound to her in a way no guilt, no law, no power on earth could sever.
Chapter 17
Morning light spilled through the tall mullioned windows, catching on the silver tea service and setting the crystal aglow on the breakfast table. Domed covers lifted, steam rose from eggs and rashers, and the scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air. Charlotte filled her cup with a measured hand, her expression cool, while William sat at the head of the table, watching his guests with the restrained patience of a host already wearied by their company.
Beaufort’s voice warmed with reminiscence. “You never told me your governess is Miss Ansley. Reverend Ansley’s daughter? If she’s inherited even half his brains, William, you’re fortunate indeed to have her in your household. My late father always spoke highly of him—said he was a rare scholar.”
William stiffened, his knife pausing mid-cut. Pride warred with unease. Jane’s presence under his roof was complicated enough without Beaufort invoking her father’s name like a benediction.
Charlotte’s brow arched, her gaze flicking between the men. She knew Jane’s worth, but hearing it spoken aloud in such company left her wary.
Across the table Ravensby gave a sharp little laugh, his mouth curling in disdain. “Ah, the daughter of a ruined clergyman? How… poetic.”
The remark hung in the air, insidious as smoke in a closed room. Beaufort’s jaw tightened, but he did not waste words on Ravensby. He only set down his cup with deliberate calm.
“Sebastian Ansley was a man of principle, whatever became of his purse. Had I known the family was left in such straits after his passing, I would have intervened myself.”
Ravensby leaned back, smirking, eyes glinting with mischief. “And what would you have done, Beaufort? Paid her dowry out of charity—or kept her yourself? Is she at all pretty?”
The air went still. William’s knife struck his plate with a scrape. His tone was low, dangerous. “You will not speak that way in the presence of ladies.”
Charlotte’s smile was sweet as poisoned honey. “My lord, if you are determined to parade your vulgarities, perhaps you should have remained in London where they belong. The company here is not accustomed to gutter talk over breakfast.”
Ravensby gave a mocking bow, but the flush rising in his cheeks betrayed him.
Beaufort ignored him entirely, sipping his tea as though the man were beneath notice. “As I said, Miss Ansley’s parentage alone speaks well of her. It does her father’s memory credit that she has found a place here.”
William forced down his temper with a mouthful of coffee, but the taste curdled on his tongue. Beaufort’s words rang with respect, yet Ravensby’s vulgarity still clung like filth. And Jane’s name was caught between them.
* * *
The autumn air was crisp, scented with damp earth and the last roses clinging stubbornly to bloom. Jane walked slowly along the garden path, Margaret prancing beside her with a book hugged to her chest.
“Miss Ansley,” came a voice behind them, deep and courteous.
Jane turned. Viscount Beaufort had stepped into the garden, hat in hand, his expression softened from its usual gravity.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, inclining his head. “But when I learned you were Reverend Sebastian Ansley’s daughter, I felt I must introduce myself. My late father held him in the highest esteem. Indeed, it was at his urging that Westford’s library acquired so many of your father’s works. I studied them myself as a boy.”
