Jane’s breath caught. Surprise and something like pride warmed her, though she schooled her features. “I am honored, my lord. My father would have been glad to know his writings endured beyond his pulpit.”
Margaret tugged at Jane’s arm. “Miss Ansley has read me some, though I don’t find much use in them. But she’s taught me all sorts of things! I know all about maneuvering troops now and I dare the French to start another war. I am prepared for them.”
Beaufort’s lips twitched, struggling not to laugh. “Then God help Bonaparte, if he must contend with Lady Margaret of Westford Castle.”
Jane chuckled, brushing Margaret’s hair back from her brow. “Do not boast too loudly, my lady general, or you will have the whole of Norfolk in arms behind you.”
Beaufort glanced from Margaret to Jane, his gaze warming. “Then Norfolk is fortunate indeed—to have a commander so bold, and a tutor who can make the past live so vividly she might rouse an army with it.”
The words, though lightly spoken, carried a note that set Jane’s cheeks alight. She lowered her eyes, smoothing Margaret’s sleeve.
“Miss Ansley,” Beaufort added more deliberately, “it is a privilege to make your acquaintance.”
Jane curtsied, her voice steady despite the strange flutter in her breast at the open admiration. “And yours, my lord.”
They turned down the path together, Margaret chattering happily between them, while Beaufort listened with the patient ease of a man content with the company.
* * *
From the tall windows of the west wing, William paused, meaning only to glance into the grounds. The sight hit him like a hammer.
Jane walked with Beaufort at her side. Margaret trailed behind them, occasionally crouching to pluck a flower or collect some small insect from the grass. The Viscount said something low, and Jane laughed—soft, unguarded.
The sound twisted something deep within. It was not the laugh alone, but the picture it painted: Jane in the autumn sun, Beaufort beside her, Margaret skipping between them as though they were some serene family tableau. Admired, honored, not hidden in shadows.
Heat rose sharp at the back of William’s neck. His hands clenched the window frame until his knuckles whitened. He had no name for the thing uncoiling in his chest, but it had stolen his breath.
* * *
The air in the library was heavy with the scent of old vellum and ink, as though the very walls had absorbed centuries of learning. A log cracked softly in the grate, the only sound besides the whisper of Jane turning a page. She sat at the oak table, her palm resting lightly on the folio as though afraid to lose the thread of thought she was following.
“Miss Ansley.”
She looked up quickly. Viscount Beaufort stood just inside the door, hat tucked under his arm.
“My lord,” she said, rising.
“Do not rise,” he said gently. “I only wondered what occupied you so completely.”
She turned the cover for him to see. “Plato.”
His brows lifted, though not in displeasure. “Plato? That is unusual reading for a lady, though I suppose his dialogues are harmless enough. The schools wrangle over them endlessly—what is justice, what is virtue, what is love—and yet the questions endure.”
Jane’s smile was quiet. “Perhaps that is why he compels me. He writes of the soul as something that strives upward, always seeking truth.”
Beaufort inclined his head. “Truth through reason, through discipline—through rising above the body.”
Jane traced the margin with her fingertip. “And yet, he begins with the body. With beauty that stirs desire. He does not deny it—he makes it the first step. Without passion, the soul would have no ladder to climb.”
Beaufort’s frown deepened, a bit scandalized. “A dangerous suggestion, Miss Ansley. Desire more often drags men down than raises them up.”
Jane lowered her eyes, her voice mild. “Perhaps. Yet Plato must have thought otherwise, or he would not have written so.”
The door creaked. William entered. He halted a moment at the scene: Jane bent over the volume, her cheeks faintly flushed from argument, Beaufort leaning close, intent upon her. He had not heard the words, but the picture was enough to twist his gut.
“Nicholas. Miss Ansley.” His bow was curt, his tone clipped.
“William,” Beaufort said with an easy smile. “We have been putting Plato on trial. Will you not join us?”
