Beaufort walked beside him between drives, his tone unhurried. “I must say,” he began as they reloaded, “your Miss Ansley astonishes me. We spoke at some length yesterday—Plato, Aristotle, the soul’s ascent to truth. She holds her ground like a man of letters.”
William said nothing. His eyes stayed on the beaters.
Beaufort went on, unfazed. “We discussed the war as well—Spain, your campaigns. She understands more than most officers. Strategy, supply, cost. And she asks the right questions. No false delicacy. I find it…” He smiled faintly. “Refreshing.”
Behind them, Ravensby gave a snort. “God, Nicholas, you make her sound like a schoolmaster in petticoats. I came for sport, not sermons about governesses.”
Crofford, oblivious, launched into another story about one of his dogs flushing six birds at once. William barely heard him. His hand clenched on the stock of his gun until the leather creaked. The spaniels circled impatiently at his boots.
Another covey rose. He fired cleanly again. The birds fell. But Beaufort’s voice cut through the silence once more.
“And as for Lady Margaret—no wonder she learns. Miss Ansley makes history into story. I watched her yesterday. The child was rapt. It’s a rare thing, to teach without condescension. She has the mind of a scholar—and the patience of a mother.”
The words landed like blows. True. Every one of them. And unbearable.
* * *
Dinner was a blur. Silver gleamed. Wine flowed. Crofford boasted of past hunts. Ravensby laughed too loudly. William endured it with the stillness of a man under fire, every moment scraping like grit beneath the skin.
When the port came round and the talk grew lazier, he excused himself. No toast. No pretext. He simply rose and left. Nothing—not duty, not appearances—would keep him from Jane tonight.
He took the corridor at speed. No hesitation. No pause to calm his expression. The knock was soft, but the moment sheopened the door, he stepped inside and closed it hard behind him.
Her hair was already unbound, candlelight brushing her bare shoulders. She smiled—warm, welcoming. He didn’t stop to savor it. He reached for her, pulling her against him in a rush.
“William—” she began, but he kissed her before she could say more. His mouth was bruising. His hands rough. One at her nape. One already sliding to her hip. She gasped, startled by the force of it. “Wait—slow—”
“I can’t,” he said, dragging her shift over her head. “Not tonight.”
He lifted her easily, carried her to the bed, and laid her down—not gently. Not cruelly. Just with the urgency of a man who feared the moment might vanish if he blinked.
His body covered hers. His breath was harsh. His eyes fever-bright.
She stroked his hair, tried to soothe him. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me. I’m already yours.”
That only made him hold her tighter. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours,” she whispered. Her voice trembled.
He drove into her with a groan, as though he could hammer the truth into place by force. His rhythm was fast, brutal. He kept her caged beneath him, as if she might slip through his grasp.
A strangled moan escaped her. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. Still she took him. Still her body rose to meet each thrust. She gasped as he found that place inside her—one hand flying to his hair, the other sliding down to grip his arse, flexing hard with every stroke. She urged him deeper. He was everywhere—his weight, his heat, the ragged sound of panting in her ear.
She arched beneath him, so close now, eyes fluttering shut. “William—” she muttered, but the words broke apart on her lips.
He kissed her again, fierce and unsteady, swallowing whatever else she might have said. His pace quickened, each thrust like a demand. She clung to him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. Her head fell back. A shudder went through her.
He pressed his mouth to her throat, groaning her name as he spilled inside her—a sound raw with need, and something dangerously close to grief.
He stayed over her, chest heaving, face buried against her neck. His weight was heavy. His silence, heavier.
She stroked his damp hair, voice low. “Whatever it is… I’ll bear it with you. You don’t have to fight alone.”
He didn’t answer. He only clutched her tighter, as though he might shield her from every other gaze. Every other touch. Every other man.
* * *
The next afternoon, the ladies gathered on the terrace to watch the guns from a distance. Mrs. Hughes eyed Jane with the polite condescension of a woman who had never forgotten her governess’s place.
