“How very fortunate Lady Margaret is to receive such constant instruction,” she said. “Of course, I’ve always believed too much learning can be… unsettling. Girls ought to turn their minds to gentler pursuits—those suited to their station, and their future roles as wives.”
Her daughters nodded at once, pretty as parlor dolls. The elder added brightly, “I should quite swoon if made to recite battles and politics, Mama.”
“And I’d rather marry a general than read about one,” her sister said, with a giggle and a glance toward the approaching line of men.
Charlotte’s lips curved. “Indeed,” she said, tone smooth as cream. “Not every girl has Margaret’s appetite for history. But then, not every girl is so clever as my sister.”
Margaret beamed and hugged Jane’s arm. Her eyes softened with fondness as she tweaked the girl’s nose, drawing a giggle.
Across the fields, another round of gunfire echoed—sharp, final. The dogs barked wildly, voices rising and falling.
A moment later, the men began to return. Their boots were caked with mud, their guns passed off to waiting grooms. William strode at their head, face unreadable, Crofford puffing beside him. Beaufort followed, speaking easily with Fovargue. Ravensby lagged behind, yawning as though bored by the entire affair.
Beaufort saw Jane and smiled at once. He crossed directly to her, bowed with warmth. “Miss Ansley. How glad I am to see you among the ladies. The morning felt better for it.”
Jane curtsied, composed as ever. “You are kind, my lord.”
Margaret turned eagerly. “Miss Ansley, may I shoot partridge one day? I should like to very much!”
Mrs. Hughes gasped. “My dear Lady Margaret, such sport is hardly fit for a young lady. Noisy, bloody work.”
Beaufort chuckled. “And yet Lady Margaret intends to be a lady general. She must learn powder and shot if she’s to conquer Europe.”
Margaret squealed, delighted. “Yes! I shall be Margaret the Conqueror. But kinder—I’ll give the vanquished sweets instead of taxes.”
Jane bent to smooth her hair. “You’d charm your enemies into surrender, my lady. No need to fire a shot.”
Beaufort laughed. “England may rest easy, then—with such a commander. And such a tutor.” His gaze lingered—not on Margaret, but on Jane. Admiration, undisguised.
William stood a few paces off. He heard every word. Saw every look. The laughter, the ease, the open warmth. His chest constricted—sharp, unchecked. He turned in silence and walked away. His boots struck hard against the stone, each step louder than it needed to be. He made for the stables, his fury knotting tighter with every stride.
* * *
The stables were dim, the air thick with the smell of straw and sweat. Even before William reached the inner aisle, he heard them—sharp gasps, a grunt, the wet rhythm of flesh on flesh.
He came round the corner. Ravensby had the same servant girl from before bent over a hay bale, her skirts rucked to her waist. One hand tangled in her hair. The other bruised her hip as he drove into her with brutal rhythm.
She clutched at the straw, cheeks flushed, breath catching in her throat. “Please, my lord—don’t be so rough.”
He didn’t slow. “Don’t play coy,” he muttered. “I wasn’t the first today, was I? Can’t feel a damn thing otherwise.” She flushed scarlet, burying her face in the hay, like it might hide her.
William’s voice cut through the rafters like a shot. “Ravensby.”
The Earl looked back, grinning. Sweat shone on his forehead. “Blackmeer. Come to join us? She won’t mind, will you, sweetheart?”
The girl didn’t answer. Her hips still moved with him, out of habit, out of fear. But her head sank lower, as if trying to disappear.
“How dare you,” William said, low and deadly. “In my stables? With children in this house? What if Margaret had walked in?”
Ravensby groaned, then withdrew and tucked himself in without hurry. The young woman fumbled at her skirts.
He waved a hand. “You’ve gone soft. Once, you’d have laughed and poured the brandy. Now you scold me like a bishop.”
William stepped forward. “You disgrace yourself,” he said coldly. “And me. You think I’ll tolerate this filth under my roof?”
“Filth, is it? You’re all so proper now.” Ravensby snorted. “I didn’t come all this way for a scullery maid. I came for your sweet mother.” He smiled as he said it. That lazy, knowing smirk. “But the Duchess amuses herself elsewhere, it seems.”
The words landed like a fist to the gut. William didn’t move. Didn’t blink. To speak of her that way—the Duchess of Westford—was unthinkable. No matter what she was.
