He had held her capable of many things—ambition, seduction, betrayal. But to think she might have let Ravensby in her bed. The man once closest to him. The one whispered to have dragged him into vice. His hands curled at his sides, tight with fury.
Ravensby didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. “Don’t worry—I won’t linger in Norfolk for long just for the privilege of bedding a woman who can’t even remember who’s been in her.”
The maid’s face crumpled. From humiliation. From being made a joke.
William stepped between them. “Leave,” he said. Ravensby raised a brow. “You will not return to Westford Castle. Not ever again.”
For a long moment, the Earl didn’t move. Then he gave a mock bow. “Ah. So the lion’s a lapdog now. God help England, if this is her steel.” He swept past, brushing hay from his coat.
William looked to the girl. She was young, just over twenty. Her hands clutched her skirts, eyes wide and wet. “Sir,” she said quickly, “please don’t turn me out. I’ve seven little brothers and sisters. Only my ma and me to feed them. I… I have to do this.”
His jaw tightened, but his voice was steady. “You will not lose your place here because of him. No order of dismissal will pass my lips. And I will see that your family is provided for. You will not have to sell yourself again.”
She stared at him. As though she couldn’t believe it. She trembled, tears slipping down her cheeks. She nodded.
William left her there in the half-lit stables, rage simmering in his blood. Never again, he swore, would Ravensby stain Westford Castle’s walls. And no one would abuse the people under his employ, under his protection.
* * *
William came to her later than usual that day. His knock was soft, but when she opened the door, he was pale, his eyes dark with strain.
“William?” she asked gently.
He shut the door behind him, then caught her arm as though he feared she might vanish. The words came ragged. “Ravensby is nothing to me now. He is dead to me. He dishonored every bond of friendship we had—and worse, he dishonored my family. My stepmother…” He broke off, swallowing hard.
Jane’s eyes searched his face, waiting, her hand warm in his.
“She came to me once,” he forced out at last. “Came to my bed unclothed. You’ve seen her—her beauty. And God help me, she thought I would take her. They all thought I had no restraint, no honor. But even at my worst, I knew there were lines I would not cross. Not my father’s wife. Not the mother of my little sister. Whatever I was—I was not so… corrupt,” his voice broke. He had lived with that memory like a stain no prayer could cleanse.
His tone dropped lower, almost pleading. “Tell me I am not. Tell me I am nothing like Ravensby.”
Jane reached up, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing the strain from his brow. “You are not,” she whispered with quietcertainty. She rose on her toes to kiss him, slow and tender. “I know you are not.”
He shuddered out a breath, his arms tightening around her. His mouth found hers again, gentler this time, almost reverent.
They undressed without hurry, every touch careful, deliberate, as if each sought to assure the other. He laid her down softly, tracing her face as though memorizing it. She drew him to her, guiding him inside with tenderness.
Their joining was unhurried, not the storm of nights before but a slow, steady rhythm—his lips brushing hers, his forehead pressed to hers—as if in her embrace he could prove himself whole again.
When they stilled, he held her close, his breath rough against her hair. And she stroked his temple with a whisper meant only for him: “I know.”
Chapter 19
After dinner, having indulged in port and cigars, the gentlemen returned to the drawing room to rejoin the ladies. Leaning back in his chair, perfectly at ease, Beaufort remarked, “I looked in the library for Livy earlier, but the shelf was bare where it ought to have stood.”
Charlotte gave a soft laugh, her eyes glinting. “Then Miss Ansley has stolen it away. She cannot abide the library draughts in this weather and makes off with volumes to read by her own fire. I daresay half our collection is hidden in her chambers.”
Beaufort’s mouth curved. “Then I must trespass upon her hoard. Perhaps she’ll spare Livy to me for a few days.”
Charlotte waved a hand. “You’ll find her above stairs. She is likely still with Margaret.”
When he reached the nursery, the door stood just open enough for candlelight to spill into the corridor. Inside, Margaret perched on a stool, crayons clutched in one hand, her lips pursed in silent concentration. She looked up and beamed.
“Lord Beaufort! Look what I’ve drawn!” She held up a page with evident pride—a riot of color that faintly suggested a house, a tree, and a hound.
Beaufort took the sheet with gravity. “A triumph. I fear my own would be worse.”
Margaret giggled, but her next yawn nearly swallowed her words.
