“Yes. Fresh from finishing school. And more importantly—untouched by the Season.”
William made a sound under his breath—dry, amused, contemptuous. “That’s a selling point now?”
“It is,” said the Duke. “No parties. No suitors. No ideas. She’s unspoiled by fashion or flattery. Kept that way on purpose.”
He might as well have been describing a broodmare. William turned his head slightly, unimpressed. From what little he remembered, she was not very bright either.
“She’s Lord Stratton’s only daughter,” the Duke continued. “And Stratton is the Regent’s most devoted lapdog. I’ve watchedhim wave his influence about for a decade. That ends with this match.”
William said nothing.
“She marries into our house, and he’s leashed. He cannot cross us without crossing his own blood. And once you give her a son—” his mouth twitched in something like a smile “—it seals everything.”
William did not move.
The Duke’s voice flowed on. “Her mother’s blood is royal. Bourbon. A niece of the old French king. With the monarchy restored, however precariously, your children could have a claim. England in one hand, France in the other. Do you understand what I am offering you?”
Still, William kept silent.
The Duke leaned forward. “You’ve made your mark in the wars. That’s fine. But this—this is the true game. To stir empires without a crown. To be the hand behind the throne. I pull the strings now. In time, it will be you. With Lord Stratton in your pocket, no one will dare question where power lies.”
“She’s a child,” William said.
“I want you to do your duty,” Westford snapped. “You are not marrying her for love. You are marrying her for what she brings. And you will do it by the book—the proper courtship, the proper ceremonies, even the proper sort of whispers.”
“We could wait a few years. Let her come into herself.”
“That’s folly. We don’t need her paraded about. We need her obedient. Blank. Grateful. If I’d kept my own wife from the same nonsense—” That earned a low snort.
The Duke raised a brow. “Yes. I know. But I was nearly fifty when I married her. You’re not.” His voice lowered. “Don’t pretend you don’t know how to charm a woman. Or how to keep her in your bed.”
William turned his gaze back to the window. His reflection stared faint and pale in the glass.
“Win her affection,” his father said. “Make her pliable. Get her with child. By next year no one will remember she ever had another path.”
Get her with child. He almost laughed.
He had tried. God knew he had. In London, he’d sought every distraction—seasoned courtesans in private clubs, famed Cyprians in discreet apartments with velvet drapes and perfumed sheets. He thought he could rid himself of Jane by force. That if he buried himself in enough bodies, he might forget her.
But his own body had refused to obey him. Not once had he risen. Not even a flicker.
The last had been one of Nadia’s girls—famed for reviving the dead, or so she claimed. She sank to her knees with a knowing smile, rubbing her bare breasts as she flicked her tongue suggestively, eyes locked on his. Her hands slid up his thighs, deft and sure, fingers brushing the front of his breeches.
His stomach lurched. He caught her wrists, halting her. Stared down at her in silence, face blank, disgust roiling. He left before he could be sick on her.
It wasn’t lust he’d lost. Only the ability to feel it for anyone else. He could not imagine what it would be like with Stratton’s daughter. So wan and willowy and horse-faced, all long limbs and fluttering nerves. She would lie there stiff and tearful, terrified, and he’d be expected to rut like it meant something.
The bile rose again. He swallowed it.
The Duke mistook his silence for agreement. “Make her yours. And everything else will fall into place.”
The carriage rocked over a frozen rut. Outside, snow had begun to fall, light and aimless, quiet. Inside, William closedhis eyes. He was not sure he could play the game his father demanded.
And God help him—he was not sure he could face Jane again without falling to his knees, begging for the right to kiss her lips once more. He needed her. No matter her betrayal. He needed her like breath.
* * *
The house was alive in a way it had not been for months. Even from the schoolroom, Jane heard it: footsteps echoing along the marble corridors, trunks creaking up staircases, maids airing rooms and beating out dust in a flurry of last-minute preparation. His Grace was returning. And with him—Lord Blackmeer.
