The kitchens had clattered since dawn. The scent of roasting meats reached even the upper halls. Servants chattered like birds: which neighbors would be invited to dinner, whether the Strattons would stay past New Year’s, and if their daughter’s gowns had truly come from Paris. The very air seemed to hum with anticipation.
Jane bent lower over Margaret’s textbook, willing herself deaf to it. The fire cracked faintly in the grate. But still, the noise pressed in.
She drew her shawl tighter. The weeks had worn her thin. What little food she kept down rarely stayed. Soon it would pass, and the swelling would begin. Then there would be no hiding it.
The child beneath her stays and woolen skirts would make itself known. And when it did, dismissal was certain. She could already hear it: fallen woman, corrupting influence, unfit for Margaret.
William would not speak for her. He had made his judgment, believing her capable of an affair with Beaufort, of treachery in the vilest form. Why defend her now? Worse—he might accuseher openly. Call it Beaufort’s bastard. The thought caught in her throat, bitter and burning.
“Miss Ansley!” Margaret’s voice cut through. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. “They’re coming home today—William, and Papa, and even Mama will return soon! At last, we shall all be together.” She clasped her hands, barely containing her thrill. “Perhaps William will ride with me again.”
Jane forced a smile, brushing a knuckle over the child’s cheek. “My lady, it is winter. The ground is hard. The air bitter. I doubt your brother will take you riding.”
Margaret pouted, then rallied. “But he will want to see me. I’ve learned so much while he was away. I shall show him at once!”
Jane kissed her brow and said nothing.
A stable hand must have spotted the ducal procession; the household stirred. Someone gave the warning signal. Margaret gasped, dropped her quill, and fled: first bounding, then running down the stairs, her laughter ringing like silver bells.
Jane followed more slowly, her hand pressed to her middle as if to steady herself. Through the tall windows, she saw the carriage sweep into the courtyard. The crest on its door gleamed despite the dull sky. Grooms moved forward. A footman reached for the handle. Margaret ran straight into their path.
The Duke stepped down first—regal, imposing, his sable-lined cloak sweeping behind him, his eyes already scanning the household like a general reviewing troops. Then came William.
Jane stood just within the shadow of the stairwell. She had braced for indifference. Perhaps even contempt. She had not expected his gaze to find hers at once—or for the shock in it to be so plain.
William looked at her as though struck. There was no disguising it: the hollowness in her face, the shadows under hereyes, the fragility of her frame. And for the first time since their quarrel, he seemed to see that she, too, had suffered.
Margaret was already pulling at his arm, demanding to be lifted, to be kissed, to be praised. The Duke gave orders to the steward, barely glancing at the child.
But William did not look away. And Jane—heart thudding—could only lower her gaze and step back into the shadow, her shawl drawn close like armor.
* * *
He did not know how he made it through dinner. The Duke spoke at length with Charlotte. Margaret, delighted as ever to dine with the adults, spoke eagerly of ponies and her history lessons. William sat among them, a glass in hand, offering only curt replies when addressed. The roast grew cold on his plate. He tasted nothing.
When at last the port was passed, he rose without excuse. No one stopped him. He found the nearest decanter of brandy, carried it upstairs, and drank deep. The first glass burned. The second dulled. By the third, his father’s voice had faded. By the fourth, only the emptiness remained—the aching space where Jane’s laughter used to live.
He did not remember rising. Only that he stood outside her door, bottle in hand, pulse drumming. He knocked once—too soft—then pushed it open.
Jane started, rising from her reading chair by the fire. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders. “My lord—”
“Please,” he said hoarsely, closing the door behind him. His palm pressed against the panel, head bowed. “Don’t send me away. Please… if you still have any heart left…”
She saw the bottle. The unsteadiness in his limbs. The fever in his eyes.
Her first instinct was to refuse. To protect the fragile peace she had managed to rebuild. But her heart ached, too—andthe silence of her chamber had grown unbearable. She didn’t answer. She only held out her hand.
In two strides he was across the room, mouth crushing hers, the taste of brandy hot on his tongue. His arms locked around her with desperate force, dragging her close as though to anchor himself.
They stumbled toward the bed, tearing at one another’s clothing. His hands were rough, frantic, roaming her like a man starved. She gasped when he cupped her breasts—fuller now, more tender. He stilled for a breath, startled by the change, but moved on without understanding.
She burned under his touch. Every caress made her shiver, every kiss pushed her closer to the breaking point. He groaned at her responsiveness, blind to its cause, drunk enough to believe it was want alone that made her tremble and gasp.
When at last he entered her, the cry that broke from her lips came not only from the force of it—but from the ache deep in her womb, sharp and unfamiliar. Still, she clung to him, welcoming his weight, his heat, his desperate rhythm.
For a little while, she let herself forget—the dread, the secrecy, the child pressing inside her. She gave back what she could, clutching at his back, her mouth meeting his, her body tightening around him.
He drove into her as if drowning, each thrust a bid to lose himself, to quench the fire that devoured him. When he finally shuddered and fell still, she held him fast, her fingers tangled in his hair, her breath ragged beneath his.
