He collapsed beside her, pulling her close, his face buried in her neck. The scent of drink clung to him, but under the haze of it, she felt the heat of his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest. For the first time in weeks, she let herself rest there—if only for the night.
* * *
Morning light crept pale across the chamber. Jane stirred first, her head pillowed against his shoulder. He still held her, heavy with sleep, his arm curved possessively around her waist. For a moment, in the hush, she almost believed it. All would be well again.
Then he moved. A low murmur, his lips brushing her temple. “God… Jane. I wish you had been true to me.”
Her eyes flew open. She pushed herself upright, staring at him as though he’d gone mad. “What did you say?”
He looked at her—bleary, bare, utterly earnest. “If only you hadn’t betrayed me… if Beaufort had never touched you—”
The words struck like a blow. She pulled back, fury blooming. “You still believe it? After everything—after last night—you still dare to call me false?”
He flinched. Pride stiffened him. “I can’t unsee it. The way you laughed with him. The way he spoke of you—”
“Enough.” Her voice was low, edged like a dagger. “Get out.”
“Jane—”
“Get out.” She seized the blanket, wrapping it tightly around herself. “You come to me drunk, take what comfort you please, and still you call me false in your heart. I will not hear another word. Leave me.”
His face hardened. He dressed in silence, each movement rough with shame. At the threshold, he turned once more. “When will I be free of you?”
The door slammed. She stood trembling in the silence, breath jagged. Slowly, she sank back onto the bed. Her hand rose instinctively to her middle. The swell was small—but real.
Her palm rested there, protective. Desperate. He hadn’t seen. Hadn’t even thought to look. And now he was gone.
Chapter 22
The December air cut like a blade. Frost silvered every hedge and field, the breath of waiting grooms rising pale in the stillness. The household gathered before the front steps, the hush broken only by the caw of rooks circling above the bare trees.
At the very front, the Duchess waited with regal poise—velvet skirts sweeping the gravel, fur trim framing her proud, beautiful face. The Duke stood beside her, gloved hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the approach. He looked every inch the statesman, stern and watchful.
Lord Blackmeer loomed just behind them both, flanked by his sisters. He gave nothing away, save for the hard set of his jaw. At Lady Margaret’s back, Jane stood watchful, her old wool pelisse fastened tight. Her cheeks stung in the cold, but she welcomed the numbness.
The roll of wheels carried up the drive before the carriages appeared—three in all: two for family, one overloaded with baggage, as though the Strattons came to take up residence, not pay a Christmas call.
The lead carriage pulled up, glossy black, drawn by six matched grays. Liveried footmen sprang down and opened the door with pomp fit for a coronation.
Lord Stratton emerged first. Broad in the belly, pompous in bearing, he moved with the confidence of a man unaccustomed to refusal. He swept the assembled party with a glance thatboth acknowledged and commanded, then stepped forward with ingrained courtesy.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing low over the Duchess’s gloved fingers.
She bestowed upon him her sweetest smile, her lashes lowered, eyes glinting with warmth that verged on flirtation. “Lord Stratton. Westford Castle is honored to receive you.”
William’s expression hardened. Embarrassment heated his face at her open play. His father, standing tall at her side, betrayed no displeasure. Indeed, the Duke regarded her with faint approval, as though her coquettish charm were but another tool in their arsenal.
Lady Stratton followed. Tall and thin, with unfortunate features and a mouth set for complaint, she stepped down and paused to look up at the estate. “So this is Westford Castle. Imposing enough. Almost a palace. Of course, nothing like Versailles. The grounds are—small. But charming, if one appreciates neatness.”
The Duchess inclined her head. “We are always looking to improve. Your suggestions are welcome, my lady.”
“Indeed,” the Duke added smoothly. “Westford Castle ought to feel like home.”
Charlotte, standing at William’s side, pressed her mouth into a thin line. Her teeth caught her lower lip—biting back the retort that must have burned on her tongue.
At last, the daughter emerged. Lady Henrietta Stratton descended with care, her gloves immaculate, her skirts perfectly arranged—until she curtsied too deeply, nearly overbalancing. She recovered, just.
“Your Grace,” she said, directing her gaze toward the Duke with dutiful composure. “Your Grace,” she added, with a second, fainter curtsy for the Duchess.
