She offered no explanation. She could not. The small blanket lay across her knees, each stitch meant for her baby—a baby that was his too, though she doubted he would ever claim it as such.
He stepped forward. “Jane—”
Her composure broke; her voice rang sharp. “Do not ‘Jane’ me. You still believe me false. You think I betrayed you with Lord Beaufort.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then ask him!” she cried, rising. “Ask him, if you dare. Nicholas Beaufort is an honorable man—far more honorable than you—to lie about such a thing. He will tell you the truth you refuse to hear.”
She pointed to the door, her eyes blazing. “Until then, you are not welcome here. Not as a lover. Not as anything.”
William stood rigid, then turned and left. He did not slam the door—though his whole body ached for it—but closed it hard enough that the latch rattled. As if he would abase himself by asking his oldest friend whether he had taken their governess to his bed.
In the library he found a decanter of brandy, poured until the glass overflowed, and drank deep. Anything to burn away the image of Jane standing in the firelight, proud, furious, untouchable—and still, unbearably, the only woman he desired.
Chapter 23
The morning room smelled of starch and tea, with a faint trace of pine from the fire roaring on the hearth. It had snowed the night before; a white veil lay over the gardens, clearly visible from the casements. The gentlemen had gone to inspect the stables and His Grace’s new stallion, leaving the ladies to their own entertainments.
Lady Margaret had been brought down for the occasion, dressed neatly in a muslin frock and ribboned sash, her curls smoothed with unusual care. She stood with her hands folded very properly before her, though her eyes shone with eagerness. At first, she clung to Jane’s side, but under Charlotte’s encouraging nod, stepped forward with shy resolve to meet the Stratton ladies.
For days she had practiced a little song. Now—at last—she was to perform it. Jane guided her gently to the pianoforte and seated herself at the keys. Margaret took her place beside the instrument, casting a quick, hopeful glance toward her mother. The Duchess smiled, but distantly, already half-turned toward Lady Stratton.
Jane struck the opening notes. Margaret’s small voice rose clear and sweet, every syllable carefully shaped. She sang with all her heart, her gaze flicking again and again to her mother in search of approval.
When the final note faded, there was polite clapping. The Duchess inclined her head, lips curving slightly, but offered nofurther word. Margaret faltered, then steadied, as if reminding herself not to mind.
Lady Henrietta was quick to take her place next. With solemn importance she stood by the pianoforte, chin lifted, while Jane’s hands remained on the keys, ready to oblige. The first notes rang out, and Henrietta’s voice followed—thin and affected, every phrase drawn out with pomp.
Margaret wrinkled her nose, leaning close to Charlotte in a whisper. “How do we make her stop?”
Charlotte bit back a chuckle, murmuring, “This is one of your first duties as a lady of the house, dearest—to endure without laughing.”
When Henrietta’s song ended, Charlotte clapped with deliberate brightness. “Marvelous, Lady Henrietta. Do give us another.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. “But why?” she whispered.
Charlotte’s mouth twitched. “Because even her singing is better than her talking.”
The child’s giggle escaped before she could stop it. The Duchess shot her a sharp look in warning, and Margaret ducked her head. Henrietta, oblivious, began again, her mother gazing at her with the rapture of one who sees a rare jewel catching the light.
At last, Lady Stratton declared she must see the gallery overlooking the grounds, to make notes for improvements. The Duchess, ever attentive, offered her arm and swept out with her at once. Henrietta returned to the sofas, flushed and breathless, while Jane lingered at the instrument, idly turning a page of music.
Margaret, eager to shine, announced: “I can name every king of England, from William the Conqueror to today.”
Henrietta gave a tinkling laugh. “How very odd. What use could it possibly be?”
“I am going to be a general,” Margaret declared proudly, “like my brother William!”
Lady Henrietta giggled, the sound thinner now, edged with irony. She lifted her chin, as if to remind them of her importance. “Women do not command armies, Lady Margaret. They marry. Those without royal blood must be content with a generous purse if they hope to make a good match. His Grace, your father, has a fortune large enough to tempt a king, so you need not fret.” She folded her hands primly, her voice smug. “But I shall make the finest match in England. Papa is a marquess, and Mama a Bourbon. There is no better bloodline than mine.”
Margaret colored, wounded. “But I want to be just like William!” she cried.
Henrietta smiled as though humoring the child. “Nonsense. You will marry. My father says no lady of consequence should be allowed to wither in spinsterhood.” Then, realizing her mistake, she turned to Lady Charlotte. “I am sure you are not very old, my lady.”
The words fell like stones. Charlotte did not mind in the least what the silly chit said—but Margaret’s eyes brimmed, her lip trembled. A sob escaped before she could stop it, and she fled across the room.
Jane was on her feet at once. She opened her arms, and Margaret hurled herself into them, burying her face in the safety of her gown. Jane bent close, stroking her hair, her tone low and steady.
