He was inside her—tight, warm, wet—but all he could see was Helena’s face. Her fury. Her shame. Her words:You’ve ruined me. The Earl on the ground, gasping. Blood bubbling from his mouth.Admit it.
A growl escaped him—deep, broken, feral. With a roar, he slapped Maggie’s ass to get her off him, then flipped the girl riding him onto her stomach. She yelped in surprise but laughed, ready for his roughness. Her hands braced against the headboard as he slammed into her. He took her hard, pounding her slick heat like violence could wash him clean. Then the other. Then Maggie. One after the other. Faster. Deeper. Brutal.
Still, it wasn’t enough. He climaxed in Maggie with a grunt, but the pleasure was dull. There was no release. Only emptiness.
She cradled his head against her breast afterward, fingers threading through his damp hair. He lay there, drained, as if he were the one that had been bled dry.
* * *
The smell of coffee, pipe smoke, and polished leather filled the warm hush of White’s, the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in London. Papers rustled, boots tapped against the marble floor, and a servant carried a silver tray of untouched toast past Lord Blackmeer.
He sat in the corner, unshaven, gaze vacant, dressed well but rumpled—like someone wearing the clothes of a man he no longer was.
Across the room, Andrew Colville was holding court. You’d think he already had Napoleon on the run, from the way he stood—spine straight, voice carrying with pride as he addressed a pair of eager young bucks gathered around.
“They say Wellesley’s headed to Spain next.” Andrew’s chin lifted as he spoke. “And if the French have forgotten Blenheim, I’ll bloody well remind them. Let them choke on their vin and vanity. We’ll give them a proper British thrashing—see how they like the taste of cold steel with their soft cheese and even softer spines.”
Laughter rippled around the table. Andrew grinned and took a sip of coffee, calm and self-assured. He was the younger son of an earl, with no title to inherit, but the sort of man who believed in things. Who saw battle as a calling, not a burden.
William watched, silent. The words washed over him, drawing a bitter smile. Fighting for something: the King, the Empire, an idea. Or maybe just for the hell of it—but at least it was something.
He swallowed a mouthful of coffee. The taste was bitter on his tongue. He was tired of the scheming. The politics. The black shroud clinging to his name. Even the endless stream of painted whores. He didn’t begrudge the women—they had their uses, and he had no doubt there’d be whores in Spain too. But the careless joy was gone. And so was the man who had once laughed while another bled out on the grass.
William stood and crossed the room, slow and steady. “I want to buy a commission,” he said.
Andrew stared. “You what?”
“You heard me. I’ll go with you. Spain, France—wherever sir Arthur Wellesley is cracking skulls.”
A pause. Then a grin broke across Andrew’s face. “Well,” he said, “this’ll be interesting.”
Chapter 2
Longparish, Hampshire, early September 1813
The library smelled of dust and fading ink, like a forgotten prayer scribbled in a hymnal’s flyleaf. Sunlight filtered in through the diamond-paned windows, illuminating floating motes and the disordered ruin of a lifetime’s work. Books lay in growing stacks, ready for the boxes; a few rested open across the armchairs, as if unwilling to be shut away.
Jane stood rigid in the doorway, fists clenched at her sides. “You cannot be serious,Maman!” she cried, her voice breaking with disbelief as she watched her mother lower another volume—Origen of Alexandria, a prized edition in Latin—into the gaping mouth of the packing box.
Margaret Ansley didn’t look up, her shoulders heavy with grief and the weight of what must be done. “If your father had spent his income more wisely,” she replied, tone tight with fatigue, “perhaps investing in something useful rather than filling this house with endless books, we would not be destitute now. We are destitute, Jane. There is no gentler word.”
“He spent it on knowledge,” Jane shot back, stepping forward. Her throat ached. “On faith, on ideas that mattered. These texts are priceless. They’re all we have left of him. They’re—” her voice trembled, “they’re our legacy.”
Margaret snapped the box shut with more force than necessary. “No, Jane. What we have left are unpaid bills, nohome of our own, and four women with no income between them. That is our legacy. I don’t know if the books will fetch anything, but I’ll sell what I can.” She reached for the next title with steady hands.
Jane stared at her mother as though at a stranger. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “You never understood him.” She turned and left, the sound of her footsteps vanishing up the stair.
Margaret remained where she was, breathing steadily through her nose, willing herself not to cry. She was not the weeping kind. A practical woman and the daughter of a Southampton merchant, she had married above her station. Her husband, Sebastian Ansley, was the second son of a viscount—a clergyman with lofty intellect and little sense.
Now, the current Viscount no longer answered her letters. The living had already been reassigned. A new rector would arrive by Michaelmas, and they were to leave the house within the month. There was nowhere else to go.
* * *
“Maman!Maman!” The cry rang through the rectory like a bell, quick footsteps thudding against the old floorboards.
Margaret Ansley looked up from the crate of books she was packing, heart jolting. Agnes burst into the library, cheeks flushed, curls slipping from beneath her bonnet.
“Uncle Robert’s carriage! I saw it taking the turn!”
