Her throat closed. The bare branches above reeled; the ground beneath her feet tilted, no longer steady. The truth pressed down with merciless clarity: he would marry another, while inside her grew the child he would never claim as his.
“Miss Ansley?” Margaret’s voice quavered, small and sharp in the vast stillness.
The world pitched. Jane’s knees buckled. She grasped at nothing, the sky spinning above her. Then the ground came hard and cold against her palms, the snow burning her skin as she fell.
“Help! Help!” Margaret’s scream tore through the frosted quiet.
Boots pounded across gravel. A shadow broke into the white glare. William came running from the yew walk, his stride swift, his face stark with fear.
He dropped beside her, his breath catching. Her head sagged against his shoulder, her skin bloodless as the frost. For a heartbeat, he only held her, eyes wild, mouth parted. Then—
“Jane,” he whispered. “I have you. I will not let you go.”
Chapter 24
William carried her swiftly through the corridors, his steps long and unrelenting, Margaret pattering behind in frightened pursuit. The child’s voice shook with panic.
“Will she be well, William? Oh, poor Miss Ansley—please, please make her well!”
“Hush, little one,” he said, not breaking stride. His tone gentled despite the fear knifing through him. “Go to your chamber. Wait there for me.”
But Margaret clung stubbornly, her small feet racing to keep pace, curls bouncing with every desperate footfall.
Servants scattered before them like startled birds. A housemaid, arms full of linen, stopped dead, her mouth falling open. A lady’s maid nearly collided with them at a turning. Even the butler—stolid as stone—froze as William swept past, Jane insensible in his arms. None dared speak, but their eyes followed him wide with alarm, as though the household itself held its breath.
At Jane’s door, he halted. He commanded as if on the battlefield. “You. Open it.”
A footman sprang forward, fumbling at the latch, bowing low as he pulled the panel wide.
Margaret had pressed herself against the wall, her fists twisted in her skirts, small and afraid. For an instant, she made to follow, but a maid bent swiftly to her, murmuring low. Margaret’s sob caught in her throat, but she let herself be ledaway, casting one last, frightened look as William carried Jane inside.
He strode to the bed and laid her down, her dark hair spilling across the pillows, her face ashen against the linen. She seemed weightless in his arms—too light. Too still. The sight struck him harder than any blow, dread pounding so fiercely in his blood that his hands began to shake.
“Send for a doctor,” he said hoarsely. “At once.”
The footman flinched at the order, but before he could move, Jane stirred. His voice had dragged her back.
“No.” The word came faint but firm. She reached out, clutching his sleeve with sudden strength. Her eyes fluttered open, glazed with tears. “Please, my lord—no physician. If you ever cared for me—ever—you will leave me be.”
He stared down at her, stunned. “Cared for you?” He broke off. God help him, he needed her like air, and still she doubted.
“Please,” she whispered again, the sound frayed and thin. “I know what plagues me. I don’t need a remedy. Only… only rest.”
For a moment, he could not breathe. He had never seen a man fall in battle and failed to call for a surgeon. But Jane was not a soldier, and this was not war. His jaw clenched. Every instinct screamed against it—but at last, he gave a sharp nod toward the footman. “Leave us.”
The servant hesitated, then bowed and withdrew, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Silence pressed in. Slowly, as though surrendering to something stronger than will, William bent. His lips brushed her brow—lingering, trembling.
But it was not enough. His hand found hers, warm and frail, and he pressed it to his mouth. Then, before reason could recall him, his lips found hers—soft at first, then deepening, desperate. The kiss of a man starving.
For a heartbeat, she yielded. Her lips answered his, quivering; her fingers curled into his palm, as if she could not let go. The world narrowed—breath, warmth, the salt taste of tears. For that moment, he almost believed. Believed she was his. That no dukedom, no chain of duty and expectation could come between them.
Then her sob broke against his mouth like a volley, shattering what little of his composure was left. She turned her face away, pressing it into the pillow, her shoulders shaking. “Stop,” she gasped, the plea ragged. “Stop. You are marrying another.”
Shame flared hot through his chest—what was he doing? He had meant to comfort her, not drive her to tears. He drew back as if struck, his pulse pounding.
“No,” he said sharply, gripping her hand once more, pressing it again to his lips. “I will not marry Lady Henrietta.”
