William’s mouth tightened. “Margaret,” he said evenly. “You will not use that name again.”
“Miss Ansley said it was rude—but everyone calls her—”
“That will do.” He pressed a quick peck to her temple and set her gently down.
No one dared move. The flames cracked and spat like it had grown too loud. Then Jane crossed to the pianoforte. She sat, adjusted the fall of her skirt, and began to play.
Christmas carols—simple, familiar—rose into the hush. Her voice followed, clear and pure. Unadorned. Unaffected. It moved through the room like warmth through frost.
Gradually, others joined in. The edge of the moment dulled. Laughter returned—tentative, thin, but enough.
William did not sing. He sat rigid, his eyes fixed on her hands, her face, the soft curve of her throat. She had regained her strength. Her color. Her calm. He could not look away.
When the music faded and the room eased into quiet conversation, Charlotte found herself beside Lady Henrietta. The girl sat very still, her hands twisting in her lap. When she spoke, her honesty was unexpected.
“I had so looked forward to marrying Lord Blackmeer,” she confessed in a low rush. “He is so handsome, so imposing—a hero of war. I should have been proud to call him my husband.”
Charlotte arched a brow. “And you still may, if my father has his way.”
She shook her head. “No. I know I may not measure up to his ideal of beauty. I am not as dazzling as the Duchess… nor even as pretty as your Miss Ansley—with her face he cannot stop staring at.”
Charlotte blinked, momentarily struck dumb. “My brother objects to no woman’s beauty, my lady,” she managed, though her voice faltered. Her gaze drifted across the room. William was watching Jane still, his features taut, fighting the hunger he could scarcely disguise. A chill stole over her.
Henrietta sighed, her shoulders drooping. “Perhaps it is for the best. I do not think it would be a happy marriage, if he is so taken with another.”
Charlotte said nothing. Pity for Henrietta lingered, but beneath it something sharper. She looked at her brother again, unsettled to her core. The truth was plain now, and she could not unsee it.
* * *
All through the evening William tried to school his face, to sit as though Jane were nothing to him. Yet he betrayed himself with every glance. Again and again his gaze sought her out across the room, drawn as if by gravity. Once he caught Charlotte watchinghim, her expression stricken, but he could not bring himself to care.
At last, the house quieted. Candles guttered low in the corridors, the great estate settling into sleep. William paced his chamber like a man caged, fighting against the impulse that consumed him. But the struggle was useless.
Her door was unlatched. Inside, the flames roared in the hearth, unruly and hot. Shadows danced over the walls. The bed curtains were open. She lay still beneath the coverlet, her head turned toward the door, toward him.
Their eyes met. Slowly, without speaking, she pushed the blanket down. The firelight caught the bare curve of her breasts, the soft roundness of her belly, the parting of her thighs—the slick, glistening heat between them.
His pulse kicked hard. She was ready for him. Waiting, exposed, as if she had always known he would not stay away tonight. And God help him, he hadn’t.
He undressed without haste, without words. Her eyes never left him. When at last he reached the bed, she opened her arms.
His mouth met hers. The kiss was slow, deep, aching. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, pulled him to her. He laid his body over hers, groaned low as she pressed up to meet him.
His lips traced her throat, his tongue circling her taut nipples, suckling one breast, then the other, before grazing the tender hollow between her ribs. His hands slid over her—greedy, reverent, desperate. She gasped his name. Her thighs parted.
When he entered her, he nearly sobbed. Her tight, enveloping warmth threatened to overwhelm him. She wrapped herself around him, her legs locking behind his back, her hands buried in his hair. They moved together without urgency now, without violence—only need. His hips rocked into hers with steady force, deeper each time, her breath breaking in stifled, helpless moans.
He could not look away. Her face in the dim light, the flush across her chest, the way she whispered his name—he drank it in as a man dying of thirst. His control frayed. His rhythm faltered.
She clung to him, trembling. He bent his head to hers, their mouths finding each other again just as the pleasure crested—raw and shattering.
They cried out together. Then silence.
He lay still inside her, breath harsh in the hush. Her hands stroked his bare form, her limbs still twined around him as if to keep him from vanishing. His own body shivered with the force of his release, her walls fluttering in aftershock, pulsing softly against him. For a long while they lay there, as if the world itself had narrowed to their joined bodies, the shared beat of their hearts.
Chapter 26
Westford Castle slumbered beneath a veil of winter stillness. The great halls lay silent after the Christmas feast, as if even the stones were recovering from the excess. Frost painted the windows white. Inside, beneath the coverlet, William’s skin was warm against hers. His breath was soft at her throat.
