“Perhaps two,” Morleyne added. “One for each rival patron.”
Miss Fournier laughed—light, elegant, a touch mischievous.
Oil and canvas indeed, William thought. The memory rose unbidden. He had already seen her portrait—not in silks and lace, but as Titian’s Venus come to life. Not reclining in solitude on velvet cushions, but as a flesh-and-blood woman, flushed with sleep, warm in her lover’s cot. She had lain naked beside Ashford, pale limbs tangled in sleep, chestnut hair spilled across his arm. He had traced the line of her spine with a gloved finger, had cupped the firm curve of her bottom, amused when she stirred and murmured another man’s name.
She had been no society lady then, no ‘nightingale’—only a servant girl he’d thought ripe for the taking. And yet later, he had watched the same woman kneel on the blood-stained floorof a chapel, fierce with love as she vowed herself to a man who proved unworthy of her. But that kind of devotion could not be faked. He had been blind.
That man, now General Ashford, stepped further into the room. William regarded him with cold disdain.
“General Ashford,” Lady Eversley said warmly, rising to greet him. “What perfect timing.”
William could not help himself; he glanced up and smirked. “Ah, the general returns—just in time to find the troops already deployed.”
Ashford nodded stiffly, eyes fixed on the girl. “Lady Eversley. Gentlemen.”
A storm was brewing. Had he been as plain in his jealousy of Jane as Ashford was now of his peasant girl turned lady? The thought shamed him. In his mindless fury he had poisoned their time together—those precious moments before he bound himself back to duty.
Lady Julia swept in smoothly. “Shall we go in to luncheon?”
There was general assent. Morleyne offered Christine his arm. But before she could move, George spoke again—firm, clipped. “Miss Fournier. A word. As your guardian.”
The room stilled. Christine turned slowly, one brow raised. “Of course.”
William took a slow sip, hiding the burn of contempt. Guardian. How craven, to call himself that—he who had fathered a child on the woman. He muttered into his glass, “How terribly paternal of you.”
Lady Eversley, unruffled, offered a gracious nod. “We’ll await you in the dining room.”
The company filed out. Miss Fournier remained, poised against a settee, while General Ashford moved closer, his jaw tight, his eyes hot with jealousy. William did not linger. He set his glass aside, bowed perfunctorily, and followed the resttoward the dining room. He did not need to hear the words that would pass between them; he already knew their tenor.
As he crossed the threshold, his thoughts turned inward. Ashford’s cowardice was plain, and William condemned him for it. Yet the condemnation curdled into self-loathing. Was he any different? He, too, hunted for a wife who would fit his ideal of a duchess, while the only woman who mattered was left dishonored and abandoned.
He remembered Jane’s body soft beneath him, her laughter, her fierce intelligence—but had she ever loved him? Or had it been only passion, a last bright rebellion before she resigned herself to the solitude of her post?
Christine’s devotion had been absolute; she had clung to Ashford even when all hope seemed lost. He envied it, and yet it filled him with dread. That kind of love consumed everything it touched. Would Jane ever feel so for him?
He entered the dining room amid the hum of polite chatter, but he heard none of it. Only Jane’s voice, sharp and tender all at once, reminding him with every step that he had already squandered what no duchess could replace.
* * *
He sat through the meal, speaking when he must. Smiling when it was required. He barely tasted the food. Lady Philomena wasn’t there. He was almost grateful.
The conversation swelled and faded around him—remarks on Parliament, the price of grain, a wager on a new singer at Covent Garden. He gave the appropriate responses. Laughed, once. But by the time dessert was served, the walls had begun to close in.
He rose earlier than was strictly proper, claimed weariness, and left without waiting for the rest. The cold outside met him like a slap. Good. Let it.
He did not call for his carriage. He walked. Not to clear his head—he’d given up on that—but to keep his feet moving before his resolve faltered.
Jane stayed in his blood, unwelcome and constant. She could never be his duchess. She lacked the name, the breeding, the polish. To marry her would be to invite disgrace, scandal, the slow erosion of everything he had fought to restore. For one moment, she had made him forget why that mattered. He would not forget again.
He turned the corner into Hanover Square. By the time he reached his townhouse, he knew what he would do.
The coals in the grate gave off only a faint glow, but he didn’t ring for more. He sat down at the desk, pulled out a sheet of paper, and dipped his pen. The words were easy. Duty always was.
Lord Clifford,
I hope this finds you well. I write regarding your niece, Lady Philomena...
* * *
