The man gave a thin smile. “Some things are not for the delicate ears of ladies, my lord. And the young lady in question had other suitors—though none so suitable as myself. The others were mere merchants, hoping to buy social polish. But I offer something better. Position. Security. Respectability.”
William’s jaw tightened. His hand flexed once at his side.
“Miss Ansley, at least, thought so,” he added with an oily shrug. “She seems to have a level head—for a woman giving her favors so freely.”
The name struck him like a cannonball to the chest. He froze, feeling sick to his stomach. Then took one step forward.
“Say her name again,” he said, very quietly.
The man faltered, momentarily surprised. “Miss Ansley. Your governess. I thought it was understood.”
The room went silent.
“A decision must be made soon,” the man said, matter-of-fact. “She is heavy with child, or so Mrs. Radcliff told me. I could hardly tell—those high-waisted gowns the ladies favor hide a great deal.”
William didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He stared at the man as if trying to understand a foreign language spoken in the middle of a battlefield. It was as if the world had tilted, and he’d forgotten how to stand.
“My lord?” he prompted. “I trust you understand?”
His voice, when it finally came, was low. Stripped bare. “Let me disabuse you of your illusions.”
Mr. Marlowe flinched upon seeing the expression on his face that bordered on murderous. He opened his mouth—perhaps to plead—but William silenced him with a look.
“You presume to name your price. Influence. An estate. A future. Let me offer you mine.” He took another step toward the man, with all the command of an officer, the measured grace of a duke’s heir.
“You will not speak of Miss Ansley. Not to your friends. Not to your family. Not to your damn tailor. You will not so much as whisper her name to the mirror when you're alone at night.” He stepped closer, until the air between them thinned to something dangerous.
“If I hear so much as a syllable of this conversation repeated—if Miss Ansley’s name crosses the lips of any man in London in any tone but respect—I will see to it that you are cut out of every circle you aspire to enter. No office. No seat. No place in decent society. Not in Town. Not in Parliament. Not in your own bloody family pew.”
A pause. No heat in his voice. Just finality. “And should I find cause to doubt your silence, there are ways of ending a man’s prospects, Mr. Marlowe. Quiet ways. Permanent ways.”
The other man blanched and started visibly trembling. “Now get out of my sight.”
Marlowe’s mouth worked uselessly for a moment. Then he bowed—too fast—and turned without another word.
The door closed behind him. William didn’t move. Not for a long time. He stood in the center of the study, hands clenched at his sides, heart thudding in his chest.
She was with child. And she had said nothing. His palm pressed to the back of the nearest chair, gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles blanched.
He had left her. He had called her faithless. He had not believed her innocence. He had paraded prospective brides in her face. And now some fortune-hunting bastard had come to claim what was his. She was his. The child was his. And he had nearly lost them both.
* * *
William’s boots struck the marble floor hard enough to echo. The butler, entering from the east corridor, startled at the sight of him, still half-expecting him to be out for the morning.
“My lord?” he asked.
“Where is Miss Ansley?”
“I—I believe she is in the gallery with Lady Margaret, my lord.”
William didn’t thank him. He was already moving. Down the corridor. Past the great hall. Through the double doors into the long, sunlit expanse of the Westford Gallery. The space was quiet, dignified, golden in the morning light. And from the far end, the unmistakable voice of a child—bright, enthusiastic, lifted in delight.
“There! That one,” Margaret was saying, standing on tiptoe before a large canvas. “It’s Diana, isn’t it? Look, there’s her bow—and the skull of a stag! And see the moon on her brow?”
Jane sat on the bench behind her. Pale. Tired. But composed. Her hands were folded in her lap, posture as straight and proper as ever. Regal, almost. Then she looked up—and saw him.
She rose at once. “My lord—”
