“William!” Margaret ran to him, flinging her arms around his waist. “Did you know Diana was the goddess of the hunt, and wilderness, and nature—”
“And childbirth,” he said coolly, his eyes never leaving Jane.
“Oh yes, you’re right! But do you know how she was born? Miss Ansley said—”
“Margaret,” he said sharply, “not now. Go and find Charlotte.”
The child blinked. “But—”
“Now.” He hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t need to.
Margaret looked at Jane, confused. Jane’s tone was low, steady. “Go on, dearest. Find Lady Charlotte. I’m sure she’s eager to hear all you’ve learned about Diana. His lordship requires a private word with me.”
Margaret hesitated, then gave a small curtsey and slipped out, casting one last glance behind her. The door clicked shut.
Silence. William stepped forward. Jane did not move. She stood tall, hands clenched at her sides. Her eyes held his, unyielding—but she knew.
His gaze dropped—not to her face, but to the swell beneath her gown. He reached out, slow, deliberate, and pressed his hand to her belly. There was no mistaking it. The curve was real. Solid. Undeniable. She didn’t flinch. But the color drained from her cheeks.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “How long were you planning to keep this from me?”
Her throat worked before she answered. “I don’t know.”
A pause. Then, clipped: “How far along?”
“Almost six months,” she said. A blush crept up her neck, as though ashamed of the arithmetic.
“Six months,” he bit out. “Six bloody months—and not a word.”
“I meant to—”
“When?” His voice rose. “After your wedding to that cretin? On the birthbed? Were you planning to send me a polite note once he’d given my child his name?”
She lifted her chin. “I could not imagine you’d be willing to give it yours.” The words struck him clean across the face. “I could not imagine you would care,” she added quietly.
His tone turned glacial. “Oh, I care.” Then it came, loud, bitter: “You lied to my face.”
“I was protecting my baby.”
He paused. “From me?”
“You accused me once,” she said. “You thought I had given myself to another man. You never took it back.”
He moved closer. “You were innocent of Beaufort. But you proved me right. You gave yourself to a man who would bargain with our child for an estate, a post in Whitehall.”
“I gave myself to no one,” she said fiercely. “I did what I had to do.”
“You had only to tell me.” The words hung there, low and bitter. He turned from her. Walked a few paces. The sound of his boots swallowed by the thick silence.
Behind him, Jane wavered. “And what is to become of us, then?”
He stared back at her. There was no softness in his face. “Given I’ve known for less than an hour, I do not know as of yet.”
But something had cracked in him. The thought of her marrying another. Bearing his child under another man’s roof. No. Unthinkable.
He stepped in—close enough for her to feel it. “You will not marry Mr. Marlowe. And no one else for that matter. Did I make myself clear?”
Her eyes brimmed, but she held his gaze.
