“If you ever try this again—if you hand what is mine to another man—the next one won’t be as lucky. If my father gave his patronage to such a union, then the moment I became Duke, I would destroy any man you married. And perhaps,” his voice dropped colder still, “I would not wait that long.”
He looked her over—calm, unreadable. “You’re mine.”
And with that, he turned and walked out, leaving her standing alone in the stillness of the gallery, her breath trembling, one hand resting over the curve of her stomach, as if to shield the baby from what was to come.
Chapter 35
Almost three weeks had passed since William had stormed into the gallery, seen the truth with his own eyes, and claimed her with a voice harsh with judgment.He had said she was his. That she would not marry. That no other man would have her. And then—nothing. Nothing but silence.
Her condition was no longer a matter of clever tailoring. At nearly seven months, no gown could hide the swell of her belly. So she remained where Charlotte had placed her: out of sight, under the excuse of poor health. Only one trusted maid attended her—a quiet girl who had been with the family for years, and who could be trusted to say nothing. Jane took her meals in her room, and seldom ventured into the corridors. The doors to her chamber remained closed.
Outside those doors, the world went on. But in here, she waited. She neither cried nor complained. She poured herself into her writing, her reading, her work with Margaret—who still came daily for lessons. The child had not been told the truth. But she knew something was wrong. That Miss Ansley was ill, and would not be with her forever. She sensed it in the careful way Charlotte hovered nearby, in the hush that fell when she asked questions, and perhaps in the way her beloved governess now winced when rising from a chair. Jane never answered her questions directly. But she never lied either.
It was late afternoon when Charlotte came. A fire had been lit, and the soft murmur of London rain tapped at the windowsbehind the curtains. Jane was seated at the escritoire, a cup of tea cooling beside her, pen in hand, a half-finished essay laid out before her in careful script. She looked up when Charlotte entered, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Charlotte stood near the doorway, glancing over the quiet scene: the tidy writing desk, the unwrinkled bed, the familiar posture of a woman who ought to be resting but was, as ever, working.
“You should be in bed,” Charlotte said finally, closing the door behind her.
Jane set down her pen. “I am not truly ill, my lady. Or do you believe your own invention?”
“You look tired. Not sleeping, I imagine.”
“Sleeping doesn’t help.” She gave a small, not unkind smile. “But working does.”
Charlotte crossed to the hearth, warming her gloved hands. She looked at Jane sidelong, her brows drawn.
“You’ve lost weight in your face,” she said.
“I’ve gained it elsewhere,” Jane replied, deadpan.
The corner of Charlotte’s mouth twitched. “The staff believes your illness has worsened. I think the housekeeper prays for you three times a day.”
Jane folded her hands in her lap. “She always seemed devout.”
A beat of silence passed.
“I could find someone else for Margaret,” Charlotte offered at last. “You needn’t teach her in this state.”
“She is the only reason I remain sane.”
“Still—”
Jane cut in, gently. “You’ll need to find her someone new, Lady Charlotte. Sooner than later.”
Charlotte turned to her. “You still have some weeks.”
“Yes. But the moment my condition becomes known, it won’t be helped.” She spoke it plainly. No bitterness. Just truth.
Charlotte sat down, watching her closely. She wasn’t pale, not exactly—but thinner, and quieter. Her hands were never idle, always turning over papers or smoothing the edge of her skirt. It wasn’t strength born of stubbornness. It was simply the only way she knew how to go on.
“You don’t ask about him,” Charlotte said suddenly.
“No.”
“You don’t ask what he plans to do.”
Jane looked down at her hands. “What would be the point?”
