Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “You do realize you sound like Father? That same brand of jovial empathy.”
That landed like a slap. William’s jaw locked.
“You’re paralyzed,” she went on, more softly now. “You know exactly what the right thing is, but you’re trying to find a version of it that costs you nothing.”
He turned his back on her again.
Charlotte watched him for a moment longer, then said, almost gently, “If you love her, William, then do not leave her there like a prisoner. She is not made of stone. And this… silence… is cruelty.”
She left him, motionless in front of the window, the dull London light casting his reflection in the glass—hollow, blurred, and still.
* * *
Charlotte’s footsteps had long faded, but William still hadn’t moved. He stood at the window, watching the gray sky as if it might break open and offer him an answer. But nothing came. Only the faint hiss of the fire and the echo of Charlotte’s final words ringing in his skull:If you love her, then do not leave her there like a prisoner.
He didn’t pour the drink. He hurled it.The cut-crystal decanter cracked against the fireplace tiles, the shatter echoing like musket shot. Amber liquid splashed the hearth, the scent of scotch clinging to the air like defeat. He stood staring at the shards, breathing hard, knuckles tight and white at his sides.
Then he reached for another bottle. By nightfall, he was drunk. Not in the messy, rambling way of young men at clubs, but in the old soldier’s quiet way—steady hand, steady glass, unsteady thoughts. The room was dark now, firelight throwing shadows across the bookshelves, his coat flung across the back of a chair. He sat alone in the study, as he had done so many times before. Only now the war was inside him.
The obvious answer hung before him like a noose. Marry her. There was no better protection. No better solution. The scandal was already there, swelling beneath Jane’s gown. The child would be born within weeks. What else could he do?
But then—God, then—came the weight of everything he had ever been taught. A Duke’s wife. The very phrase summoned a hundred silent expectations. She must be composed, unassailable, descended from good blood, capable of navigating court, not a whisper of scandal to her name. Someone like Philomena, gliding through drawing rooms with unparalleled taste and glacial poise. Someone like his mother.
His mother, who had never once stroked his hair when he was ill. Who had never let him cry in her presence. Who had told him at nine years old that weakness in a titled man meant ridicule, that it was worse than death.
He poured another drink and stared into the flames. Jane was nothing like her. Jane—who had taught Margaret about William the Conqueror and Odysseus, who had played with her, entertained her fantasies of becoming a general. Who had once let her smear jam on her apron just to make her laugh.
Jane, who had offered herself without shame, who had begged for him, who had fought him, who… Had she loved him—without ever saying the word aloud? Perhaps. But she hadn’t trusted him. She had been ready to marry another. Wasn’t that proof enough?
She wasn’t what a duchess ought to be—not by any measure. But perhaps the child growing in her didn’t need one. It needed a mother. And Jane would be a good one.
He exhaled roughly, forehead pressing into his palm. The fault was his. Entirely his. She had not seduced him for gain. She had not once sought his favor. She had come to him honestly, and he had known—God help him, he had known—what could happen. But he had taken her anyway. Again and again. Without a single thought for the consequences. Drunk on his own pleasure. Drunk on her defiance, her sweetness, her fire.
And now she waited. Waited in silence. In isolation. In a room not her own, where the truth swelled visibly beneath her gown. She waited for his word. And he had given her none.
He looked down at his hands. A general. A peer of the realm. A future duke. And utterly powerless. No. Not powerless. Just paralyzed. Charlotte was right.
His father would rage, of course. Perhaps object to the marriage, threaten to cut him off. But what of it? The old man spent more time at Court than in his own house. He had no other heir. His anger would pass. His opinions—his approval—never truly mattered.
It was not his father he had to overcome. It was himself. The image in his mind of who he was meant to be. Who he hadfought to become. A man who married a great lady, who secured alliances. A man who was respected and revered.
And now… He wanted neither the lady, nor the alliances. He wanted Jane. Not just for the child. Not just to shield her from ruin. For herself. He wanted her.
The mere thought of another man touching her—claiming her—made something feral stir in his chest. She had said nothing for six months, yet still carried his child with dignity and grace. Because she looked at him and saw him without fear.
Tomorrow. He would speak to his father tomorrow. The wedding would be discreet. Kept secret. Only announced long after the birth. The timing could be obscured. The scandal minimized.
But she would be his wife. There would be no more uncertainty. No more silence. And if the world sneered—if London whispered that the Duke of Westford’s only son had married their governess—then let them. She was perhaps worth it.
He drained the glass, set it down, and closed his eyes against the burn in his throat. Tomorrow.
Chapter 36
The smell of brandy still lingered. Not enough to draw comment—his valet had worked swiftly with crisp linen and lime-scented water—but it clung beneath the starch and polish. William stood before the mirror as his cravat was fastened with impeccable precision, the gold pin set just off-center as he preferred it. He looked every inch the Duke’s heir: cold, composed, untouchable.
“Thank you, Mr. Richards,” he said briskly.
“Shall I summon the carriage, my lord?”
