Jane’s voice was quiet. “I see. You mean to keep me.”
His jaw clenched. “I mean to marry you.”
At that, her breath caught. Her eyes flickered, but she did not speak.
“A special license has been requested. The ceremony will be private. Swift. And entirely secret.”
She stared at him. “For how long? This sort of thing can’t be hushed forever.”
He exhaled. “For as long as I deem necessary.”
Her lips parted, but then she swayed. He caught her before she could fall, hands steadying her by the arms. “Jane—”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, breath short.
He helped her to sit back down, then stood over her. His tone gentled. “You must understand. I am soon to leave for the Continent.”
She turned to the window. “There are always wars.”
“This one is different. Napoleon escaped Elba.”
Her head snapped to him. A faint gasp left her lips, and her hands moved instinctively over her belly.
“I’ll have orders soon,” he said. “And I won’t have time to settle matters properly before I go. But even if there were no campaign, even if peace reigned, the secrecy would still be necessary. For your sake as much as mine.”
“I see,” she said softly. Her expression was unreadable. Only the paleness in her cheeks betrayed her.
William glanced away—then looked at her again, properly. For the first time in weeks. She was radiant. Tired, yes. Sad. Resigned. But something about her struck him hard in the chest. The curve of her body, the elegant tilt of her head. The way she held herself, proud despite everything. His child beneath her heart.
He could not help it. His eyes dropped again to her stomach. He looked back up at her face. She was watching him.
He cleared his throat. “The ceremony can be conducted at the new house. Quietly. No one need attend apart from the witnesses.”
Jane gave a small nod. Her voice, when it came, was neutral. “As you wish, my lord.”
And that was worse than shouting. Worse than accusation. She had withdrawn into perfect, icy courtesy.
William felt the words he might have said catch uselessly on his tongue. Instead, he stepped back, his hand falling away from her arm. “You’ll be moved within the week.”
She inclined her head. He turned and left. And behind him, Jane remained seated, her hand pressed firmly over the child he had just made her hide.
Chapter 37
The night air was heavy with fog. London’s gaslamps flickered dimly, casting pale halos over the cobbled street outside the ducal townhouse. Inside, the servants moved with seamless efficiency. Only a few had been summoned—trusted ones, loyal to the family and accustomed to discretion.
Jane stood in the front vestibule beneath the shadow of the grand staircase, wrapped in a thick traveling cloak. Her gown beneath was voluminous enough to obscure her condition, and the overcoat helped to mask what could no longer be denied in daylight. She kept her head lowered, her gloved hands fisted at her sides.
Charlotte stood beside her, dressed in muted lavender, her hat tied with ribbon, face composed. Mary, discreet as ever, waited near the door with a small satchel of belongings.
The housekeeper stepped forward, folding her hands. “We all wish you the best and a fast recovery, Miss Ansley. Lady Margaret cried herself to sleep tonight. I don’t think she’d let you go if she thought you were leaving us.”
William gave a dry laugh. “The little menace would probably have tied herself to the carriage wheels.”
The housekeeper stifled a chuckle, curtsied, and withdrew. A faint smile tugged at Jane’s mouth, but she didn’t speak. She would miss Margaret terribly.
Footsteps echoed. The Duke appeared at the end of the hall, already wearing his night robe and a thin dressing gown over it. He had come, it seemed, to take one final look.
His eyes passed over her with indifference, as one might glance at a cracked vase—a thing not worth remarking on. His expression gave nothing away but for the flaring of his nostrils, as though something faintly unpleasant had intruded on his air.
