“You let her rest,” came the reply, firm as steel under silk. “And besides—it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”
A frustrated breath. “Charlotte, don’t be absurd.” Then, after a beat, he added—flat and final, as if that settled everything: “She’s to be my wife.”
“But she’s not yet,” Charlotte shot back. “Not that that’s ever stopped you before—only now I’m here to stop you. Leave her in peace, William. Just this once. She deserves at least that much.”
A beat of silence. Then William’s tone, laced with dry humor: “I’d like to see you try to stop me tomorrow.”
“I won’t,” Charlotte said calmly. “Tomorrow, she’s yours. Tonight, she’s still her own.”
A long pause. Then, retreating footsteps.
Jane lay still, her eyes damp. A small smile pulled at her lips—tired, wistful, almost amused. Charlotte was right. And yet… she wondered what William had meant to say. What would he have done if Charlotte hadn’t stopped him? Perhaps then she wouldn’t feel like this—so terribly alone.
She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come. Only the distant, steady sound of the city beyond the window, and the heartbeat of the child beneath her hand.
Chapter 38
Charlotte was fussing. She had already retied Jane’s sash twice and adjusted the sleeves, though they lay perfectly well. Mary, quieter but no less determined, was working at Jane’s hair with a small tortoiseshell comb, smoothing the last glossy strands into place. She was not a trained lady’s maid, but she had done her best—and Charlotte, to her credit, had helped without complaint.
The golden gown shimmered faintly in the morning light. Its low décolletage framed Jane’s collarbones and the soft swell of her breasts, which had grown fuller with the pregnancy. The empire waist clung just beneath them, then fell in straight lines over her belly, skimming her figure like poured silk.
“You look like a queen about to receive tribute,” Charlotte said, adjusting a curl. “All you’re missing is a throne and a line of trembling courtiers.”
Jane gave a quiet smile. “You are trying very hard not to cry.”
“I cry at everything.” Charlotte paused. “Well. Not everything.”
Downstairs, the drawing room had been transformed. Laurel garlands framed the mantel, while two small vases of lilies stood at either end. It was no grand ballroom, but the fragrance of fresh flowers and beeswax polish lent it an air of dignity.
The chaplain had arrived at half-past eleven and was already deep in conversation with William near the hearth. They spoke in low tones—war, mostly. News had traveled fast: Napoleonhad escaped. There would be orders. There would be movement. None of it could be ignored.
“They say he landed with hardly three hundred men,” the chaplain muttered, adjusting the cuffs of his plain clerical coat. “But you know what he can do with three hundred.”
“If he marches quickly, he’ll take half the country with him by June.” William straightened his coat, every movement crisp. “We’ll be sent across before that. The orders will come any day.”
The chaplain was still nodding when a hush fell. His eyes lifted—then his brows rose slightly. “Good Lord,” he murmured under his breath.
William turned. And for one long, stilled moment, he couldn’t breathe.
She was stunning. Not merely beautiful. She moved like something half-sacred and not entirely human, her swollen belly unmistakable beneath the fine gold fabric, her skin glowing with life. Her dark hair, coiled at the nape, gleamed against the pale cream of her neck and the soft flush of her cheeks. She was not what a duchess should be—and yet, in that moment, there was no one else in the world who could have stood where she stood.
She walked toward him without hesitation, her gaze steady on his. Charlotte followed behind her like a shadow, proud and silent.
The chaplain leaned in slightly, voice low enough not to carry. “I understand why you couldn’t wait, my lord. I think God will forgive you.”
William’s head snapped toward him, his look sharp and cold. “You’re a man of God. Try to speak like one.”
The chaplain blinked—then chuckled. “Good Lord. I wouldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Lord Blackmeer, well and truly leg-shackled.” William’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The ceremony began. There were no pews. No organ. No guests. Just the hearth and the garlands, the six of them standing in a quiet room in Bloomsbury while outside, the city carried on without pause. And yet for William, no one else existed. There was only Jane.
Her hands in his. Her breath on the air. She repeated her vows with unwavering dignity, her voice low but clear. When it was his turn, he found the words came without faltering. He did not feel trapped. He felt content. Not triumphant, not even proud—simply content, as if for the first time in months, something had been set right.
“I pronounce that they be man and wife together,” said the chaplain gently, “in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
The silence that followed was not broken by clapping or celebration. Only William’s hand tightening in hers. Then—he pulled her toward him and kissed her.
It was not chaste. It was not polite. His mouth found hers with hunger—possessive, unyielding, as if the ceremony had not made her his but this kiss would. Jane gasped softly against him, her fingers clutching at his coat. The room disappeared. Time stopped.
