When they finally parted, Jane’s cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen, her breath catching. She could think of only one thing: If she’d ever doubted they would consummate the marriage tonight, this kiss had cured her of the notion.
Charlotte cleared her throat loudly. “Right. Delightful. I shall have to rinse my eyes in rose water for a week.” She gave Jane a sidelong glance. “I do hope you're marrying him for his better qualities, because his manners are clearly beyond salvation.”
The chaplain looked faintly amused. “I suppose that’s one way to seal a union.”
William said nothing. His eyes hadn’t left Jane’s. Not once.
* * *
The wedding supper was plain but comforting—a roast capon, stewed greens, and a tart of preserved plums served warm from the oven. Mrs. Scott had outdone herself despite the short notice, bustling in and out of the dining room with ill-concealed pride while Charlotte poured wine and kept up a running commentary about Bloomsbury’s air being better for infants than Mayfair’s.
Jane could barely eat. Her nerves pressed against her stomach, dulling even the scent of the roast and the sweetness of the plums. She forced down a few bites, nodding politely when addressed. Her hands remained folded in her lap for most of the meal.
William, seated at the head of the table, replied to questions with clipped formality. He made no attempt to mask his impatience. When the chaplain lingered too long over the roast, William’s fingers tightened around his wine glass. When Charlotte poured a second glass of claret and leaned in to recount a particularly irrelevant tale about a christening gown, he gave a noise that might have been agreement—or dismissal.
Charlotte noticed, of course. She always did. Her smile widened with mischief, but she said nothing until the plates had been cleared and the chaplain leaned back with a satisfied sigh.
“Well,” Charlotte said, brushing her hands lightly on her napkin. “Now we’re sisters. Imagine that. And as your sister, Jane, I feel it my duty to warn you—this man behaves like a dog too long on the leash. I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw you over his shoulder the moment the door shuts behind us. No wonder he insisted Mrs. Scott and Mary accompany me back to Westford House.”
Jane flushed, unable to help the answering flutter deep within her. William’s eyes snapped to Charlotte, his mouth a thin line. The chaplain chuckled, sipping his wine.
“Don’t mind me,” the chaplain said, raising his glass. “I’m merely here to make it official. Though I daresay it’s time for some port and a cigar, don’t you think, my lord?”
William shot him a look that might have sent a lesser man running. The chaplain only laughed. “I’ll take this as my cue to leave.”
“That would be poor form, wouldn’t it? To hint a guest has overstayed, even if the clock says otherwise,” William said coolly.
The chaplain blinked, then smiled as he reached for the decanter. “A glass of port, then—strictly to steady my nerves.”
“You’ve had enough.” It was not a suggestion.
Charlotte stood with a rustle of silk, biting back a grin. “Right. Time we were off. The carriage is already called, I assume?”
William rose and moved to the window. “Waiting outside.”
Charlotte crossed to the stairwell and called down, “Mrs. Scott, Mary—bring your things.”
Then she turned to Jane, who had risen for the farewell, leaned close, and kissed her cheek. “You’ll be all right,” she whispered. “He looks at you like he’s been wandering the desert and just found his oasis. Try not to let him drive you mad.”
Jane nodded, silent. Her pulse thudded. The heat in William’s gaze had become unbearable.
Moments later, the front door shut. The house was quiet. William stood in the dining room doorway, watching her. The candlelight flickered against the line of her neck, the curve of her breasts.
He did not speak. He crossed the room in a few strides and caught her face in his hands, kissing her deeply—without preamble, without question. She leaned into him before she knew she had moved, one hand reaching for his lapel to anchor herself.
He broke the kiss only to lift her—easily, as if she weighed nothing. Her arms circled his neck in reflex. He carried her up the stairs, every step echoing in the quiet house.
In the bedchamber, he set her down with care. For a moment he looked at her, chest rising and falling.
She stood uncertainly. “William…”
He silenced her with a tender touch to her cheek. Then his fingers went to the sash at her waist. The gown fell away slowly under his hands. She flushed, trying to hold the fabric in place, but he stopped her.
“No,” he said gently. “Let me see you.”
She let the gown fall. Her body had changed. The swell of her stomach was unmistakable, her breasts full and heavy, her figure softer, rounder in ways she barely recognized. She looked down, ashamed—until his hands cupped her face again.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”
