He turned, already pulling on the loose nightshirt Mary had let out for him. He hadn’t worn it last night, preferring the press of his skin against hers. “Absolutely not. You’ll have to live with the indignity of being served by your husband just this once.”
“You’ll never do it again?”
“Highly unlikely,” he said with a shrug. “So enjoy the memory of going hungry on your first day as a married woman—because your useless husband attempted toast.”
She laughed—genuinely laughed—as he disappeared downstairs.
Mrs. Scott had laid out most of the meal the night before: bread, preserves, cheese, a dish of cold sliced ham. William managed to prepare tea without burning the house down—he'd done it a few times in the army, though he wouldn’t boast of the results.
By the time he returned with the tray, Jane was sitting up in bed, her hair tousled, now wearing her chemise. The thin linen clung to her form, revealing more than it concealed—her breasts full, her belly round, her skin still flushed from the morning’s exertions. He paused in the doorway, tray in hand.
His eyes darkened. He set the tray aside.
“William—”
He was already there, kissing her, tearing the chemise down her body as the linen gave way beneath his touch, too desperate to be gentle. His mouth found her breasts, her stomach, lower still. She gasped and twisted in the sheets as he worshiped every inch of her skin, drawing cries from her lips until her body was writhing.
He kissed his way back up, slow and hungry, until he reached her mouth and claimed it with a groan. “You’re mine,” he said, voice low and rough. “All this sacrifice—surely it must count for something.”
She stilled. The words struck like a lash. She’d heard them before. Last night, too. And again now, as though she were some prize that cost him too dearly. Something he had to justify. Something he couldn’t simply love—without cost, without consequence.
His lips grazed her belly as he slid his arms beneath her, easing her back against the pillows. He knelt between her thighs and angled her hips with measured, steady hands, settling her just where he needed her. He entered her then with aching care—slow, deep thrusts that made her clench around him, each movement a silent surrender.
“I gave up so much for you,” he whispered as he drove into her, lost to the force of his pleasure. “But you’re worth it. You’re fucking worth it.”
Her mind was no longer wholly in it. Not this time. His words… her heart bristled, raw and wounded. Still, the rhythm built. Her body responded to his as it always had, unresisting, drawn by the force of his need and the ache in her own blood. He moved within her until they shattered again, together.
Afterwards, she turned her face to the pillow, her hands curled near her face. A single tear slid down her cheek.
He brought the tray to the bed, with slightly burnt toast and now lukewarm tea, and kissed her temple, noticing nothing amiss. “Eat,” he said softly. “Please. For both of you.”
She stared at the tea, trying to steady her heart. The silence stretched. And then—
“You keep saying I am worth it,” she said quietly. “Worth the sacrifice. I suppose I should thank you.”
His brow furrowed. “You think I did what I did for you—lightly?”
“You left me shut up for weeks. You moved me into this house under cover of night. You married me in secret. I couldn’t even tell my mother. She only knows I’m ruined and disgraced. But I’m to be grateful—because you set aside your dreams?”
He bit out the words. “You have a home. Protection. A name.”
“A name no one will speak aloud. And no family. No future outside these walls. But I was worth it. Because now you can bed me whenever it pleases you.” Her voice shook now, but her eyes never left his. “Would you like a monument, William? For all that you gave up to have me?”
He recoiled as if struck. “You think this was easy for me?” Anger sharpened each word. “I risked everything—my reputation, my command. People used to cross the street to avoid me. I bled to clear my name. I earned society’s respectback in war. I could have married the loveliest girl in London and kept my title pristine, my bloodline clean, the Westford legacy unblemished. But I chose you.”
She cut him off sharply. “And what did I risk? My position. My body. My child’s name. Myself. And still, it is your sacrifice we are meant to honor?”
He stared at her, lips parted in disbelief. Then, coldly: “I made you my wife. That is a great sacrifice, and you should see it as such. You should feel grateful. You have nothing without me. Nothing. I married you—but if I cast you off, you’ll be ruined. And I’ll still keep my heir.”
“Get out.” Her voice cracked the air.
He flinched. “Jane—”
“Wait for your heir, then throw me to the streets once I’ve delivered him. But until I do, you won’t dare touch me, will you? You’d never risk your precious heir. Now get out!”
“Jane, listen to me—”
She screamed, “Get out!”
