Jane was abed. She had been more cautious since the cramp, though the doctor had declared her well enough provided she took things slowly. She obeyed without protest and spent less time in her study than she had intended. But no one could coax her into conversation—not Mary, not Mrs. Scott.
Charlotte knocked lightly and entered without waiting for a reply.
Jane was propped against the pillows, one hand resting absently over the curve of her stomach. Her nightgown was modest, the fullness of her figure unmistakable. Her hair was braided simply down her back. She looked pale, but not fragile—only tired. Distant.
Charlotte crossed the room and sat beside her without ceremony. “You look awful,” she said. “But better than my brother.”
Jane smiled faintly. “Then I suppose I’ve won something.”
Charlotte took that as permission. She reached for the edge of the coverlet and folded it back, masking her nervousness by keeping her hands busy. “He’s in the carriage.”
“I assumed.”
“He’s been in agony.”
Jane’s expression did not change. “Has he?”
“He is not a man given to poetry, Jane. He may not say the things you wish he would. But I have never seen him like this. Snapping at footmen. Refusing to eat. I suspect he nearly hit someone at Horse Guards.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Jane said softly, “but I have nothing left to offer him.”
Charlotte frowned. “You’re his wife.”
“In secret.” Jane’s voice was very even. “With witnesses who cannot speak of it.”
Charlotte paused. “He was trying to protect you.”
“I know,” Jane said. “I do know that. And for the child’s sake, I will not keep him away once he is born. But as for me—” she looked down at her belly “—I’ve done what I must. I married him. I let him claim what he thought he needed. He may visit the child—if he decides it doesn't stain the purity of his bloodline. But I do not wish to see him.”
Charlotte was quiet for a long time. Then she rose. “He’ll be heartbroken.”
“I was already broken,” Jane said simply. “He only saw the pieces he wanted.”
* * *
Back in the carriage, Charlotte shut the door with more force than necessary. William sat motionless, staring ahead.
“Well?” he said.
Charlotte adjusted her skirts. “She’s not ready.”
He inhaled slowly through his nose. “Did she say anything else?”
Charlotte turned to look at him properly. “Yes. She said you may visit the child when it’s born—but she won’t be yours.”
She let that hang, then added, her tone deceptively calm, “Did you actually imply to your pregnant wife that her child—your child—might somehow taint the bloodline?”
William’s jaw flexed. “I might have said something… unfortunate.”
Charlotte raised a brow. “Unfortunate?”
“I was angry,” he muttered. “Not in control of what I said.” A pause. “Not that I was wrong, exactly.”
Her voice was ice. “Christ, William.” She turned back to the window. “And you wonder why she won’t let you through the door.”
His teeth clenched. He did not speak again for the rest of the ride. A hollow ache settled in his chest. What if this was permanent? What if there was no way back? He could not imagine a world where she was lost to him—truly lost.
Chapter 40
