Page 52 of A Mind of Her Own
The Duke lifted his cigar, lips curving in a faint smile. “Well? You look as though you’ve come to air a grievance. Let us hear it. I am in a mood to be more amenable to requests.”
“Yes, your wife told me so,” William said, the words nearly spat, judgment plain in his tone.
The Duke chuckled, utterly unrepentant. “I will not apologize for bedding my own wife.”
“The problem, Your Grace,” William shot back, “is that you are not the only one bedding her.”
His father’s expression curdled. The easy humor vanished, replaced by a look that could have cut a man down. Some things were known in whispers but never spoken aloud—his relationship with the Duchess, and the liberties he allowed her, chief among them.
“I told you before,” he said, his voice knife-sharp, “she has done her duty by our house. What about you, William? Are you here to neglect yours again?”
William’s jaw clenched. He had not meant to start this way, but that woman tested the last of his restraint. “Father, my concern is for the dukedom. Lady Henrietta is unfit for such a post. I will not marry her.”
“She is young,” the Duke allowed with a dismissive flick of ash, “but that only means you may shape her. She is already half in love with you. She will be easily handled.”
“It is not her age,” William answered tightly. “It is her very constitution. You must see she would leave us open to ridicule. I will not see our name debased.”
The Duke straightened, color rising. “A Bourbon, debasing our halls? By God, sir, you make my blood boil—and I was so very relaxed. Do you take me for a man to arrange matches in vain? You will marry her!”
“I am no maiden to be forced, and you know it.” William’s voice struck like steel. “I trusted your judgment, for I had beenat war and could not know who was the better match. But you chose a woman to suit your court intrigues, not the future of our bloodline. Her children will be shaped by her. What if the heir inherits her wits? I will not see our house ridiculed, nor our seat in the Lords held by fools.”
The Duke’s teeth clenched around the cigar. “I hand you the empire, and you spit on it.”
William’s mouth curved, but without mirth. “I have little stomach for your games at Court, Father. Influence takes other forms. I am a general, respected on my own right.”
The Duke searched his son’s face, saw the iron resolve in it. “And what am I to tell Lord Stratton?”
“Tell him we must wait a few years,” William said, sharp as a blade. “She needs them. Perhaps they will make her less silly.”
“How many years?” his father pressed, grasping at hope.
“Indefinitely.”
The word fell like a hammer. William turned and strode out, his steps thudding heavy on the rich carpets. The door slammed behind him, the smoke curling in the silence that followed.
Chapter 25
The days between Jane’s collapse and Christmas dragged like lead. William had sworn he would stay away—for her sake, for both their sakes. God knew, he had tried. But willpower was a poor defense against need. Each morning, his steps led him back to the one room in Westford Castle where he might catch her alone. The library.
There, beneath the tall windows and carved shelves, he lingered in silence. The fire crackled, casting amber light on the spines of books he did not read. His heart quickened at every soft footfall beyond the door, only to sink again when it passed him by.
She never came. At last, he began to suspect the truth: she was avoiding him. Slipping away whenever she heard his tread. Jane was resolute when she chose to be. If she had decided not to see him, then see her he would not.
And yet still he sought her. When the longing became unbearable, he went to the schoolroom instead.
Margaret squealed with glee at the sight of him, flinging herself into his arms. He laughed—lifted her high, spun her about until her curls flew and her shrieks of joy echoed off the walls. He sat with her through halting recitations of history and scripture, joined in her little games, arrayed toy soldiers into mock battles that made her giggle.
She was radiant. Blissful. Starved for affection, and he gave it gladly. But in truth, he did not return for the child.
It was the governess he came to see—the quiet figure at the table, her hands resting lightly on Margaret’s textbooks. She greeted him with perfect composure, eyes lowered to her work, voice steady as though he were no more than any visitor for her little charge.
The restraint gutted him. He caught every faint sign of change in her—the paleness, the way she pressed a hand to her side as if against some hidden pain, the looseness of her gowns. She seemed frailer, more distant. He told himself it was only fatigue, but doubt gnawed at him. Something was wrong, and she would not tell him what.
That distance was a wound he could not staunch. Once, he had believed her incapable of deceit. It was her mind—quick, unguarded, achingly sincere—that had set her apart. But she had secrets now. Perhaps she had given her trust to another man. Perhaps even her tenderness. Her sweet self. The thought sickened him.
And still, he could not stay away. Each hour near her was torment; each hour apart, worse. He had never known such punishment—to worship and doubt in the same breath, to crave what he no longer trusted. And every day, he came back again.
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