Page 51 of A Mind of Her Own
She turned, meeting his eyes through a shimmer of sorrow—broken and shining. “If not her, then someone else,” she said, barely audible.
The words cut deeper than steel. She was right. But she had never minded before. Why now? What had changed?
He stared at her, stricken. Her collapse, her trembling weakness—it terrified him. Whatever ailed her, he was sure it was his doing. He should never have touched her. Never allowed this.
Disgusted with himself, he wrenched upright and crossed the room in two strides. The latch rattled as he pulled the door closed behind him—hard enough that the sound echoed long in the stillness.
He did not look back. To do so would undo him. Her broken whisper clung to him through the long hours that followed, driving him at last to drink.
* * *
William had drowned his fear in brandy the night before. It dulled the edge of panic, steadied his resolve. He would not tie their line to a silly, awkward girl who could barely command her lady’s maid, let alone a household, let alone London society. By morning his mind was clear. His course fixed. He would tell his father so.
The corridors of Westford Castle stretched long and echoing, portraits of grim ancestors watching as he passed. Each step toward the east wing and his father’s study steeled him further, their painted eyes seeming to weigh him, to demand he not falter. The dukedom could not be handed to fools.
The study lay at the end of the passage, its oak doors gleaming with polish. He was halfway to pushing them open when they swung wide from within. The Duchess stepped out, silks rustling, a look of welcome already waiting for him.
“William,” she breathed, her voice warm as honey. A curl had slipped loose from her coiffure; her lips were a shade too red. Beneath the heavy sweetness of her perfume lingered a note less easily dismissed—a musky trace not her own. She smoothed her bodice with languid fingers, her smile deliberate, assessing. “How fortunate. I was just with your father.”
Her gaze rested on him, gleaming. “You look as though you mean to do battle. I dare say you’ll find him more… malleable now.”
He inclined his head stiffly. “I intend only to speak with him.”
She moved closer, far too close. The air about her was heavy—the warm, earthy scent of recent pleasure clinging to her skin. “Ah. About Lady Henrietta Stratton, no doubt. So now you know what it is to marry at another’s bidding. It stings, does it not? To have your fate decided for you.”
The smell hit him; his jaw tightened, his body recoiling before he mastered it. He said nothing. She only chuckled, dark and knowing.
“At least,” she went on lightly, “I was fortunate in my match. Your father was most attentive—and a fine teacher in the arts of love. They say I’m incomparable. I suppose I owe him for that.” She gave a low, amused laugh. “Of course, I was a delight to teach. That cannot be said of your future bride.”
William’s mouth curved, but without warmth. “I should hope not, Your Grace. My future bride will be nothing like you.”
Her gloved hand came to rest lightly on his chest, a touch so casual it was almost intimate. “Do not think him ignorant. If he wished to forbid me, he could. He does not. He profits. I pass him whispers from beds where other men speak freely. Doors open for me. Houses bow to me. You must know, William—your father enjoys the arrangement.” Her fingers drifted lower, hovering just above his manhood.
He caught her wrist before she could move farther, his grip firm but controlled. Their eyes locked. “You would do better to stop,” he said quietly.
She only arched a brow, with teasing promise. “When you are duke, perhaps you’ll think differently. Why chase courtesans when comfort waits beneath your own roof? I could be convenient—more than convenient. We might be of use to one another. A man of your consequence need not be ruled by scruples. You could take what you want. What I offer.” She leaned in, her breath hot at his ear. “Even now.”
For a heartbeat, he studied her—beauty polished to its peak, poise unshakable, corruption disguised as grace. Compared with Lady Henrietta’s simpering, she was almost formidable. But it wasn’t the Stratton girl who came to mind.
It was Jane. Pale and trembling, her body too light in his arms. Jane, who had once seemed the opposite of this woman—unguarded, sincere. And yet… she had lied. She had let Beaufort in. Let him believe he mattered, while all the while—
He shut the thought down before it could finish. The Duchess’s sins were vulgar and obvious. Jane’s had slipped under his skin, quiet and soft, like trust. And somehow, that hurt worse. And still she haunted him.
His grip on the Duchess’s wrist tightened a fraction. “When my father is gone and I am duke, I will not offer you a liaison. I will offer you an estate in Scotland, where the sun seldom shines and the earth never dries. I’ll send you where even the Romans refused to go. Make use of your ‘connections’ as you please.”
For the first time her mask slipped. The smile faltered, her eyes flashing with something raw—anger, perhaps fear—before the armor slid back into place.
“Banish me if you will,” she murmured, lips curling. “But remember, my lord—men speak freely in my bed. Some of what I know could warm even a Scottish winter.”
William released her hand as though she were something foul, then stepped past her, pushing open the study door without a glance.
* * *
The oak doors closed behind him with a heavy click, shutting out the Duchess—but not her scent. The study reeked: burned pine, fresh cigar smoke, and beneath it, the musky remnants of what had just transpired.
The Duke sprawled behind his desk, waistcoat askew, shirt half-unbuttoned, the flush of exertion still fading from his throat. His chin caught the light, slick with the sheen of recent pleasure. He looked utterly smug and sated.
William halted, shoulders taut, blood hot with disgust. It wasn't the act that sickened him, but the ease. His father still took her—without hesitation, without shame. As if she weren’t the same woman who offered herself to any man she found useful. For power. For pleasure. Or any blend of the two. That abundance, taken like any other indulgence, galled him most.
