Page 55 of A Mind of Her Own
Jane lay quiet, her hand resting lightly over the slight swell of her stomach. Her heart thudded slow and steady. She had meant to wake William before the servants were about. But sleep had held her longer than she intended, and the sky was already pale with dawn.
He stirred behind her. The shift of his body was unmistakable. His lips brushed the nape of her neck.
“You should go,” she whispered.
His voice came low, rough with sleep. “No. Not yet.”
She closed her eyes. For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind outside. Then he shifted, propped himself up beside her, and his hand slid to her waist. The touch was reverent, lingering.
“I know I could never have given you what you deserve,” he said, bitterness threading the words—but he bit back the rest. “You were right to remind me of my duty. The dukedom must have its duchess.” His fingers brushed her bare shoulder. “But until that comes to pass… do not ask me to be parted from you.”
She stilled.
“I will leave for London in January. My father expects it. And no doubt the Strattons will be making noise about insult.” His tone turned flat. “Let them. I need time to think. To put distance between myself and this farce. But until then… let me have you. Do not deny me this.”
She turned her face toward him, but did not speak. The question she longed to ask—Do you still think me false?—caught in her throat and withered. She feared his answer, and she was too worn for a quarrel. Her own future loomed too bleak, and she needed these stolen moments—needed to lose herself in the sheer pleasure they shared.
Instead, she pressed her mouth to the hollow of his neck. The gesture was almost chaste. He kissed her in return—lightly at first, then deeper. Soon they were tangled in silence again, dawn brushing the bare curve of his spine, their bodies moving with the slow ache of passion and sorrow entwined.
* * *
The days that followed blurred into a haze of heat and unspoken confessions. Sometimes he came to her at night, wordless as prayer, his need in the press of his hands, the warmth of his lips. Other times, it was in the stolen quiet of early morning—his shirt half-buttoned, sleep still clinging to him. She never asked when he would come, and he never asked what shadows haunted her. What bound them now was not affection, nor trust, but hunger—and the terrible knowledge that their time was running out.
Yet for all their closeness, the secret she carried grew heavier by the day. Once, as the logs crackled in the hearth of her room, she let him undress her by the fire. He knelt before her first, reverent, his fingers slow as they bared her inch by inch—until her shift fell away and she stood naked in the flickering light. Then she climbed into his lap, straddling him where he sat in the deep-backed chair she used for reading.
Her full breasts swayed in front of his eyes, flushed from heat, from arousal, from the weight they now carried. He stared, transfixed, and took one into his mouth with aching slowness. Her cry caught in her throat. Swollen and aching, her nipples responded to the burn of his lips, her hips shifting with restless need.
He gripped her waist and she began to move over him, slow and deep, rocking her body so that he nearly slipped free with each pass before she took him in again. And as she rode him, her belly brushed his abdomen—no longer soft, but firm, unmistakable to her. With every motion it was there between them: that subtle, hard swell. That silent truth. But if he noticed, he gave no sign.
Afterward, they lay in her bed, her back to his chest. He cradled her in his arms, one hand falling low across her stomach. A tremor ran through her.He must feel it, she thought wildly.Surely now—surely he knows. But he only kissed her brow and said nothing. She told herself she would speak soon. Just not tonight.
Another time, he entered her chambers late at night, rain still in his hair, his coat unbuttoned, boots damp from the stables. Without a word, he crossed the room in three long strides and hauled her against him as though starved for her.
She had been writing—an essay on Byron, at Charlotte’s urging, the pages scattered across her desk. But whatever thoughts she’d been shaping vanished as he swept everything aside, clearing the space without so much as a glance.
Then he lifted her—gripped her thighs and dragged her onto the edge of the desk like a man past reason. Her books thudded to the floor, unheeded. Her ink pot toppled, rolled away, leaking black across the rug.
“I need you,” he muttered hoarsely as he pushed up her skirts and found her already slick and ready.
She gasped as he thrust into her standing, his grip firm on her thighs, his breath hot and ragged at her ear. Her head fell back, her palms scrambling for purchase on the desk beneath her, surrendering utterly as he drove into her—hard, hungry, relentless.
The storm lashed the windows, wind moaning through the cracks. But all she felt was him—his body tight with need, his jaw clenched, every motion desperate, as though this alone might hold the world at bay.
Later, as he tucked her beneath the covers, she almost told him. Her hand found his, guiding him to the curve that had begun to round more plainly. He stilled. But he only kissed her deeply, and whispered, “You grow more beautiful each day.”
The words should have comforted her. Instead, they settled in her chest, heavy as stones.
The next morning, she sat by the fire, alone, wrapped in her shawl with her book unopened in her lap. A letter lay half-written beside her—ink drying on the name Robert Bailey, Southampton. She had begun it three times already and torn up each draft. Now she started again.
Dear Uncle Robert,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that the shipping season has brought good trade. You must know I am still in service at Westford Castle, but I find now I must leave it soon. I would not impose, but I wonder if Southampton might offer a place for a woman fallen out of grace...
She stared at the line and set her pen down. It was not only fear that stopped her. It was shame. Shame—not for his touch that she still craved, or the nights she gave herself freely—but for what she must now confess. That she was no longer respectable.That she would soon be turned out in disgrace. That she had nowhere else to turn.
And shame, too, that in the darkest hours of night, she imagined what might have been—had she not been a governess in the Duke’s household, but William’s equal. She knew it was folly. But still, the thought clung.
How long could she go on like this? The dresses she wore still fit—the empire waist forgiving enough. Perhaps she had a couple more months before anyone suspected, perhaps longer. But her stays grew more uncomfortable by the day. They wrapped snug beneath her bust, the boning pressing against her ribs until she could scarcely draw air. She had begun lacing more loosely, careful to disguise the change. Even the linen of her shift chafed against her tender skin.
