Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  No, she could not repay Dr. Inglebright or Lady Blackwood by sullying her name, her profession or the hospital.

  Standing up, Jane retrieved her basin of water and determinedly stepped back into the ward, resolute to rid her patient of his fever and survive the long night ahead without further thinking on how much she wanted to lie on top of him and feel him thrusting that beautiful phallus deep inside her.

  The tepid water trickled over his skin as Jane changed the cloth that she had folded on his forehead. His fever was higher, despite the hours of sitting at his bedside, bathing him.

  “I don’t understand it,” Richard mumbled behind her. “Where is this fever coming from?”

  “I do not know,” she whispered, worry clouding her thoughts. “He’s so strong and healthy, I don’t know why it holds him.”

  “He smelled of spirits when he arrived. Perhaps he is a chronic drinker. I’ve seen the fever in the gin addicts when they don’t have it.”

  Jane glanced at Matthew’s face, which was drawn tight. Occasionally he would frown, as if he was being plagued by dreams. Taking her fingers and dipping them in the basin, she brushed them over his cracked lips, while Richard continued to pace behind her, deep in thought.

  “Perhaps it is the head trauma that is causing it. The body’s natural response to pain and injury.”

  Jane did not respond. She knew no answer was necessary. This was Richard trying to solve a medical puzzle. Instead, she continued to bathe Matthew, studying the way his body felt taut with tension.

  “Don’t touch me,” he suddenly cried, and thrashed in the bed, his arms flaying wide, nearly hitting her in the head. “Jesus Christ, get off me.”

  He knocked her off the bed with a blow to her shoulder. With a thunk, she landed on the floor, and the ceramic basin smashed to bits around her.

  Richard ran to her and helped her up. “Are you cut?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” she muttered as she looked at her shaking hands then back at Matthew. “He rages with fever. He didn’t mean it.”

  Richard looked at her skeptically. “From now on I will assign another nurse to care for him.”

  “No!” The rebuttal was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Richard looked startled, then his gaze slipped past her shoulder to where Matthew lay still on the bed.

  “No?”

  Jane swallowed hard. She could not bear the thought of another woman sitting beside him. He was hers—her patient. The thought that perhaps he was already married or engaged did not enter her thoughts. For Jane, he was hers. It was the last remnant of growing up in the East End that still clung to her. She had grown up with nothing, not even a decent parent. As a result, anything that was hers, she held steadfastly on to with a selfish single-mindedness. Matthew was something she knew she had to keep hold of, if only for this night.

  “Very well, then, Jane. But only because you are my most skilled nurse, and he is a man of good breeding.”

  Jane nodded. “Have you any idea of his identity?”

  “My father thinks he knows. He’s gone to Mayfair tonight after learning a few things at his club this afternoon.”

  “I see.”

  “Well then, I will let you tend to him, but I will be back,” Richard murmured as he ran his palms down her shoulders. He squeezed her arms gently before leaving. He didn’t say anything to her, but the look in his eyes said it all. He knew. Somehow Richard had discovered her fascination with Matthew.

  Someone was touching him, but it was not that filthy lover in his past whose hands were covering his body. It was Jane. Amazing how he had the wherewithal to discern such a thing. Yet he knew it was not the other.

  The other one had come, though, for a visit in a dream. He loathed those dreams and the way his body felt after them. But it was Jane’s body here with him now.

  “Jane?” he asked, croaking through his dry lips and raw throat.

  “Here,” she whispered, “take a sip, slowly.”

  The cool water that slipped down his throat felt so good that he could not sip, but only gulp, despite her warnings. When he sat back, he felt weak and exhausted. He recalled what they had done, and the effects on his body still pleasantly lingered.

  “You must rest,” she ordered, her voice now cool and detached.

  “I have slept enough.”

  “Sleep is the body’s best medicine.”

  “No, Jane. You are the tonic I need.”

  Silence blanketed the room, and Matthew cursed himself for his loose tongue. He was not a talker, not unless he was cutting someone off at the knees, but tonight, with Jane, he couldn’t seem to hold his tongue, or hide the strange emotions that bubbled beneath his skin. In truth, he had no idea if he desired to or not. His brain knew he should lie in silence and leave her to her work. But his body cried out for her presence at his bedside, her voice in the quiet, her hands on his flesh. He refused to wonder if it was the fever provoking these thoughts, or some deeply hidden need he had never known that lurked within him. Neither reason mattered now, the only thing that mattered was getting Jane back close to him, drawing her into him.

  “Will you not sit with me?”

  “No. There are other patients who require care.” She brushed past him. He heard her stiff skirts brush the sheet and he reached out, grasping for anything that he could hold.

  “I wish I could see you,” he whispered. “Here, help me to, Jane.” He held his hand out in the air, waiting for her to take it.

  “Matthew,” she said in a voice full of pleading, “please don’t.”

  Despite his blindness he found her hand and pulled her down so that she was sitting beside him on the bed.

  “If you are in pain, or in need of something—”

  “I am in need of you.” Their fingers entwined and he ordered her to bring their hands to her face.

  “I don’t understand what this will prove.”

  “I want to paint you in my mind.”

  He found the soft curve of her chin, and traced his trembling fingertips over the downy skin. In his mind he saw unblemished peaches-and-cream skin. His fingertips skated over the bridge of her nose down to her lush mouth. She turned her head when he reached the corner of her lips. Despite his coaxing words, she held herself away from his touch.

  “Let me touch your mouth.”

  “No.” She tried to move away, but he held her to him and brought her forward, capturing her mouth with his. It was a soft, lingering kiss, just lips brushing, and his soul stirred.

  She pulled away, his lips kissing the air. “We can’t do this, Matthew.”

  “Why? Is there another?”

  “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

  He smiled and reached for her once again. “No, it really doesn’t.”

  “Matthew, stop.”

  “What color is your hair?”

  There was hesitation before she answered, “What does it matter what color it is?”

  “Because I want to know what color to visualize when I’m dreaming of you and your hair spilling over me.”

  “Please,” she whispered, “do not say such things.”

  “Why?” he asked, the fog from his fever lifting, giving increasing clarity to his thoughts. “Did I shame you by forcing your hand to pleasure me?”

  “You did not force me.”

  “But I did shame you?”

  The accusation hung heavy and he heard Jane leave the bed and walk to the corner of the room, her heels clicking against the floorboards.

  “Why do you run, Jane?”

  “I do not run.”

  “Aye, you do. Every time the rope that is wrapped between us pulls you closer to me, you pull away, untangling us.”

  “There is no us, Matthew. You’re confused. Febrile.”

  “There could be an us,” he replied, hating the desperation he suddenly felt flare in his breast. “Jane,” he whispered, “come away with me.”

  He knew he had caught her attention when he heard her movemen
ts stop altogether.

  “When I leave here, come with me. Let us explore this…this…whatever has brought us together. Let me paint you, pleasure you. Be my muse,” he added, tossing in anything that might persuade her to come to him.

  “Your muse?” she questioned.

  “Yes. I’ve done nothing but paint you in my mind with nothing but my fantasies. Let me see you with my own eyes. Let me paint my fantasies.”

  The door opened, and the sterile odor of Dr. Inglebright flowed around them. “Jane, the carriage is here. I ordered it ’round early. You’ve had a long night.”

  Hatred fused his thoughts. Was Jane the doctor’s lover? Wife? Bloody hell, he had not thought of her as anyone but his.

  “How very kind of you, Dr. Inglebright, but I will stay to finish my shift.”

  There was no feminine welcome in that tone. No gratitude, either.

  “I insist, Jane. There will be no argument.”

  “Very well,” she muttered, and Matthew heard the clicking of her heels on the floor once more. This time they belied her true thoughts. She was not happy to be ordered about by the good doctor.

  “Jane,” he called. “Sleep well. And you might do me the favor of reflecting on my offer.”

  The door swung shut, and Matthew sensed the doctor staring him down where he stood at the foot of the bed.

  “Lord Wallingford,” Inglebright growled, “you’ll be leaving us now, returning to your side of the city.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her?” he asked, feeling his heart sink back into the black depths of his chest.

  “Tell her what, that you’re a licentious rake who feeds off women and discards them when your amusement fades? Amusement, I have been told, that is rather dark, and decidedly not the sort of entertainment that Jane would find amusing.”

  Matthew growled, “Yes, why didn’t you tell her I’m a soulless bastard?”

  “Because it would have made you all the more attractive. Now then, my lord, your father has sent a carriage around to fetch you. The night men will make a litter for you—”

  “The hell they will. I will walk out of here on my own two feet if it’s the last damn thing I do. And the last thing you’re going to do, Dr. Inglebright, is give me Jane’s direction.”

  6

  “Lord Raeburn to see you, milord.”

  Matthew looked up from his easel and over to the paneled door where his aging butler peered at him with rheumy eyes. The man’s fingers, gnarled with arthritis, gripped the edge of the door as he pressed his frail frame against the wood for support. He really was going to have to see to pensioning off the old retainer, and soon by the looks of it.

  “You may send him in, Thomas.”

  “Very good, milord.”

  “I had to come and see for myself, days holed up in bed, and without anyone for company. It must be the end of the world.”

  Paintbrush poised in the air, Matthew arched his brow in annoyance as he watched Raeburn, breeze into his studio. “I am well, as you can see. Nothing untoward after my brush with death.”

  “I do see. Incredible the way you can reconstitute yourself. Are you certain you’re human and not a vampire?”

  Matthew grumbled and motioned to the settee by the window. “Trust me, I would need more than blood to sustain me. Just toss the papers onto the floor. I haven’t the heart to ask Thomas to clean up in here. He and the rest of the staff are working themselves ragged.”

  “Slave driver, are you?” Raeburn chuckled as he lowered his tall frame onto the settee. “Working them to the bone?”

  “Had my father not decided to cut back my living expenses by nearly twenty-five percent, I would not be forced to run my household on the barest-minimum requirements. Hence, the servants may thank my father. It is his fault they have had to work their fingers to the bone.”

  Raeburn grinned and gazed into the hearth. A small fire burned in the grate, dispelling the chill in the air from the rain that had not let up since midmorning. Odd, but Matthew had felt chilled since leaving London College Hospital a week ago. He had not been cold then, when he had Jane pressed against him. He could still feel the warmth of her body as he pressed against her breasts, still tasted her on his tongue, smelled her on his hand. He could hardly paint, so consumed was he by thoughts of her. He had relived that night with Jane over and over, and each time he marveled at how beautiful it had been.

  Damn Inglebright for refusing to divulge any information in regard to Jane or where she lived. And damn him for not giving up the idea of pursuing her. Already the day’s letter had been shipped off to the hospital. Another missive for Jane requesting that she come away with him. Anywhere. Just him and her and a place that was private, so he could fuck her senseless and purge her from his body and mind.

  “I was worried, you know, when I heard you had been ambushed in the East End. Nasty work, that.”

  “You, of all people, know that I have an exceedingly hard head. It would take much more than a few rookery ruffians to do me in.”

  “Still, I was worried.”

  “No need. I’ll still bear witness to your nuptials, if that is your concern.”

  Raeburn sent him a scathing glare. “I’m here because I care for you, damn you, not because I’m concerned I’ll need to find myself a new best man. Devil take it, Wallingford, you know I care.”

  Of course he did. Raeburn wore his emotions on his sleeve, unlike himself who buried emotions to the pit of his being. Feelings led to weakness and he never again was going to weaken. Despite that, he did love his friend, and acknowledged the sentiment with his usual hauteur and a deep grunt that Raeburn was able to interpret. Theirs was a long-standing friendship that no longer required words. And Matthew thanked the Fates that he still had such a friend in his life. Raeburn understood, and wisely chose a different tack for his visit.

  “You know, if this business of money has got you tied in knots, why not set your cap for an heiress?” Raeburn suggested as he continued to study the flickering flames. “It’s a simple enough option, and it’s all the rage, you know. The nouveau riche are clamoring for titles as illustrious as yours. What railway magnate’s daughter would not swoon for the opportunity to become a countess, not to mention a duchess? You could have your pick of them, you know. Your reputation could easily be swept under the carpet. No one would bat an eye once you made it clear you intended to actually do right by the girl. You could easily become the most sought-after bachelor, with your looks and your estates, and your other—” Raeburn waggled his brow “—sizable attributes.”

  “Sod off,” Matthew cursed, swiping his brush along the canvas while he ignored Raeburn’s taunting. ‘I’d rather become a damn eunuch than find myself married to some simpering, weeping girl.”

  “Get yourself a feisty American chit, one with a large dowry and a minx of a body. That should change your mind about spending the rest of your life living without your bullocks.”

  “Surely to God you have not traveled to Berkeley Square to talk to me of marriage.”

  “Well—” Raeburn shrugged as he tossed a pillow aside and stretched his booted feet out on the settee, lounging in negligent repose “—I did come to see you to make certain you were on the mend. Thomas told me you had the fever.”

  “I am recovered, as you can see.”

  “But still stewing over money.”

  “There is very little in my life to occupy my thoughts. Naturally it falls to money to become my fixation.”

  “Fucking used to be your fixation.”

  “What does your future wife think of your crudeness,” he snapped. “Does she find it as tiresome as I do?”

  Raeburn threw his head back and laughed. “I assure you, crudity has its place in the bedchamber. And while we’re talking of the fairer sex, I was introduced to an extraordinarily lovely young lady last night. I thought she might do very well for you. Beautiful face, quite perfect breasts, at least from what I could tell—I don’t really look, you know, as I’m ve
ry devoted to Anais. However, I could not help but notice—”

  “Stop.” Matthew held out his hand and glared at his friend. “I am not the least bit interested in meeting some young twit who cannot string two words together. Furthermore, I am not interested in virgins. Innocence is highly overrated and more often than not, feigned. Give me the jaded whore any day over a naive virgin. Give me a woman who can indulge her passion without blushes and remorse. If we’re exchanging currency for fucking, I’d rather do the buying instead of being the one sold off. It’s much more palatable to know I can toss a few pound notes on the bed and leave forever, than it is to fuck a wife, knowing she’s purchased your cock just for your title. I’ll not be bound like that—never.”

  “Christ, you’re so bloody cynical,” Raeburn grumbled. “Not every woman is the devil disguised behind a good set of tits.”

  Matthew arched his brow and peered at Raeburn over the top of his easel. “I’ve yet to meet one that is an angel.”

  But that was not entirely true. He did not think of Jane as he did all the other women who had come and gone in his life. She was not made of the same stamp as the women he had taken to his bed.

  “Right, then, since a rational discussion of marriage seems to be out of the question, let us talk of something else.” Raeburn inclined his head to the easel. “What are you painting, now that your masterpiece is completed?”

  “Nothing, really.” Matthew looked at the portrait he was just starting. Pale lines lay in contrast against the vanilla-colored canvas. It was the shape of a woman, all soft curves. She was reposed on a lounge, naked, her fingers tangling in her blond hair. She was faceless. Frowning, he realized he had painted Jane without even thinking.

  Raeburn cocked his brow and studied him. “You’re in fine fettle this morning. Up a bit too early, or is it you’ve gotten to bed too late?”

  Matthew ignored him and proceeded to close the lids on his ink pots.

  “Damn me, man, you are not yourself. You’ve become as dull as a vicar’s wife. It is not like you to not have gotten into some sort of illicit scrape with a lord’s wife or infamous actress. Or perhaps you’ve managed to seduce a maid who was taking care of you on your sickbed?”