Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “No…no scrapes.”

  “What of the famous Lady Burroughs? How goes your pursuit of her?”

  Christ, he had not thought of her in a week. Not since Jane had entered his life.

  “Word is that the young countess is looking for someone to warm her bed. Her husband seems incapable of pleasing her. I’m quite certain, from what I’ve heard from your past paramours, that you are more than up to the challenge of pleasing Lady Burroughs.”

  “You’re remarkably well informed in the latest gossip.”

  Raeburn shrugged and crossed his legs. “I had not stepped foot in Lord Halifax’s ballroom last night for more than five minutes before I was inundated with gossip and questions.”

  “Tell them all to go to hell, that’s what I usually say.”

  Raeburn shrugged off his rebuttal. “Has your father come to you yet, about the portrait and auction?”

  “No.”

  “I wonder what the duke will say when he finds out about it?”

  “With any luck, this one might finally kill the old bastard.”

  There was no love lost between him and his father. In fact, he rather relished the confrontation that would ensue when the news of his auctioning off of a scandalous piece of art reached his father. He smiled, thinking of the blows they would come to.

  Served the pompous bastard right for systematically denying him of his rightful income. Bloody hell, the man had no right to do such a thing. He was the heir. He’d been reminded of that fact more times than he could count. Well, damn him, didn’t the heir deserve more than what his father was currently having his solicitor pay him?

  Bugger the old bastard. He had found another way to pay for his art gallery. If it was not going to come from respectable money, it could damn well come from another source. Yes, let the bastard come to him after learning of his latest scandal. What was another one in a long list of outrageous behavior? Scandal was his way of life. He was completely and utterly immune to shame and the whispers behind his back. He was a ne’er-do-well and a muff chaser. He cared for no one but himself. Everyone knew that.

  But does Jane? Did Jane know of his true reputation, or was she blissfully unaware? A little niggling of hope entered his breast that she did not know him.

  “Has some hussy bit off your tongue?” Raeburn said on a laugh. “Bloody hell, man, what the devil is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” he said with a scowl.

  “Nothing? Good God, you’ve taking up woolgathering, you haven’t bedded a lord’s wife in God knows how long and you’ve been relatively scandal free for days. And don’t bother to deny it.”

  “I’ve been occupied.”

  “With what?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “Ah, a woman, then. Tell me, is it the lovely countess? Have you succeeded in getting her into your bed?”

  “Go to hell, Raeburn.”

  But his friend only smiled. “Oh, come now, Wallingford, pray do not play the gentleman now. You’ve never been one to keep your exploits to yourself—” Raeburn halted midsentence and watched him thoughtfully, a sly grin suddenly parting his lips. “Don’t tell me that the infamously debauched Lord Wallingford has found a woman he would actually like to talk to, as well as fuck. Christ, is the world coming to an end? I never thought to see the day that you—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Raeburn,” Matthew growled as he leaped up from his chair and prowled about the room. “My notion of the proper woman has not changed since you decided to get married. My concept of a proper woman is still one who raises her skirts, spreads her legs and lets me have my way with her, then puts up little fuss when I leave her without a backward glance.”

  A thought of Jane flashed through his mind, and he felt ill. This was something he didn’t want with her, the coldness, the distance.

  Jane. Lovely, mysterious Jane. Jane, whose body was full and curved beneath her plain woolen gown. Jane, whose voice alone made him shiver in longing.

  Bloody hell, he was a man possessed. A man obsessed. Never had his need to know a woman been this strong. The only needs he had ever had in regard to women were sexual. He never really talked with women, unless of course it was in double entendres and sexual innuendos. And yet, he craved Jane’s company. He yearned to be with her, sitting beside her. He needed to know her—all of her. He wanted her carnally. Emotionally. Spiritually.

  It didn’t make sense, she was just a woman. Weren’t they all the same? Yet somehow he knew she was different from all the others. Somehow he knew she was forbidden. Forbidden to be tainted by someone as debauched and amoral as himself. But damn him, he could not resist this temptation—this woman who made him yearn. Made him dream. Made him hope.

  Christ, it was dangerous to hope.

  It was dangerous to feel alive.

  “Are you ill?” Raeburn asked once more.

  “Quite possibly,” he muttered.

  Alive…. hope…he hadn’t felt those things since he was a ten-year-old boy. He should have been frightened, terrified by the whole damnable idea. However, he was not. He welcomed the feeling, hoping that this afternoon would bring Jane’s reply to him.

  She was going to go to him. Jane could hardly countenance such a thing, but here she was, standing at the iron gate of the hospital, waiting in the drizzle beneath a black umbrella, sporting her finest cloak and reticule. She wore a bonnet and veil, shielding her identity from any passerby. From Matthew.

  This was only for a few hours, she reminded herself. A few hours of indulgence. Today was her regular afternoon off, and tonight she was not scheduled at the hospital. These few hours were hers to do what she desired, and what she wanted was to see Matthew once again.

  Jane was nervous. She could hardly breathe as each carriage passed her by, wondering if it would be the one to stop before her. It had only been a week since she had seen him, yet if felt like a month. Nervous butterflies made her insides quiver—with dread, or anticipation, she could not tell.

  Perhaps she was making a mistake, agreeing to meet him. What if he didn’t come? What if he saw her standing there in the drizzling rain and thought her someone else? What if, she finally admitted, he found her lacking? That was the crux of her uneasiness, she finally admitted. She was afraid to see him. It was one thing to carry on when he could not see her, quite another when he was able to see her. He had painted her in his mind, he had said. She doubted the image had been of a red-haired spinster who sported spectacles and a top lip that had been scarred from the back of a man’s hand. No, he had seen her as a beauty. He had elevated her to the status of a goddess in his mind and she knew it was lie. She was not a goddess. Plain was the most honest description of her.

  Her gloved hands fidgeted against the handle of her bag as the drizzle changed to raindrops, which began to fall earnestly above her head. What was she doing here? she questioned. She took a step to leave, when a large black town coach, led by four gray horses stopped at the sidewalk. Raising her head, she took in the gleaming black exterior and the shining gold accents. A lump formed in her throat. He really was rich, she reminded herself, and so far removed from her humble upbringing. They had little to offer each other, except the pleasures of their bodies. Nothing could come of this, and Jane did not know whether to feel satisfied or saddened by the notion.

  “His lordship awaits inside,” the coachman said from his perch. As if on cue, the door opened, revealing black velvet squabs on the door. The interior was gently lit by tiny oil lamps. Shadows played deep in the interior, and Jane nearly ran, frightened like a silly little pea wit.

  The wind gusted, sending the flame of one lamp sputtering, then dying as a large shadow moved across the width of the carriage. It was followed by the appearance of a black boot. With a swift movement, the stairs unraveled with a clang, and his lordship appeared.

  Jane could not breathe. She felt her pulse beating frantically through her throat. She could not look up at him, despite knowing the heavy black vei
ls concealed her face. She was out of her league here, unsure of how to proceed. She did not like the feeling, nor did she like feeling at the mercy of a man and her carnal appetites. Her mother had lost herself to a man, and Jane refused to follow that path.

  Standing alone on the sidewalk, she felt small and unsure, afraid. Part of her wanted to walk away, another part wanted to run to him and throw herself into his arms for safekeeping.

  Seconds of indecision went by in which Jane thought a hundred different things. It was only when he held out his hand to her, waiting patiently for her to come to him as the rainwater ran off the brim of his hat, that Jane had the absurd sense that somehow everything would be all right. He would make it right. She trusted him. Believed in him, even though she knew nothing about him. His name was Matthew, and he was a painter. If he was a lord or baron, he had not disclosed that information in his letters. To her he was simply Matthew. They were two people standing on the sidewalk, in the rain, waiting to discover one another. The only question left to be answered was, who Jane was. Was she an independent woman who yearned to discover pleasure in this man’s arms, or was she the shy woman, allowing her fears to rule her, and to rob her of this once-in-a-lifetime chance?

  She didn’t know. In that second, both women ruled her. Both sought to control her. There was only one thing that Jane knew for certain. If she entered that carriage with him her world would never look the same. It would be different. She would be different. She didn’t know if she could bear it, not knowing who she was. She was used to her world, yet she hungered for the smallest glimpse of the world that Matthew could show her.

  She only had to reach out to grasp it. To take his hand and allow herself to be taken to a place she had never thought she would discover.

  7

  Matthew’s gaze burned into her, memorizing everything about Jane, standing alone on the sidewalk waiting for him. She wore a gray mantelet that was plain and unadorned. Her gloved fingers trembled nervously against the wooden handles of her purse, and he ached to soothe her fears, yet he could not think of moving as he catalogued the way the skirt of her gown fitted over her hips and thighs, the unadorned train trailing out behind her, allowing him to study the contours of her figure. Of its own volition, his gaze slowly caressed her belly and breasts, which were hidden from him beneath the mantelet, till it rested on the black veil that concealed her face.

  Damn it, his hands were shaking. He was nervous, strange for a man whose life was filled with nothing but clandestine meetings and couplings. But something told him that this meeting was going to be different. Jane was different.

  Ignoring the strange tremors, he extended his hand to her. “Come to me.”

  With a moment’s hesitation, she glanced behind her at the filthy windows of the hospital, as if seeking permission. He half wondered if Inglebright was in there, watching from behind a curtain. But he forgot all about the doctor when she began to slowly walk to him. The few steps it took seemed to take forever. He hungered for her, for the feel of her in his arms. Swallowing hard, he reined in the mad urge to cross the remaining distance between them and crush her to him. But he couldn’t do such a thing. No, he had wanted this, to watch her coming to him, offering herself to him of her own free will.

  Their fingertips touched and he felt as though he’d been punched in the middle. As their fingers entwined, he felt something that was at once welcoming yet terrifying. Looking down at their locked hands, he realized it was a sense of…completion. Instinct told him to block the feeling. But then she spoke, her voice causing a warmth to spread throughout his body.

  “I almost didn’t come this afternoon.”

  Instinct be damned. His past and who he was need not intrude here, not with Jane. He was only Matthew with her, not the scandalous Earl of Wallingford, not the libertine society knew him to be.

  Pulling her close, he removed her glove then raised their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh above her thumb. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the scent of them together—hers the clean, pure scent of soap and his, the warmth of eastern spice. Together, it was an erotic, heady scent that went straight to his head.

  “I…I…” She swallowed and looked away. “I’m not sure—”

  “Let me come to you, Jane,” he said, unable to stop himself from pressing his lips against her hand once more. Opening his eyes, he looked down into her upturned face and saw the flash of what looked like green eyes watching him carefully from beneath the veil. “No questions, Jane. I will take only what you are willing to give me.”

  He watched the line of her throat move up and down as she swallowed hard. He trailed his fingers along that smooth skin and felt how fast her heart was beating for him.

  “Come to me, Jane,” he murmured, pulling her closer. “My carriage is waiting. It’s waiting for you. I’m waiting for you.”

  Her breath caught, and the sound wreaked havoc within him. Nodding, she took a tentative step closer and allowed him to guide her around a large puddle, then to his waiting carriage. Bowing her head, she concealed herself from the coachman who sat as still as a statue on the box, his gaze never straying from whatever object he was staring at straight ahead of him. Inside, the shades had been drawn, and once Matthew closed the carriage door behind him, the lamp blew out, making the interior black as pitch.

  With a rap of his walking stick, the carriage lurched into motion. It was so dark, so unnaturally quiet, that he swore he could hear Jane’s heart beating from deep within her chest. He could smell her—soap and feminine arousal—and his cock stirred, hungry to be inside her.

  “You said you almost did not come today. Why?” he asked, feeling a burning in his chest as he awaited her answer.

  “There is much risk for me. My job at the hospital. My name.” She swallowed hard, he heard it in the quiet, along with her fidgeting fingers.

  “That is the reason for the veil.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you regret it now, Jane, coming to me?”

  “I do not know,” she said in a hushed breath.

  “Come,” he whispered, reaching for her, knowing exactly where she sat, and wrapped his hands around her waist, bringing her forward so that she was sitting beside him. He reached up, his fingers resting against the veil, and her breathing stilled. “Do not be afraid,” he said as he lifted the veil from her face and reached for the satin ties of her bonnet strings. “I will take such good care of you, Jane. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  Taking her bonnet in his hands, he reached across the carriage and placed it atop the opposite bench. Then he twisted his body so that he was pressed up against hers, and he turned his gaze to hers, unable to see anything—only hear and smell and feel—and lowered his mouth to her forehead, kissing her softly, reverently. His lips brushed her skin and hair and he could not help but glide his fingertips along the sweet curves of her face, tracing her, memorizing her, imagining her. Christ, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything, and that included his art gallery. What madness had she inspired in him? He had never felt this way before, this need to connect so deeply with another.

  He wanted to share things with Jane: his body, his heart, the secrets he kept locked inside his withering soul. She took a ragged breath, and he felt her body tremble against his arms, shattering his control.

  His mouth found her pulse above the lace she had tied around her throat. Its frantic, fluttering beat caressed his lips, and he sat there, feeling her heart beating against him.

  “Jane,” he said softly as he removed the strip of lace and tucked it into his pocket, “come to me. Give yourself to me—only me. Let us share this…this passion that has consumed us. Say yes, Jane,” he murmured as he began to gently suck the tender, supple flesh of her throat. “One word, Jane…yes.”

  Her heart was racing at a dangerous pace. Jane felt the pulsations bounding in her throat, felt the tightening of her bodice against her breasts. Her breathing was coming in short, sharp pants as h
er body, which was no longer her own, trembled like that of a newborn fawn.

  She could not hide her response to him. She had not expected this so soon, nor had she thought to allow him to remove her veil. But it was shadowy, the afternoon grew late, and with the black clouds and the rain, it was dark. With the blinds closed it was like midnight in the carriage.

  An absurd sense of relief flooded her. She had removed her spectacles while she waited for him to come to her, and in the dark, she could be the kind of woman he desired. The kind of woman she had fleetingly wished she was.

  As his lips and tongue blazed a path down her neck, and his hands began to search her body, Jane was stunned by the thought that it was all really happening. Although she had thought of him nonstop this past week, and dreamed of him, she had thought never to see him again. But it was true. She was here with him. His hands truly were on her flesh. It was really his breathing she heard, his lips she felt kissing her cheek. She felt the heat of his gaze travel lower, away from her face, and fix on the bounding pulse in her throat. She knew she was right about that heated gaze when he reached out to put his fingertip to her neck. Pressing toward her, he inhaled once, softly, almost imperceptibly, then again, deeper. The leather squabs creaked as his body shifted, and Jane felt her own body grow limp and warm as he pressed his face against her. Then his lips were brushing against the quivering pulse that leaped with his touch. A deep sound resonated in his chest.

  “I thought to talk with you, Jane, to woo you, but I have no skill at it. I haven’t the words to make polite conversation. Need has robbed me of speech. I need you, Jane,” he said in a dark, fevered whisper.

  She didn’t want to talk. She wanted him to touch her, to make her feel the way he had that night when he had bared her breasts and touched them. Besides, she didn’t trust herself to speak.