Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  Matthew promptly choked. “Surely you jest at my expense?”

  “She is one of Anais’s closest friends,” Raeburn said with a grin. “I wouldn’t jest about such a thing.”

  “Christ, Anais could have at least chosen a pretty friend, if for nothing else but for my sake,” he grumbled as he watched her fall into step beside Lady Blackwood. “What should I know about the woman?” he asked. “Will she converse, or will making conversation with her be as torturous as having my eyelashes plucked out one by one?”

  Raeburn chuckled. “I find her rather a delight, if you must know. Well versed on many topics, and full of opinions—which, of course, should amuse you.”

  “Of course, because my notion of a delightful woman is one who sprouts opinions,” he muttered sardonically.

  “Lady Blackwood and Anais treat her as though she were a part of their family. So perhaps you might think of her as Anais’s cousin who is tainted by scandal. Lady Blackwood is a divorced woman, you know.”

  “Christ,” he mumbled as he watched the pair make their way up the gravel, to the steps that led to the house.

  “Take comfort, old boy. If anyone takes delight in scandal, you do. You’ll make a good job of creating one. I know you will. You’ll give that drab little peahen a day of excitement.”

  “What is the peahen’s full name?”

  Raeburn glanced at him. “Jane Rankin.”

  The hair on Mathew’s nape rose and he glanced down at the woman, watching her disappear beneath the window. It couldn’t be…

  Jane was an immensely popular name, especially amongst the working classes. It was merely a coincidence they were both named Jane. She was not his Jane. Impossible.

  “You could have told me!” Jane snapped as she smoothed the long silk train of Anais’s wedding gown.

  “I had no idea you would be offended by the matter.”

  “No idea? Ha! The man is a misogynist. He uses women and throws them away like last week’s rubbish. To think I shall have to stand up with such a man.” Oh, God, Jane silently added. What if he remembered her from the sidewalk, when she’d ground her boot into his pound note?

  “He is Raeburn’s dearest friend.”

  “Your intended ought to know better than to pick friends of such dubious reputations.” What would she say if he did recall their meeting? Worse, what if he thought she was his Jane. She was, of course, but she couldn’t let him know that. Thank God the shame of being broke had kept her and Lady Blackwood silent about her working as a nurse. No one but the two of them knew. If Wallingford took it into his head to ask questions, everyone would deny that Jane was anything but a companion.

  “You should have voiced your complaints last night, Jane, when you first arrived.”

  “I did, if you will but remember. You chose to ignore my concerns.”

  Anais met Jane’s gaze in the cheval mirror. “You aren’t backing out now, are you? I am getting married in three hours and there is no other friend in the world I want witnessing this day than you.”

  “Of course not,” Jane said with a sigh. “Forgive me, it’s just that…well…oh, it’s nothing. You look stunning, Anais.”

  Anais laughed and reached for Jane’s hands. “Thank you, but you aren’t getting off the hook so easily. Tell me, why does Wallingford offend you so? Well, beside the obvious fact he’s a womanizer?”

  “He trifles with women and their feelings and he hurts them unbearably.”

  “Does he? I am not so sure about that. I think the women that choose to be with him know exactly what they are getting. A night of pleasure and a cold spot in bed come morning.”

  “No, he trifles with them. He makes them feel special and wanted and desired, and then he cruelly takes those hopes away from them.”

  Anais looked at her curiously. “Do you know someone who has personally suffered such treatment by him?”

  Jane looked away and started plucking at the orange blossoms that lay between the tiers of lace on Anais’s crinoline skirt. “I know of someone. Naturally her name must be kept in confidence.”

  “Naturally,” Anais murmured. “Jane, is something wrong? You are not yourself—”

  “A long journey, I am afraid,” Jane said, cutting off Anais. “And more than a bit of excitement. I am so happy for you that you are finally marrying your knight in shining armor.”

  “Well, he is a bit tarnished, you know.”

  “All the more interesting when they come a bit dented and tarnished. Isn’t that what you used to say?”

  “I did.”

  “You are perfect,” Jane whispered as she stepped back and took in the sight of her best friend in her wedding gown. “Your knight is going to fall to his knees when he sees you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so,” Jane said with a smile. “Now then, I have one thing left to do before we leave for the church.”

  “And that is?”

  “I have to confront the devil himself. Wish me luck.”

  “He’s really a romantic, you know,” Anais called as Jane reached for the door. “Look beneath the brashness and you will see a completely different man.”

  “And see what?” Jane asked. “A heartless, black soul?”

  “A bleeding one, I think.”

  “Nonsense, to bleed means that you have a heart and blood in your body. Wallingford has ice in his veins and a mechanical device in place of a pulsating heart. He is an amoral, unfeeling rogue.”

  And with that, she closed the door in search of her prey. What she was going to say when she found him was something else entirely, and what she was going to do if the lecher had a decent memory and recalled that it had been her standing on the sidewalk was something she did not want to contemplate. But she had to do this before the wedding. She owed it to Anais not to cause a scene.

  She found him on the terrace, his black hair shining nearly blue in the brilliant midmorning sunlight. His face was cleanly shaven and devoid of the cumbersome sideburns most men favored. It was strange that a man who was clearly a leader in society was markedly out of step with the current fashions. His tailoring was cut elegantly, and his choice of fabrics was expensive but simple. He shunned the fashion for facial hair and bushy sideburns, and kept his hair neatly trimmed.

  A frisson of physical awareness rushed through her as she watched his large hand rake through his silky hair. That hand had once caressed her so softly, so passionately. But that was another time. He had been a different person there with her, and to some extent, she had not been herself, either.

  It was those moments at the hospital that continued to plague her. She told herself those memories were nothing but a foggy dream of a faraway time and place. Little remained of that dream now, save for the familiar tremors of yearning that slithered along her nerves whenever her gaze strayed to him.

  A beautiful dark angel, she mused, with a black, fathomless soul.

  “Lady Burroughs,” he murmured seductively as a figure in silk sauntered toward him. “Good morning.”

  Jane froze, her breath trapped in her lungs. What was this? Her mind buzzed with the possibilities and her heart constricted traitorously in her breast. How easy it was for endearments to drip from his tongue. How blasted simple it was for him to insert different women without a care or a thought. Had he even given her—Jane—a parting thought? Had he gone to the hospital to try to see her? Had he been upset when she had not returned? Not bloody likely, she thought venomously. He hadn’t cared a fig for Jane—for her.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Wallingford. What a delightful surprise to find you standing here on the terrace—and all alone,” Lady Burroughs said silkily.

  “Surprise?” he purred, and Jane could see that he was leering down the bodice of Lady Burroughs’s gown—a bodice that was nothing but a thin-as-water scrap of fabric. “I think not, my lady. This was as calculated a plot as ever I’ve seen.”

  “All right,” she said huskily, stepping closer to him so that the s
liver of daylight between them was snuffed out when Lady Burroughs’s blue gown caressed Wallingford’s silver waistcoat. “I admit I followed you out here. There, does that please you?”

  “It’s always pleasing to me when a lady comes to heel,” he said with a slow grin.

  Jane bit her lip—hard. There was nothing more she wanted to do than reveal herself and rail at him for being such a sexist prig. And good God, was that twittering she heard? She glanced at Lady Burroughs’s expression, which should have been one of shock and outrage, and instead found her eyes to be glowing and her mouth pouting in obvious invitation. Outrageous! Lady Burroughs was a new bride of not quite three months!

  “And what will you do with me, my beautiful lord, when I come and lay myself down at your boots?”

  “Chain you there,” he said without a second’s hesitation.

  “Now?” she asked, drawing her index finger down his chest.

  “Afraid not,” he replied, straightening from her and brushing a speck of lint from the sleeve of his jacket. “All the duties of the best man, you know. Unless, of course, you want to meet me in the vestry later for a little unchristian diversion.”

  “My lord,” she said with a husky purr as she brushed her bosom up against him, “you’re utterly scandalous. I can barely wait for a lesson from Genesis.”

  “The original sin, we could re-create it here, with a dry hump against the wall if you’d like.”

  “Dry?” she said, arching her brow while she reached for his hand and drew him toward her. “Why, I’m positively dripping for you.”

  Unable to stop herself, Jane let out an inelegant snort. Was Lady Burroughs deranged? Did the countess hear the same foolish nonsense she heard? Why, she was offering herself on a platter to the man. He’d barely even looked at her and yet Lady Burroughs was prepared to do anything to have him.

  It was too shameful for words, a member of her own sex lowering herself to please the wishes and indulge the whim of such a man as Lord Wallingford. Good heavens, the man was the devil incarnate, the destroyer of women. She, more than anyone, knew that.

  He must have heard her unladylike chortle, for his dark blue gaze slid to where she was standing inside the terrace doors. He looked her up and down with his cool, mocking, assessing eyes for an insolent length of time before he addressed her. “May I be of some service to you, madam?”

  She stepped forward and held her head high, refusing to be intimated by such a man. She had stared him down once before, she could do it again. Keeping her voice controlled and cool, she said, “You are of little service to anyone, least of all me, my lord.”

  His chin tilted and his eyes flashed—anger, disbelief—she didn’t know, but his dark eyes continued to dance mischievously in the sunlight as he watched her stroll onto the terrace.

  “I can’t image any man wishing to service you with a mouth as sharp as that.”

  She stood before him, ignoring his stinging rebuke, which she knew was a thinly veiled insult toward her plain looks. What the libertine meant to say was he couldn’t imagine anyone servicing her with her sharp mouth because she possessed little else that could make one ignore her tart tongue.

  “I’d like nothing better than an opportunity to match wits with you, my lord, but it seems we must put aside our respective feelings toward one another and think of those who would have us, pretend at least, that we are enjoying each other’s company.”

  “Ah, the maid of honor,” he whispered, letting his gaze flicker along her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I suspect you are the same Jane Rankin whose boot mark is stamped upon my pound note, for you share the same color hair, and glimmer of defiance in your eyes.”

  Jane darted her gaze to a spot over his shoulder, but he clutched her chin and forced her to look upon him.

  “Where is your accent today, hmm? And what the devil were you doing there, in the East End?”

  He remembered. Devil take him. Of course he remembered, but that didn’t mean she needed to. “I’m afraid that you have mistaken me for someone else, Lord Wallingford.”

  His eyes narrowed and she felt his cold stare attempt to pierce her, but she would not let someone as useless and immoral as Lord Wallingford discompose her. She was through with her infatuation of him. He was not the man he had once been with her. That had been an act. Before her stood the true Wallingford.

  “Perhaps once you’re finished subjecting this woman to unimaginable humiliation,” Jane murmured, “you will be so kind as to meet me in the study. Apparently we have a toast to write for the happy couple.”

  And then she nodded politely to Lady Burroughs and turned magnificently on her heel back to the house.

  “Redheaded shrew,” he muttered.

  “Insufferable wastrel,” she muttered back before closing the door behind her. She caught his stunned expression and took perverse joy in it. It was childish and small of her, but she was not above admitting it. She wanted retribution against him, for making her forget her vow to be true to herself, to never allow herself to be ensnared by a man, to never lose herself to a man. She had been in very real danger of doing so to Matthew. She would have done it, too, had not the Earl of Wallingford shown up to save her the humiliation.

  “Excuse me,” Matthew grumbled as he stepped away from Lady Burroughs. “It seems I have an appointment.”

  “Later, hmm?” Lady Burroughs purred. “We will meet later, and I will give you what you have been desiring for months.”

  With a curt nod, he stalked across the terrace and thrust aside the door. Not thinking about Lady Burroughs and her offer, he stalked onward, inwardly fuming. The little hellion. He was going to give her what she deserved. Then he was going to shake her till her teeth rattled and the information he wanted about Jane came spilling out of her mouth, for regardless of what she claimed, she was the woman he had spoken with on the sidewalk. It had been her, Lady Blackwood’s drab companion, sporting a cockney accent. What the devil she had been doing there was anyone’s guess—probably up to no good, hence the reason she had used an accent. They had met before, perhaps she feared he would recognize her, and inform her employer. But the truth was, he didn’t give a damn about what she had been doing, all he cared about now was finding out how she knew Jane, and forcing her to tell him where he could find her.

  Boot steps pounding throughout the hall, he headed for Raeburn’s study. Throwing open the door, he stalked inside and slammed the door shut, taking care to lock it behind him.

  Jane Rankin was already sitting in the chair behind the desk, busily scratching away on a piece of vellum with a nibbed pen. She did not deign to look at him when he slammed his hands atop the polished veneer while he leaned menacingly over the desk.

  “I see you’re already here,” she mumbled. “No doubt the lady took umbrage at your primeval attitude toward her sex and told you to go to the devil.”

  “We have an assignation planned for later in the afternoon, where me and my primeval attitude are going to fuck her senseless.”

  “I despise that word, and I take grave exception to it when used against my sex in such a demeaning way,” she hissed, slamming the pen down atop the paper and glaring up at him.

  “Is that right? Well, that’s too damn bad because it’s one of my favorites and I use it every chance I get.”

  “Heathen,” she spat.

  “Drab little peahen,” he shot back in a childish display of temper. But the little she-devil did not back down. Instead, her complexion turned as red as her hair, and her eyes flashed behind her unfashionable spectacles. Her voice was shrill, belying how much he was rattling her. Good.

  “Even so, my lord, we are here because our friends are in love, and they want us to act as their witnesses. For today, we will have to find a way to put aside our mutual distaste and act as though we are civil human beings, which will be a stretch for you, I know.”

  He smiled, a ruthless cutting smile that showed all of his white teeth. “Don’t worry, I can be charmin
g, even to drab little lady’s companions.”

  She tilted her chin defiantly. “There is no need for charm, my lord. I am not interested in your bed.”

  “Good, because you aren’t going to see it, nor are you getting into it.”

  She folded her arms across her breasts and glared. “Now that we have established the boundaries, perhaps we might begin work on our toast to the happy couple.”

  “Might I suggest you abandon the toast, and go upstairs to ready yourself. The ceremony begins in little more than an hour.”

  “I am already dressed,” she said on a gasp.

  Matthew let his gaze stray down her form. She was wearing a gray gown without any adornment. Not a scrap of lace or satin adorned the cuffs or neckline of her severely styled gown. Her red hair was pulled tightly back into a bun that was secured ruthlessly with one simple silver pin. Her spectacles, large and pitted, had dust motes illuminated behind the lenses.

  “You have got to be jesting,” he mumbled, not knowing if he meant for the poor creature to hear him. “You aren’t going like that to a wedding.”

  “I have no need of fancy gowns and feminine fripperies, my lord. It undermines our sex. It makes us pretty, fluffy ornaments for men’s pleasure. I dress for me, not for the pleasures of men.”

  “That much is obvious.”

  Her eyes went wide, but she did not cower at his cutting comments, steeling her spine instead. What sort of woman was this standing before him who could withstand the lashing of his razor-edged tongue? What kind of upbringing had inured her to such cruelty?

  Just when he was about to speak, to say something to soften the lethalness of his previous words, a cloud shifted, partially covering the sun and the light through the window. He blinked, watching as the shadow skated over her face, transforming her into someone else—someone softer, more vulnerable. Someone more familiar.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she hissed, and the mulish set of her mouth and the shrillness of her voice made him question the impossible thought that had just run unbidden into his mind.

  She trembled and he saw that she ran her hands down her arms. Those small, delicate hands. Soft hands.