Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  He repeated the words in his head. It was not her. It was not Jane. Jane was gone. She had left him.

  “All I know of her parents is that her father was an aristocrat and her mother was his mistress. I do not think it turned out well, for Jane was raised in the stews of the East End. Her mother jumped from man to man, searching for a protector. Jane, of course, followed, but was frequently not extended the protection of her mother’s lovers. I am afraid Jane was left on her own, more than once.”

  “Illegitimate, obviously?” he asked, watching Jane, a flicker of anguish for the child she had once been eating slowly at the little bit of conscience he still possessed.

  “Indeed. But none of that matters,” Anais said, turning her face up to his. “It does not matter to my aunt, or me. And because Jane is so dear to me, it does not matter to Raeburn. I trust, my lord, that for this weekend, Jane’s unhappy circumstances will not matter to you.”

  “Of course not,” he muttered, wounded by Anais’s lack of faith in him. “I can be quite charming when called upon.”

  “Charming is not what she needs, my lord. Constant is what my friend requires. I beg you, as long-standing friends, leave Jane alone. Do not trifle with her or charm her for your own amusement.”

  The dance came to an end and Matthew walked Anais back to her husband. “You have my word, Anais. I will leave her alone. I don’t want her. I don’t need her.”

  But even as he said the words, his gaze searched out Jane. No, he didn’t need her. He didn’t need any woman. Despite his avowal, he nevertheless found himself standing before her, his hand outstretched.

  “Shall we?”

  Her eyes blinked owlishly behind her spectacles. “Shall we what?”

  “Dance,” he said in exasperation. “After all, it is the thing to do at a wedding ball.”

  “It is improper for a lady’s companion to dance,” she said with a dignified sniff as her gaze traveled over his shoulder to the swirling dancers behind him.

  “It is most proper for the maid of honor and the best man to share a dance.”

  “No, thank you,” she replied in a firm controlled voice that brooked no opposition.

  “Come, you must,” he muttered, perturbed by her refusal. No woman had ever before refused him a dance. He’d be damned if this colorless spinster would be the first.

  Grasping her hand, he pulled her from her chair, aware that an elderly matron was closely watching them from between the palm fronds. Jane gasped as her body brushed against his. Matthew stood momentarily transfixed by the image of her bodice pulling tight against her corseted breasts as she struggled to control her indignation.

  Magnificently large, rounded breasts, his mind seemed to scream.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she hissed.

  “Attempting to persuade you to dance with me,” he murmured in a disconcerted voice. Lord, what sinfully beautiful curves lay hidden beneath her ugly gown. He could feel the voluptuousness of them beneath his palm, all luscious and full as he attempted to quiet her struggles and lead her to the dance floor. He was hardening in response to them, and he had to stop himself from rubbing his tented trousers against her hips.

  “I already declined your offer,” she snapped, brushing his hand away from her lower back. “I can say with certainty that I will not be persuaded.”

  “Come,” he coaxed, suddenly needing to feel her body moving against his if only to assuage some of the pain in his groin. “You’ll enjoy it.”

  She glared at him. “I most certainly will not.”

  “You will.”

  “I do not dance.”

  “You will today,” he muttered, reaching for her hand.

  She closed her eyes as if she were in pain. “I do not dance, my lord, because I do not know how,” she bit out, every word clipped and hard. “There, are you satisfied? I truly am a little peahen as you say. I am a drab, colorless bird, unable to even dance. Now, release me. And cease looking at me in such a way. I do not want your pity.”

  “It was not my intent to humiliate you.”

  She snorted and tilted her chin proudly. “Of course you sought my humiliation. It is retribution, you see, for embarrassing you in front of your latest conquest this morning.”

  “She is not my latest conquest,” he snapped, irritated. Why the devil did she make him feel so bloody filthy when she looked at him through her spectacles like that? Christ, what was she doing to him? He was quite clearly coming unhinged. One minute he was despising her, the next he was erect and wishing he could shove her hand beneath his trousers.

  “You claimed an assignation with her this afternoon,” Jane said silkily. “Are you now saying that you lied?”

  “A man can change his mind.” And he had better change his mind about her, and quick.

  “A leopard, my lord, never changes his spots.”

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “It means you are what you are. Do not bother to stand before me and pretend you are a gentleman, for you are the furthest thing from it.”

  He was floundering for a response when the sunlight streaming through the window was suddenly snuffed by a heavy, gray cloud. Matthew watched with a mixture of wonder and horror as it transformed Jane’s face. Good God, the shape of her face, the brilliance of her green eyes glittering behind her spectacles…

  “You have no conscience, sir. No morals. You care for no-one other than yourself and your pleasures.”

  “You know nothing of me,” he growled, studying her face.

  “And you know nothing of me,” she said in a voice that had grown soft, wounded.

  That voice, that whispering, caressing voice. It was the same one he heard in his dreams. It was Jane’s voice. God help him, it truly was her.

  Slowly, he lifted her face with his fingers, his stomach churning uncomfortably. Christ, what a fool he had been. Was she laughing at him, at the absurdity of him desiring Jane and despising this Jane? Was she feeling smug and superior?

  The volatile emotions began to boil in his blood at her betrayal, and he stopped himself just as he was about to squeeze her chin in a painful grip.

  Damn her, she knew who he was. He had not concealed his features with a veil. He had not hidden anything from her. And yet she had stood before him, acting as though they had never met, never talked, never touched.

  Rage made his breathing hard, and he fought it, barely able to see anything other than that day in the carriage, when he had desired her so bloody much. When he had talked of himself and allowed her the briefest glimpse into his soul. Christ! Was she amused by him whenever she thought of that day that he lowered her bodice and suckled her breasts? Was she mocking him now, secretly laughing at him, remembering how much of a damn fool he had been? Was she enjoying her triumph over him that day when she had stomped on his money—and his feelings?

  Fuck! His beautiful, passionate Jane concealed beneath the armor of this little tergamot.

  With lightening speed, he shackled her wrist and captured it ruthlessly in his hand. Aware that no one was paying them any heed, he pulled her along behind him, ushering her through the door that led to an empty hall. He did not allow her to tarry, but pulled her behind him until they reached another door. Flinging it open, he steered her inside with only the pressure of his hand on her back. The door shut softly and Matthew saw her stiffen as the sound echoed throughout the room.

  He was mad as hell at her treachery. What did she think she was about? He would not be laughed at. He would not have this dull woman mocking him. He would not have the pain that came with knowing that Jane was deliberately hiding from him and…laughing at him.

  Before she could think of getting away, he reached for her, bringing her back against the door, pinning her against the wood with his chest and thighs. His hand skimmed over her hip while he turned the key in the lock with a soft but determined click.

  She whimpered. In fear. In longing. He didn’t know, and didn’t particularly care. He was go
ing to punish her here and now for deceiving him. And once she was sufficiently chastised, she was going to answer each and every one of his questions. He was not going to let her out of the damn salon until he was satisfied that he knew all there was to know about Jane Rankin and her deceit.

  Tightening his fingers on her waist, he brought her ever so slightly closer to him. He saw her eyes go round, felt the rush of hot air as she released her breath. He was aware that her fingers held a death grip on her skirts.

  “Have you enjoyed laughing at me? Do you count your little game a success?”

  Her eyes flashed, but she held her tongue. Impressive. But how much longer could she hold out on him? he wondered. Surely her will was no match for his own.

  “I know everything about you, Jane,” he whispered darkly in her ear. “Everything.”

  Her gaze flashed to his. “I doubt it.”

  He smiled slowly as he ran his fingertip down the column of her neck. “London College Hospital? You work nights there, do you not?”

  The color left her face, but amazingly she held her gaze steady on him.

  “You tended me, didn’t you?”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  He watched his finger caress the pounding pulse in her throat. “I came in your hand, remember? Remember the feel of me in your little palm, remember the way I suckled your breasts?” He brushed his mouth against her ear. “I had my tongue in your cunt, remember?”

  She whimpered, and he groaned. Damn it, he should not be feeling aroused by the sensation of her warm, satiny skin beneath his fingers. He should be angry that she was denying who she was, that she had been with him. But anger was slowly being swallowed up by desire. He could not take his gaze from her throat, or stop himself from thinking how much he desired to stroke the full vein in her neck with his tongue.

  “You are mistaken,” she whispered as she licked her lower lip nervously.

  His fingers bit into her waist. “Do not lie to me,” he hissed. “I know, Jane. I know everything. Now I just want to know why.”

  She knew what he meant. He saw the realization in her wide eyes. Tell me why you have deceived me, he wanted to roar, but he hung on, barely, to his control. He wanted to hear her say it. Why had she done it? To punish him by wanting a creature who didn’t want him? Well, she had succeeded. How he hated to admit it, but she had hurt him—deeply—by not returning to him. She had abandoned him after the most beautiful, intimate encounter he had ever experienced, and Christ, how he despised the feelings of abandonment. How he loathed to admit that weakness in his makeup. Hated to admit that this woman, this cold, calculating woman had deliberately set out to hurt him, to awaken in him feelings he had buried and refused to think on made him feel out of control. He was indeed becoming unhinged.

  “Tell me,” he growled through clenched teeth, shaking her about the shoulders in an attempt to bully her. But Jane Rankin was beyond such intimidation.

  “Say it,” he snarled, angling his head so that he whispered the words in her ear at the same time his lips grazed her earlobe. “I want to hear the words from your own lips.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. Now, release me.”

  His palm slid from her waist to her breast until he cupped her in his hand. He pressed forward so that his chest flattened against her and the side of his face nestled against her neck. “Do you believe in fate, Jane?” She gasped as he stroked his thumb across her swollen nipple.

  “No,” she murmured so softly he barely heard her. “I do not believe in anything.”

  “You believed once.” He palmed her breast. “You trusted once.”

  “You’re wrong. You’ve mistaken me for some other woman.” She groaned when he flicked the tip of his tongue down the tempting throbbing vein that ran the length of her neck. He should not be doing this. He was weakening, despite the fact he never again wanted to be weak in front of this woman.

  “I…I don’t want you.”

  His gaze flickered up from her throat to her face. Her head was tilted to the side, her eyes closed behind the lenses of her spectacles, her lips, pouting and pink, were parted slightly. He parted them more as he rubbed his finger along her lower lip. “Liar.”

  “I don’t want you,” she said again, this time harder, more forcefully, as if she was trying to convince herself, as well as him.

  “You’re afraid of men like me, aren’t you, Jane? Admit it. I do something to you that frightens you. I make you aware that you’re a woman and I am a man.”

  “You’re wrong,” she whispered, pressing herself against the door in order to put some space between them. But he followed her.

  “I know what you need.”

  “No, you do not,” she protested. Unable to speak, she shook her head, whispering the word no again as she pressed herself against the unyielding wood behind her. Any space that was between them he closed when he pressed his chest tightly to hers.

  “I know what you want, Jane.”

  Her lids opened, and she blinked slowly, her gaze slipping to his as her lips trembled. “What do you know?”

  His touch softened against her mouth. Her top lip was scarred, somewhat misshapen. He hadn’t really noticed it before now, but now he couldn’t stop himself from tracing his fingertip over the uneven skin, feeling himself softening. Weak. He hated it. He might even hate her for making him feel that weakness, for making him admit to it. Yet, he could not stop his body from responding to her, from wanting to learn all her secrets and hidden truths.

  “I know the depth of the passion you keep hidden beneath this prim veneer. I know that beneath your protests you secretly yearn.”

  “No. No, you’re wrong.”

  “You were eager all those weeks ago, and you burned in my arms. I think you yearned to feel me deep inside you. I think you still yearn.”

  “Not for you,” she whimpered softly.

  “Why lie, when I can feel the truth in your trembling hands. I see it in the way your lips are quivering. Smell it in the way your body is heating, scenting with arousal. There is no one better suited to give you everything you crave, Jane,” he murmured against her mouth. Reaching for her hand, he brought it to his chest and flattened her palm against his waistcoat. His heart was beating hard, she would feel it. He was breathing hard, she would feel that, too. He didn’t give a damn. He didn’t care that she would understand that physically he was aching for her. He didn’t care about anything other than feeling her touching him.

  Grasping her wrist, he moved her palm lower over his breast, down over the flat hardness of his belly, where it rested at the waistband of his trousers.

  “You don’t like being reminded you have needs and desires. But you have them, don’t you, Jane? It was there in the hospital, in the carriage, all that honest need. The need for a man to touch you, kiss you, whisper in your ear. The need to be filled.”

  He pushed her hand lower and made her feel his cock, hard beneath his woolen trousers. He forced her palm to flatten with pressure from his own hand. She went utterly still, but did not attempt to pull her hand from out beneath his. She could if she wanted to. He barely held her hand against him now. Their gazes met and her breathing was so hard that he could feel the brush of her breasts rising against his chest.

  Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth, savoring the feel of her hand on his prick, despite the fact it was still innocently covered by his trousers. He was so damn hard. So hungry for the feel of her flesh against his flesh. But whose flesh—Jane’s, or this Jane’s? He no longer knew.

  It was absurd. Three hours ago, he despised her. Now, he could barely resist the lure of raising her skirts and filling her body with his cock. He was definitely unglued. He wasn’t thinking clearly. It was the lust coursing through his veins that was clouding his thoughts. And that was a frightening admission, as well, because he had never lost his way during sex or lust, or the pursuit of either.

  Christ, having her pinned like this, her eyes wide and her mouth par
ting in invitation, made him so damn excited. It was charged. Erotic. He was becoming addicted to the sensation she—Jane—aroused in him.

  “Admit it, Jane,” he rasped. “The thought of us sharing our bodies together fascinates you. And yet, you pretend to condemn me, but secretly you yearn for what I can show you. And show you I will.”

  “You will not.”

  “I will have either your passion, or the truth you are keeping from me. Perhaps I will even have both.”

  He pushed away from her and saw that her eyes changed from passion glazed to mutinous. He left her then, aching and unfulfilled. Aroused and confused. It was for the best. It was always necessary to have the last word with an opponent as skilled as Jane.

  Positioning himself so that his cock would cease rubbing against his trousers, Matthew grunted with pent-up lust and lingering anger. Christ, he swore as he left the salon. Where did Raeburn keep the damn brandy?

  12

  Bloody arrogant, presumptuous… Oh! Jane seethed as she fought to stem the trembling of her hands. Who the devil did he think he was, abducting her from the ballroom and practically ravishing her?

  Fanning herself with her hand, Jane strove to control her wobbly arms and legs. Good God, she had been so close to falling for those beautiful blue eyes and that hypnotizing sensual voice. Squeezing her eyes shut, she rested her head against the cool wood of the door and trailed her quivering fingers along her neck, tracing the path his fingers had taken. I know what you want….

  The whispering remnants of his words called to her, causing a strange, forbidden tightening in her belly. Her lips slowly parted as if in anticipation of his kiss. The memory of his hard, warm body pressing against hers heated her blood until she thought she would go mad from the memories.

  Struggling to fight the ache in her body, she lost all strength and allowed her hand to slip down the stiff ruffled collar of her gown. She could hear her shallow, rasping breaths as her palm descended lower and lower until her fingers lay a hairbreadth from her swollen breast. Her nipple constricted, sending her belly tightening and wetness dampening her drawers. He had touched her before—suckled her until she cried out against him. He had been only Matthew to her then. Today she had wanted it again, but it was not only Matthew she had desired—she had wanted Wallingford, as well.