Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  She had run from him, and he had not chased after her. It seemed a hopeless business, this attraction, yet he couldn’t get her out of his head.

  Inhaling the cheroot, he rested his head back against the headboard and exhaled a long, steady stream of gray smoke. An image of Jane, her pale body, ripe with curves, came to him, and he savored it as he inhaled again.

  How had events taken such a turn in a day? She had run from him, been gone for weeks, and yet, here she was, sleeping three doors down from him.

  She was not the woman he had thought she was. It had disappointed him that morning when he discovered her true identity, but now it no longer mattered. He wanted to know her, wanted that elusive glimpse inside her, a glimpse he believed, she did not give just anyone. Certainly not to any man. “Who do you want?” she had asked. He hadn’t known his answer then, but now he did. Now he would tell her, “You, Jane. Just you.”

  Jane…lovely, plain Jane. He reached for her spectacles, which lay on the table. He smoothed his thumb over the delicate silver arms, feeling the remnants of her.

  It had been the singular most erotic thing he had ever done, pulling those glasses from her face and revealing her eyes. It had been like stripping her of her flesh and baring her soul. Those eyes…they held such depth, such passion, and sorrow, he believed.

  Jane was not plain. He had looked deeply—today most especially—and had seen the loveliness in her. And what was more, he felt strangely possessive of that rare splendor. He wanted her to be his, yet he didn’t want her to think that he could be hers—that there could be anything lasting between them. But when he thought of her with another…

  He thought of Inglebright’s hand on her knee, the way his gaze had lingered on her breasts…

  His cock stirred beneath his trousers at the remembered sight. He had wanted his hand replacing Inglebright’s. Now, remembering Jane, he wanted to touch himself, to immerse himself in the image of him and Jane together. He wanted to sink down and part his thighs and stroke himself, thinking of Jane lying between them.

  It couldn’t be, of course. He was ruined for that sort of play. His lover had seen to that. He could no longer abide being touched, stroked and caressed. It made him feel dirty, shamed. But with the absinthe…

  With the absinthe he could allow it. Perhaps. The ether certainly had allowed him to shed his revulsion of being touched. And Jane’s hands…they had felt so damn good.

  Unwittingly, his fingers found the waist of his trousers. His pants were already undone. He parted the flap, found the throbbing head of his cock and smoothed his fingers over it. He was hard. He wanted to be touched, to have a mouth love him. He wanted Jane’s mouth.

  He moaned and slid his hand along the shaft, fisting it, not hard like his lover had wanted, but soft, lazy. Putting out the cheroot, he leaned against the headboard once more, watching his hand holding his cock. He allowed himself to feel the pleasure, and he shoved aside the guilt that came with that pleasure.

  He imagined Jane, her red hair glowing like fire from the flames of the hearth. He thought of her, naked, sliding between his thighs. He imagined holding his cock out to her, watching her take it into her mouth and love it—love him.

  Yes, this is what he wanted, Jane loving his cock, sucking him deep. He wanted to hold her there with his hands clenched in her hair. He wanted to see her hair spilling over his thighs, to hear the sounds of her mouth sucking, her tongue lapping.

  “Christ, yes,” he moaned, increasing his rhythm. He wanted to feed her his cock, and watch her suck him until he came and then he wanted to watch her take him in. He would lay his fingers against her throat and feel her swallow him—all the way down. How bloody sinful she would look like that.

  But it was more than sex he wanted. There was something else he yearned for. Something he had never found.

  He was starved for it, parched, thirsting for a connection with someone—no—with Jane. Greedily he wanted to horde her, to hungrily devour every little word, look, soft inhalation of desire, and selfishly keep it, never to return it to her, for it was for him, his alone. Never to be shared, never to leave the confines of his memories. But there was so much more that he wanted from her. Touch, he shuddered at the word, the very thought. Yes, he wanted to be touched by Jane.

  Outside and deep within his body he wanted Jane’s fingers imprinted on him, branding him and binding him. He yearned for the feel of her body, her touch, her breath against his skin. He wanted it embedded in his mind, his pores. He wanted it entwined with his body and soul, both which hungered and hurt. Both which were empty and so…he swallowed and pressed his eyes shut, finding the strength to go on. Both which had never known softness or kindness. Both which were so frighteningly alone and…afraid.

  What he wanted was the sort of elemental connection that would bind Jane to him for eternity, a connection that would see him well fed and safe, forever. Body and soul. His already belonged to her, and he shook, unnerved by the truth and the feeling that, perhaps, the dawn would for once be a welcome sight.

  He wanted that morning. A new beginning—with Jane. He thought of her, lying in bed, and the image of her naked, covered in blossoms, made him come.

  It was so damn easy. So pleasurable to come like this. His seed burst forth, shooting in hot spurts onto his belly. He had always felt dirty when this happened with his lover who had tutored him in the way of fucking. But this, this climax with Jane, if only imaginary, was not shameful. With Jane, this sex act could be beautiful, freeing.

  Relaxed, Matthew closed his eyes, enjoying the minutes of bliss.

  Jane nudged the door open, and gasped, unable to move from her spot. What she was watching was so personal she knew she should leave. But how could she, when it was Matthew, looking like this, all male and sensual.

  He was on the bed, legs spread. His trousers were opened, and he was pleasuring himself. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and the sounds of his breathing made her own body shudder.

  She should make a noise. Alert him to the fact that he was not alone. But she could not. Instead she studied him, the way his corded forearms tightened with each stroke. She listened to his groans of pleasure and watched his seed spurt onto his stomach.

  Jane…

  She heard her name whispered in the quiet, and her body trembled, awakened. Her core opened, and she closed her eyes. Images of him on top of her swept before her, and she touched herself through her nightgown and found her core wet.

  A soft snore captured her attention. She looked back at Matthew, and saw the gentle rise and fall of his sculpted chest. He had fallen asleep, and she was…curious.

  Silently she crept to the bed and bent over him, studying his face. This was Matthew, this was how he had looked at the hospital, vulnerable, beautiful. A fallen angel, she thought, reaching out to touch him.

  Just one touch…one…a guilty pleasure in the night.

  It was dark. He hated the dark. He hadn’t always, not until his tutor had made a habit of coming into his room at night. He was tired…so tired, yet he was afraid to go to sleep.

  He struggled, trying to fend off the fatigue, but it claimed him and he fell into a dream. It was a dream of sex, and of the maid who changed his bed. He liked the way she looked, with her big breasts and rosy cheeks. More than that, he liked the way his cock felt when she was around.

  In his dream, she went to her knees and sucked him.

  Mmm, this dream was so real. He could hear the crisp sheets sliding, could feel his cock thickening, being stroked. Then the wet mouth, the bite…

  He woke up from his dream, screaming, thrashing. He hated when his lover came up on him in the dark. Hated the things he was forced to do. His mind warred with it as his body betrayed him, selling itself for pleasure.

  End…he wanted to put an end to it, but he couldn’t. He was helpless, the needs of his body were stronger than his mind, and his lover knew it, used it against him. And in a rage, he shoved, dislodging himself from t
hat mouth.

  You’ll be back for more, the voice taunted…

  “Get the fuck off me,” Matthew shouted, hitting her with the back of his hand. Jane cried out and tumbled to the floor. The metallic tang of blood slipped between her lips and she touched her trembling fingers to them. Pulling them away, she saw the crimson drops.

  “Oh, God, Jane,” Matthew cried as he jumped from the bed and lifted her into his arms. “Jane,” he whispered, rocking her. “What have I done?”

  He lifted her face from his chest and he swore when he saw her lip. “Christ,” he muttered as he wiped the blood away.

  “I—I’m all right,” she stammered, “I touched your shoulder—to awaken you. You must have been dreaming. It’s my fault.”

  “Never come upon me in the night, Jane, especially in the dark,” he said in a harsh voice as he held her face in his hands and studied her mouth. “I have dreams…” He looked at her, his eyes full of sorrow. “Bad ones. I never know who is friend or foe.”

  Wiping her mouth with the cuff of her gown, she glanced away, aware that the stickiness on his belly had coated the front of her gown. She could feel the wetness against her own belly and it aroused her, made her want to lay him back onto the bed and kiss away the horror she still saw in his eyes. She wanted to take away the pain, she realized, as much as she wanted to feel the passion he could give her.

  “What is it, Jane?”

  She could not admit to such a thing, that she desired such an intimacy, so she admitted the real reason she had found herself in his room.

  “Your sister, she has awakened. She asks for you.”

  His gaze roved over her face and his thumb slid along her cheek. “I’m sorry, Jane. I…I didn’t know it was you.”

  Jane slid from his lap, and saw that his gaze had lowered to the front of her gown. When he looked up to her face, he reached for her hand and kissed her palm. “I told you I would only hurt you.”

  And that was when Jane realized that Lord Wallingford was like an onion, waiting to be peeled back, and each layer would make you cry.

  Jane awoke that morning to a heady perfume. The sun was shining and the luxurious bed was so comforting she didn’t want to waken. It was early yet, and she stretched, wondering if she might go back to sleep for a few minutes.

  As she gazed out the window, checking the position of the sun, she saw the vase of blossoms on the table. Quince. She had admired them yesterday in the garden. She sat up in bed, and realized that her bed and pillow had been sprinkled with blossoms, as well.

  Matthew…

  Jane grasped a handful of the petals and brought them to her nose, inhaling deeply. She was going to put them in her bathwater and bathe in them, just as she had wanted.

  But first, she intended to check on her patient.

  Sliding from the bed, Jane donned her wrapper and walked to the end of the hall to Sarah’s room. The door opened, and she slipped inside. She stopped when she saw Matthew sitting on the bed, holding her hand.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t know you were here.” Her palm came up to smooth her hair. It probably resembled a bird’s nest, but there was nothing to be done now.

  He looked her over, his deep blue gaze not missing an inch of her person. “Good morning, Jane.”

  The velvety timbre of his voice slid over her body, warming her, and she found herself stepping deeper into the room.

  “It’s early yet, I hadn’t realized I would meet anyone.”

  He took in her robe and bare feet before meeting her gaze. “I like you rumpled like this. Here,” he murmured, pulling something from his waistcoat pocket. He handed her her spectacles. She slid them on, blinking behind the glass as her surroundings became clear.

  “Ah, there is Jane,” he teased. “A bed-warmed Jane.”

  She flushed, and looked away, trying to dispel the intimacy between them. Yet it remained. She remembered the blossoms and realized he must have stood over her, raining those petals atop her. Had he watched her sleep? The answer, she saw, was in his eyes. He had.

  Pouring water into a basin, Jane picked up a cloth and dipped it into the cool water. “How is she this morning?”

  He placed a gentle hand on his sister’s cheek. “She doesn’t have a fever.”

  “That’s a good sign.” She moved to the bed and sat on the other side, dabbing the cloth against Sarah’s forehead and mouth. “I hope she will awaken again today, for she needs to drink.”

  “Look at me, Jane.”

  The quiet of his voice startled her, and she glanced up, only to have him capture her chin in his hand. He took the cloth from her and dabbed it at her mouth. “It’s swollen this morning, and bruised. Does it pain you?”

  “No, not like last—” She caught herself.

  “Not like last time,” he finished for her. “Who did it, Jane?” His fingers replaced the cloth as he gently brushed the pad of his thumb over her lip.

  “No one of consequence.”

  “Thurston. It was him, wasn’t it?”

  She could not meet his eyes when she nodded.

  “Tell me why, Jane.”

  “My lord, please.”

  “I want to know you, Jane. I spent all night beside you, watching you, wondering about you. I’ve thought of you living many different ways. I thought of you in the carriage and the way you took care of me. I’ve thought of you on the terrace giving me what for before the wedding. I’ve wondered who you are, Jane.”

  “I am me.”

  “I don’t know that person, but I want to. What do I have to do, Jane?”

  “You know what it is.”

  “Very well.” He stood up, and kissed her wound with a soft brush of his lips. “There is a cottage on the grounds. Come to me tonight and I will let you in. I will allow you to see a part of me that no person, male or female, has ever seen. I’ll give you my secrets, Jane. And hope that you will keep them safe.”

  15

  At precisely eight o’clock, Jane found herself standing before the cottage. It was a beautiful little place with arched windows and a gothic exterior. His studio, he had called it.

  She rapped on the door, then waited nervously for it to open. Looking at her surroundings, she could not help but admire the ducal estate. The gardens were breathtaking, and the cottage, surrounded by apple and quince trees out in full blossom, was something out of a fairy tale. It was so different from the dinginess of London. And the sky, she could hardly believe the number of stars beginning to peek out now that the sun was setting.

  It had been a long day caring for Sarah, who was making a remarkable recovery. She had dodged Richard as much as possible, fearing another awkward conversation. As well, she had not seen Matthew since their meeting that morning, but that did not prevent her from thinking upon him almost constantly and wondering what manner of man he truly was.

  When her knock went unanswered, she raised her fist to rap again, and stopped when she saw a figure emerge from beneath the waving branches of a willow tree. It was Matthew, dressed much the same as he had been that morning, with the exception of his breeches, which he had changed for a pair of black trousers. He was still in his shirtsleeves, but they were done up at the wrists. His waistcoat was black silk shot through with silver thread. His cravat was black and tied simply at his throat.

  There was a thrilling intimacy to his attire, despite the fact that she had seen him naked before. He was the only gentleman Jane had ever seen in shirtsleeves, and the forbidden dishabille strangely excited her.

  He came to stand before her, his shadowed gaze assessing her slowly, roaming over her hair and then down to her gown. Another serviceable gown—her wardrobe was chockfull of them. She had thought herself frivolous when she had bought the striped muslin gown. Wools and flannels were what she normally chose for herself. As a servant, she should not be dressing in the height of fashion. Flannels and wools were practical and sturdy and much more in line with a lady’s companion than silks and brocades. However, some impish impuls
e had made her purchase the muslin gown she now wore.

  The style of the gown was similar to the ones she usually wore—high necked and long sleeved, with no lace or ruffles or other feminine adornments. Her hair was swept back into a bun and secured with the same silver pin she always wore. She had always been quite content with her choice in garments. However, standing here being scrutinized by Wallingford made her feel inferior and plain. Where she once thought the striped muslin frivolous, she now thought it simple and dated. Even if she had wished to dress for him and their dinner, she could not—she did not own anything as fine or as frilly as the women of his sphere.

  “What are you thinking, Jane?”

  “Nothing of import,” she said with a shake of her head. “I was just thinking that I should have looked in on Sarah. I gave her something—”

  “A book,” he said, coming closer to her. “She told me. She also told me that you promised to teach her to read. Did you mean it, Jane?”

  She looked up at him and saw he watched her with carefulness. “I meant every word.”

  “Is it true that you only learned to read a few years ago?” She flushed red with humiliation and looked away in shame. “One thing you must learn is that you should never tell Sarah anything you wouldn’t want repeated. She means well, she would never intentionally hurt anyone, however, her intelligence…well, sometimes she is like an impetuous child, never knowing when to stop talking.”

  “I understand.”

  “You comprehend her, don’t you? Most people cannot be bothered. Most people cringe and run the other way whenever they see her coming.”

  “You don’t.”

  “No, I don’t. I welcome her. She is my purpose in life. There are few whom I would admit that to, Jane. But perhaps we should have our discussion inside, hmm? My valet will be arriving with the dinner cart.”

  “Very well, then,” She turned to reach for the doorknob. Pausing, she took a deep breath and lowered her head. “Wait,” she whispered, then turned to face him. “I’ve been thinking about this. I want to know. How did you know…I mean, how did you discover—”