Sinful (7 page)

“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 un
blemished 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 movements 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.”

“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 win
dow. “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 very 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?”

“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 no
tion 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.