Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  No! She turned and pressed her cheek against the door while she smoothed her hand against the wood, trying to smother the thought. She would not lower herself to such a level. She would not touch herself, would not give in to the base need he had awakened within her.

  No, she murmured softly as his words whispered to her. No, I do not need anything from you. I don’t want you. I don’t want this…this heat, this fever I feel snaking through my blood.

  But the heat would not subside. Instead, she felt her breasts swell further against her muslin corset, as the memories of that day in the carriage meshed with the memories of those forbidden moments here with him in the salon. The desire those memories evoked only made the yearning deep within her more painful, more difficult to deny or resist.

  Somehow he had known she was his nurse. How he had discovered her secret was beyond her. But she knew without question that he now knew she was Jane. She also knew he was furious about the fact. Why? She could not help but wonder. Was it because he thought Jane beautiful and mysterious and he was disappointed because it had only been an illusion? Was that the reason behind his anger? His pride was ravished because he had desired a woman he thought beautiful only to have her turn out to be plain—a drab little peahen?

  Hearing the angry pounding of his boots on the marble tile, Jane cracked open the door and peered out, immediately seeing a wigged footman step out from the shadows with his white-gloved hand extended.

  “A missive for you, my lord,” the footman said while bowing before Wallingford.

  Wallingford took the missive and glanced at the writing.

  “Have my horse saddled and brought around to the front of the house immediately.”

  “Very good, milord.”

  An unfamiliar sensation swept through Jane as she watched Wallingford tuck his missive in the pocket of his jacket. It must be from a woman. Jane imagined it contained a revolting amount of flowery perfume and an equally revolting request for an assignation.

  Jane had a fairly good idea who the letter was from. The devil! How could he go meet Lady Burroughs after what had just transpired between them? Was his body not on fire for her, as hers was for him? That thought alone made her feel murderous. Her body had responded to him, to every little touch, every little word, and he treated the matter as though it was nothing.

  It was not nothing! It was everything to someone like Jane Rankin. Damn it all! He had given her cause today to rethink her opinion of him. He had been kind to her during the speeches. To think she had actually believed that there could be more to Lord Wallingford than his rake’s reputation. In those fleeting seconds, she had nearly believed that the man she had met still resided somewhere deep in the breast of Wallingford. What a fool she was. That man—Matthew—was just a facade, an illusion to lure and entice an unsuspecting and lonely woman. The man was devious, utterly dangerous to her sex with his conniving ways and sensuality.

  Furious with indignation, Jane swept out of the salon and ran for the servants’ staircase. She was halted by the sting of fingers on her arm.

  “Well, well, we meet again, and in such a private place. How fortuitous.”

  The chill of that voice swept down Jane’s spine, making her cry out in fear as she was slammed against the wall.

  “You owe me something, Miss Rankin.”

  Her eyes pressed shut as she thought of a way to extricate herself from Thurston’s viselike hold. The tip of his blunt finger traced the uneven skin of the scar on her lip, making her mouth curl in revulsion. “I see you still wear the impression of my signet ring. Good. It will remind you of what you haven’t paid me—yet.”

  “I owe you nothing,” she sneered. “Get your hands off me.”

  “You owe me the price of your mother’s debt, a debt that you should have paid fourteen years ago. Interest is mounting, my dear.”

  She gagged, and he laughed, pressing closer. “I only wanted you the once, but now, seeing how you’ve grown into this body of yours makes me almost relieved you’ve been running from me all these years. Such delightful tits,” he said with a leer as he cupped her breasts hard in his hands. “Yes, these will do very well. I do so hope you’ve kept your hymen intact, for that was the price to wash your mother’s debt away.”

  She struggled ineffectively in his hold. “Release me!”

  He laughed and reached for the hem of her gown. “Oh, I intend to, right here, where anyone may happen upon us. I’ll ruin you so that you will have nowhere else to turn but to me. And then, dear Jane,” Thurston growled as he pinched her thigh hard beneath her gown, “I’ll make you pay with every inch of this lovely pale skin.”

  He moved in to kiss her, but the air moved violently between them, and she heard the sound of skin on skin, and the crunch of bone.

  The next thing she knew, a black shadow whirled past her, picked Thurston up from the floor and slammed him against the wall.

  Wallingford.

  “Your filthy paws are somewhere they don’t belong,” Wallingford growled, slamming Thurston up hard against the wall for a second time.

  “They’re exactly where they belong,” Thurston spat through little bubbles of blood that trailed from his nose. “I own her.”

  “Not anymore,” Wallingford sneered. “What is the cost of her debt?”

  Thurston’s eyes narrowed, and with a sickening leer he glanced at her. “Ask her, the little hellcat.”

  “Say it now!”

  Thurston turned his rapacious glare to Wallingford. “Her virginity.”

  Jane felt her face flame with humiliation and, cursing, Wallingford shoved himself away from Thurston, and reached for her. She was shocked, trembling, her hands mindlessly trying to smooth her skirts, the ones in which Thurston had had his hands up.

  “Jane,” he murmured, gathering her close, wrapping his arms securely around her. “It’s all right,” he whispered.

  She nodded and held on to him, taking in the aroma of his freshly laundered shirt, and the cologne that scented his skin. She continued to tremble, even when he squeezed her tight in his arms.

  “Leave, Thurston,” he commanded. “And if I find you near her again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

  From the corner of her eye, she watched the old earl slink off into the shadows. She shuddered, and Wallingford ran his big palm down the length of her back.

  She pressed her face into his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered. “A thousand times, thank you.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head, and he released her, checking for himself that she was unhurt.

  “Christ, Jane, what—”

  “Please don’t ask,” she murmured, shame welling up within her.

  He nodded, and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m only glad I came upon you when I did.”

  “I, as well,” she said, rubbing her hands down her arms, chasing away the chill and fear that still lingered. It was then that she saw how ashen his color was. How grave his expression.

  “I know this isn’t the best time, but, Jane, I beg of you, if you are who I believe you are, come with me now.”

  She would have laughed at such arrogance if it were not for the stricken appearance and the note that was crumpled in his hand. “It’s not an invitation for—” He flushed and glanced away. “My sister, Jane. She is ill. I need you—she needs you.”

  He saw the war waged in her eyes; the refusal to admit who she was still burned there, behind the fear left by Thurston. But this was not a ruse to get her to submit. This was truth. Sarah. She needed him. He didn’t ask much of anything from anyone, but this was something he had to ask, even despite the ordeal Jane had just gone through. Himself, he was still trying to assimilate his feelings regarding what he had witnessed. He’d had the irrational urge to choke the life out of Thurston when he had come across the old bastard trying to rape Jane.

  The memory of what he had seen made his blood turn to ice. He wanted to reach for her, but instead held out his
hand, showing her the crumpled paper.

  “This missive is from her nurse.” He held the crushed paper aloft, showing it to her. “Sarah’s taken ill and is calling for me. Her health is fragile, and now this… I must leave, and I want you to come with me to nurse her.”

  “Is there no doctor in the vicinity? The village of Bewdley is nearby, is it not?”

  “There’s one, and I wouldn’t allow him near my dog.” He reached for her wrist, wrapping his fingers around the delicate bones. “Please,” he said, the words rusty from little use. “She’s ill, and frail. Jane—”

  With a nod, she gave in, and the weight he felt bearing down upon him suddenly lifted.

  “I will need to inform Lady Blackwood,” she muttered, swishing past him.

  It seemed forever before they were on their way. As the carriage door slammed shut, Matthew realized it had not been more than a few minutes since he had received the note summoning him home.

  Sarah. Poor, sweet Sarah, he thought. She was seventeen, with the mind of a child. Instead of balls and gowns and daydreams of weddings, his sister thought of dolls and tea parties and chasing after butterflies.

  She was the only person in the world whom he could say he truly loved. And the thought of her ill, possibly seriously, made him hurt like the devil.

  “How long to your estate?” Jane asked, drawing him from his thoughts.

  “Only a minute longer. It’s not far, the grounds border Raeburn’s estate.”

  Jane nodded and looked out the window. In the distance he saw the ducal estate rise from between the hills. He loathed the place, the home of his birth, the prison of his childhood. Even now he felt the familiar unease settle into his breast. He avoided this place like the plague, but with Sarah ill, he had no choice but to go to her and the house that held nothing but nightmares for him.

  “Is that it?” Jane pointed in the direction of the obscenely huge mansion which was really a castle. The dukes of Torrington, he thought with a sneer, had a long and noble tradition. But that tradition would end once he came into the title. He had no desire to be a duke, or to see to the running of that monstrosity. As far he was concerned, it could crumble to the ground and disintegrate, along with his father’s prized fortune.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, her voice full of awe. “The scenery, it quite takes my breath away. I’ve always thought Hyde Park stunning, but this…it defies words. The trees.” She pressed closer to the window. “What are they, the ones out in blossom?”

  “Apple and quince,” he murmured, casting a cynical eye over the grounds. Aye, it was breathtaking. There was a lovely bridge that crossed the man-made lake that he used to like to stand upon and gaze out over the vista. There was an old temple—a folly, they used to call it—in which he and his friends used to play hide-and-seek.

  Suddenly, he had the urge to show Jane the grounds, to cross that bridge with her. To hide her away in the temple…

  She glanced at him, and he met her gaze, and for the first time, he really looked at her. He didn’t know what to make of her. She wasn’t beautiful, but she held his attention as though she were the most celebrated beauty in Europe.

  Behind her spectacles, her eyes were green. A stunning shade, actually. The color of celadon—luminous, otherworldly. They were large, with a lush fringe of curling lashes. Her brows were auburn, and her skin a delicate white. Over the bridge of her nose, a smattering of freckles scattered. He had a mad urge to connect them with the tip of his finger. He studied her mouth next, his heart freezing and missing a beat as he recalled plundering it with his own. Their mouths had melded, their tongues had danced, and he had never once felt the misshapen corner. Why? he wondered.

  She was conscious of his appraisal and tilted her head away, preventing his stare. He wanted to turn her head, wanted to trace her mouth, to touch the uneven skin, to put his tongue to it and ask how she had come by it.

  Jostling of the carriage pulled his gaze away from Jane and to the window. They were climbing up the drive of the estate. Soon they would be inside his father’s home. Matthew had never considered it home, did not consider his father’s wife, or her daughters, family. Only Sarah was his family.

  The carriage lurched to a stop and the driver jumped down from the box and lowered the steps. Jane inched forward and Matthew held out his hand, stopping her.

  “My sister is special, Jane.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and willed himself to go on. “Frequently she is misunderstood, overlooked. She is…she is…” He struggled with the wording, always fiercely protective of her. “She is simple. Do you understand?”

  He could tell Jane did, by the way her eyes softened behind her spectacles.

  “You will have a care for her, won’t you? She has feelings, although no one in this house ever considers them.”

  “Of course.”

  With a nod, he opened the door and ushered Jane down the steps. Staff were already waiting outside to welcome him home, but he guided Jane up the stairs, rushing her inside with nothing more than a nod to acknowledge them.

  Inside, the foyer was dark and gloomy. The familiar shudder swept down his back, and he looked up the winding staircase to see a pair of blue eyes watching him. He ignored the person, and instead placed his hand on Jane’s back and motioned her to the right, impatient to get her to his sister.

  “Jane? Good God, is that you?”

  Matthew whirled around and saw a tall, blond man walking down the hall with his father. Beside them was a man with white hair and thick sideburns, dressed in a black suit and carrying a pigskin bag. A physician’s bag.

  “Richard?” he heard Jane whisper in disbelief as his form appeared from the gloom and into the beam of sunlight that crept in through the transom window.

  “Good heavens, it is you!”

  The man named Richard came to a stop before them, his gaze volleying back and forth.

  “Lord Wallingford,” the man muttered, “I see you are well and truly recovered.”

  “My son has the devil’s own luck, Dr. Inglebright,” his father sneered. “It will take more than a bashed skull to do him in.”

  Christ! He knew the man now and he could not stop himself from stepping closer to Jane. He was marking his territory, he thought as he pressed his hand into her lower back. He was making it good and damn clear to the doctor that Jane was his. Why he wanted her, he couldn’t fathom. He did not care to possess females. He didn’t want a relationship, but he did not want Inglebright having her.

  “What are you doing here, Miss Rankin?” Dr. Inglebright inquired, his gaze straying between them. “Not that I am not delighted to see you, of course.”

  Jane flushed, and he wondered if it stemmed from nervousness or embarrassment by being seen with Wallingford. She tried to step away, but he placed just the right amount of pressure on her spine to let her know she wasn’t going anywhere. “Lady Blackwood is visiting her niece, who happens to be married to Lord Wallingford’s friend. We were at their wedding when he asked me to attend to his sister who has fallen ill.”

  “Good, good,” the older man muttered. “Looks like a bit of Providence, Miss Rankin. You can assist Richard here, while His Grace and I have a game of billiards.”

  “A game of billiards would be just the thing, George. Come, I’ve had a new table delivered. It’s been awaiting its inaugural game.”

  Matthew fisted his hands at his sides, hating his father and his callous indifference to Sarah. As he watched him retreat with his visitor, he had the urge to throttle him as though he were a punching bag.

  “Miss Rankin?” Dr. Inglebright said, motioning her forward. “Shall we?”

  Matthew put his hand around her waist, anchoring her. He felt those eyes on the stairs bore into him and he glared back, up at the face he despised. Still here, he thought, haunting these halls. His attention snapped back to Jane, who was delicately trying to extricate herself from his hold while Richard watched. Their gazes met, and Matthew smiled, an expression that cou
ld only be described as chilling.

  “You’ll not get rid of me so easily this time, Doctor,” he snapped, ushering Jane forward.

  The room was dark and ominous, sterile, Jane thought as she took in the white walls and plain curtains. On the bedside an oil lamp was lit. The bed curtains were pulled back, revealing a large bed with a carved headboard. In the middle lay a young lady whose beauty was remarkable, even in ill health.

  She was blonde, with long curling hair that was fanned out on her pillow. Her skin was flushed and her breathing rapid. Jane took a step closer, and behind her, Matthew moved her to the side, allowing him to rush to the bed.

  “Sarah, pet,” he murmured, sitting down on the bed and lifting her hand to his mouth. He kissed her, and she opened her eyes and smiled.

  “I told Mrs. Billings you would come.”

  “I received her note and came straightaway. Sarah, what’s wrong?”

  “Did you bring me a dolly?” she asked. “You promised you would. A pretty china one from the toy shop in Mayfair.”

  “Of course I did,” he said, smiling as he kissed her hand once more. “But there were none there as pretty as you.”

  He tweaked her nose and she laughed, which gave way to a groan. “My tummy hurts.”

  “I think it’s appendicitis,” Richard murmured beside her. “She has all the signs, and now the fever is coming on. I gave her a dose of laudanum, which had minimal effect on the pain. I’m afraid her appendix is going to burst. Nothing much can be done if it does.”

  Jane nodded, unable to take her gaze off Matthew sitting beside his sister. Gently he brushed her hair back from her forehead and asked her, “Where on your tummy do you hurt, pet?”

  She placed her hand on her right side, low on her abdomen. “Oh, it hurts. Mrs. Billings said it was too many tea cakes, but I haven’t eaten any. I swear it.”