Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “I didn’t make it rain,” he said as he caught her glare.

  Now what was she to do? She was soaked through. And he seemed to be rather pleased by the fact.

  “May I?” He reached for her spectacles and pulled them slowly from her face. His gaze never strayed from her eyes, and the searing sensuality of having his attention focused solely on her was too much. She looked away.

  “Jane…” He captured her chin and turned her to face him. “Let me look.”

  “I do not care for your high-handed methods, my lord,” she snapped, refusing to look at him.

  “What have I done except purchase your services for my sister?”

  “I cannot be bought, sir,” she gasped, shoving away from him. She ignored his startled expression and moved to the hearth and the fire that burned brightly. She was cold, trembling, but she was damned if she would show that to him. He had purposely trapped her here, and for what? Realization suddenly dawned on her. “Or perhaps, this is how I am meant to repay you for saving me from Lord Thurston?”

  His expression turned murderous. “Christ, Jane, what do you think of me?”

  “You might think that because I am a poor lady’s companion and a nurse, that you have rights to me. Because I am indebted to you for saving me from Thurston, you feel it entitles you to use me as you will.”

  “I never intended to use you, Jane.”

  She laughed without humor as she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Then what I am doing here?”

  He moved toward her, touching her, and she backed away, refusing to allow it. She was angry, her emotions volatile. And he was looking like Matthew, with his rumpled hair and night beard. He was dressed far too casually in black trousers and a white shirt that was opened, revealing his bronzed chest. The chest she had washed, touched…

  “You need to get out of those clothes, Jane, before you catch your death.”

  She was freezing, her teeth chattering uncontrollably as her wet hair dripped down her neck. He held a blanket and unwrapped it, holding it out to her. “It’s all I have.”

  She had seen too many die of pneumonia from the damp, and she’d be damned if she was going to meet her end that way. With a curse, she undid the buttons of her gown and stepped out of it. Her petticoats and corset came next, leaving her in her chemise, which was damp and clinging to her breasts.

  She felt naked and exposed, but the way he looked at her made her blood singe. Even without her spectacles, she could see his expression. Watch his eyes lingering on her breasts, on the apex of her thighs.

  “There, are you satisfied?” she snapped, tugging the blanket from his hand, which she wrapped around her shoulders.

  “This was not my intention when I asked you here tonight.”

  “Then what was it, my lord? Why won’t you just leave me be?”

  Matthew stared at her for a long moment, her question registering in his brain. He had no idea what he was about. The only thing he knew was that he was unraveling, disassembling like a madman. His actions made no sense, his thoughts, his desires ruled him now.

  He’d been enraged as he stood at Sarah’s window watching Jane with Inglebright. Mine. He had screamed the word inside his head for what seemed an eternity. Goddamn it, he couldn’t credit it, but he was envious, no, downright jealous of the bastard. Jane was his. In every corner of his mind and his cold heart, he believed it. There had been something between them those nights at the hospital, and in his carriage. It had been more than the need for sex, and Christ, he wanted it back. He sure as hell didn’t want Inglebright getting any of it.

  “I believe I begin to understand why it is you cannot leave me be. It is the object denied that is fueling you. You’re not used to being spurned, and you cannot abide the fact that someone like me, with my looks and lackluster pedigree, has done so.”

  A novelty. He had called her that in his carriage. It was partly true. He had never met a woman like her, who could rattle him the way Jane did. Yet she was so much more to him than a body to fuck. Tonight he had brought her here to talk, and yet here she was standing in her chemise, her lovely breasts clinging to the damp material. He wanted to see her bare, to rip it from her. He wanted to paint her with his eyes, and not the imaginings of the past weeks.

  Yet, she hated him. He saw it in her eyes, those gorgeous, mesmerizing pools. Christ, his knees had grown weak when he had removed her glasses. She was so…lovely to him.

  He thought back to that morning, in Raeburn’s salon, when he had confronted her. Rubbing his forehead, he sighed, allowing himself to think, however fleetingly, about those moments and the uncharacteristic feelings that had raged hot in his blood. Anger had been the first to singe him. Hell, he had been so damn angry with the chit. He could have shaken her. But why? Because you felt something for Jane and she apparently did not.

  Was that it, his pride was pricked? He had wanted her, and she didn’t want him, was that what this madness was about?

  “You wanted me,” he murmured aloud. “You invited me in, Jane.”

  “And I’m quite sure you found it rather amusing.”

  “I believed, Jane, I still believe, that I have glimpsed deeply inside you, to a place where no man has ever been invited before.”

  She glared at him. “You are uninvited, sir, for I have no desire to provide you with entertainment. I’m sure you’ve mocked me, laughed at me.”

  “Is that what you truly think, Jane? Did you feel this same contempt and hatred for Matthew as you do for the lord?”

  Her lashes lowered, shielding her response from him. Not even the faintest hint of pink on her cheeks gave away the truth. “No.”

  “Tell me why,” he asked, needing to know why she hid herself behind the veil, why she still continued to shield the truth from him. Damn it, he had taken her breasts in his mouth. Had suckled and teased as he had never done with another woman. She had touched him, stroked him—her—Jane Rankin. And by God, she had enjoyed every second in his arms. Did that day or any of their time spent together mean so very little to her? Was it only him who had been affected by the current that seemed to run charged between them?

  Christ, was he alone in his desire?

  When she looked away from him, refusing to answer his questions, he reached into his jacket and removed the slip of black lace he carried with him. The same lace he removed in order to press his lips against her bounding pulse that day in the carriage. “Why, Jane?”

  Her gaze swung back to him. She went rigid then, her gaze fixed on the strip of black lace.

  “You have obviously mistaken me for someone else, my lord.”

  “You have already admitted it, Jane, the moment you agreed to come with me to tend Sarah. You see, I remember everything that led me to come into possession of this lace. Tell me why you still insist on hiding behind the veil when I already know it was you.”

  He saw something flash in her eyes. Vulnerability. He knew it as soon as he saw it. So, it was the same for her as him. She did not want to admit she had needs—needs she had allowed him to see, had allowed herself to indulge in with him.

  They had both been weak, and neither one of them could bear it, knowing that the other had seen them exposed.

  “What will it take for you to tell me?”

  “You insult me yet again with the suggestion that I can be bought.”

  “Everyone has their price, Jane.”

  Her celadon-colored eyes flashed angrily. “Not everyone, my lord.”

  “Everyone,” he said ruthlessly.

  She tilted her head and studied him with her shrewd, intelligent eyes.

  “Are you for sale, my lord?”

  Keeping his expression inscrutable, Matthew hid the shock that lanced through him. He had not expected that from her. “If I were, would you purchase me? Well, Miss Rankin?” he asked, pretending to be bored, pretending that it was not of any import what her answer would be. Although nothing could be further from the truth. Hell, he hadn’t even drawn breath in the
past thirty seconds while he awaited her answer.

  “I would not.”

  His breath came out in a rush. Her answer did not surprise him. Miss Jane Rankin would never pay for anything—let alone a man of his reputation. He was quite certain that Jane would rather spend her days searching for ways to strip him of his flesh, not paying for it. But what did Nurse Jane want?

  “I would not purchase you, my lord, because, simply put, I would want all of you, and you would never allow that.”

  “All of me?”

  “That is the point when one purchases the body of someone, is it not? One wants the rights to that person. When one is willing to trade in currency for the soul of another, one cannot be satisfied with only half measures.”

  “I don’t understand, Miss Rankin. If a person has allowed themselves to be sold, then they must give the buyer whatever it is he or she wishes.”

  “I assumed you would think in such a way. You are a man, after all. However, my lord, you and your sex are gravely mistaken when it comes to purchasing women. You think that by buying a woman, she will give you all of her—she will not. A body and pleasure are superficial things. One can separate themselves from their body and soul. In the end, you will have the physical, but you will not have the intimacy of knowing the true woman inside the body that you use.”

  His own body grew hot as he realized just how much he wanted Jane. Not her body, but her, every little thing that made her unique, made her Jane. “You gave me all of you, Jane. I believe that.”

  She shook her head, denying it, but he felt it. Jane, the woman he had held in the carriage, was her true self.

  “It is human nature to hide a piece of one’s soul from the sight of another,” she said. “If that person is worthy of it, one day, that piece may very well be revealed. If the person is not worthy of such intimacy, then he or she shall have only the body and pleasure. No amount of money can purchase a person’s soul.”

  “Would you try to pry my secrets out of me, Jane?”

  “I am one hundred percent certain that if I were to purchase you, my lord, you would give me what you were willing to give, and nothing more. I suppose you would favor me with your reputed prowess in the boudoir, while leaving everything about yourself outside the door. It would be all physical, would it not? Nothing personal, nothing intimate. Just mechanics. There would be no emotional closeness.”

  If she were any other woman, he would have agreed. However, there was something about Jane that made him want to give her more than what he had ever favored his other conquests with. Something he had been prepared to give Jane, his shy, quiet little nurse.

  “My point, my lord, is that you cannot get what you desire simply because you have the pound notes to procure it. And because someone is purchased does not mean that they have to give everything to the one who has bought them. Who we are, what we need—that elusive glimpse into one’s soul—can never be bought. It can only be given.”

  He stopped himself from saying, somewhat impulsively, “I would give you anything you asked for,” and instead schooled his expression.

  “Are you keeping your soul from me, Jane, is that what you are trying to tell me? Are you afraid now, because I have glimpsed deeply inside you once before? Do you fear I may find out all your little secrets, all your desires and use them against you? Is this why I am uninvited?”

  “Don’t,” she whispered, backing away.

  “Why, Jane, are you afraid? You want to give a piece of yourself to me, but you don’t want to admit it, do you? You’re afraid. You don’t know what to do with the need I make you feel.”

  “Which man are you?” she challenged. “Matthew who I first met, or Wallingford?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because I liked Matthew, I would have given him anything. I abhor Wallingford. I wouldn’t give him anything of any worth, most especially my soul. Which…which man are you?”

  The silence was charged, nearly electric between them. Both of them stood watching the other, both trying to hide the fear and truth that threatened to spill out at any moment.

  “What is your price for this glimpse into your soul?” he rasped, pulling her closer. “Tell me. I will pay it.”

  “I am not for sale, my lord.”

  “Is Jane, the nurse?” he asked, scouring her face, wishing he wasn’t being such an idiot. But Christ, he couldn’t think. Couldn’t control what was coming out of his mouth. “Jane, the nurse, was eager enough for the pleasures of the flesh. Tell me, how much for her?”

  “Is Jane who you want?” He detected a sadness, a dejected tone in her voice, and his insides suddenly felt queer and unsettled. “Is she the woman of your dreams, an image you have painted in your mind? Is it that Jane you want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She nodded, accepting his honesty. “My price would be too steep—you would never pay it.”

  “Ask it.”

  She looked at him for a long time, her cheeks reddening with a becoming blush as she stood dripping wet, with the blanket around her. Finally she steeled herself and spoke. “My price, if you choose to meet it, would be you, my lord. Not Wallingford,” she clarified, “but Matthew. The man you were.”

  His breath hissed through his lips and he dropped her wrist as if he had been burned. He felt trapped, suffocated. Retreat, his mind screamed. Run away from what she is suggesting. Yet he wanted her with such fierceness, he wanted to possess her, to take her and bend her to his will. His thoughts stopped, the war within ceased, and he came to her, taking her by the shoulders, shoving her up against the wall as he tore at the slender straps of her chemise.

  “You do not know what you’re asking for,” he growled as he pressed his face into her unbound hair. It was wet, and the coolness did nothing to clear the fire that raged in him.

  “I know the man you were,” she whispered as she closed her eyes and tilted her head to the side. “I’ve glimpsed him since. Where is he, Matthew?”

  “He’s broken,” he rasped as he ran his lips down her cheek to her jaw. “He’s fucking ruined, Jane, and he’ll destroy you.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” he insisted, pushing against her, needing her, fearing the connection of her body and his. The last vestige of control left him and he growled into her ear as he captured her earlobe between his teeth, “I will make you hurt, Jane. That’s all I’m good at, hurting and fucking. I don’t know how to love, how to feel. I don’t know how to be with you. I only know how to fuck you, not even you,” he groaned, “but your body. That’s all I take—a cunt—not a body. Not a woman. Not your beautiful soul, Jane.”

  Her body went soft against his, and he pulled the blanket from her, smoothing his hands down her supple skin. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will. But I can’t let you go.” He pressed his eyes shut and fisted the hem of her chemise in his hands. “God,” he growled, fighting the memories, the fierce wave of emotions that crashed over him, “I watched you with him today. He touched you. Your knee. He looked at you, Jane.”

  “It didn’t mean any—”

  “Mine,” he snapped. He traced the uneven skin of her lip then pressed the tip of his tongue to it, making small circles over the scar. “All mine. Even though you’ll hurt at my hands, you’re mine.”

  Jane could hardly breathe. What was she doing? She had come in, determined to put him in his place, yet here she was, yearning for him. She had glimpsed Matthew, heard the pain in his voice. It had called to her, beckoned her. That tortured voice was her undoing.

  Her lips sought his, and she kissed him—softly. A brush, a slide of their mouths until he deepened it, brushing his tongue over her lips, lingering over her scar before he whispered, “All of you, Jane. I need all of you—now.”

  He tore the chemise from her body, baring her. She was utterly naked. He held her wrists in one hand, high above her head as he studied her body.

  “Jane,” he groaned as he bent to kiss her breast. She whimpered in protest
, but it came out a moan, and when his tongue searched for her nipple, it was hard. When he drew it into his mouth, her whole body tightened, her womb contracting. She was restless against him and he suckled her fiercely. When he released her, he fell to his knees and kissed her belly, her hip. With his fingertip he caressed the black bruise on her outer thigh, then kissed it, washing away the taint of Thurston’s touch. His mouth moved up, over the rise of her belly, to her right side. He kissed the scar where her appendix had been removed.

  He looked up at her as he traced the puckered flesh, then he was standing, her face clutched in his hands, his mouth hungrily searching out hers. “I cannot stand to think of his hands inside you,” he said hoarsely, kissing her with harsh intent. “He did it, didn’t he?”

  There was no questioning who he was. With a nod, Jane admitted it, and it sent him spiraling out of control.

  “His hands may have been the one to heal you, Jane. But it will be mine that awaken you.”

  His mouth moved over hers, his tongue snaking between her lips. Deeply, erotically, he made love to her mouth as his hands swept along her body, caressing her in places she had never been touched before.

  How had this happened? she wondered as she reached for his hair and brought him closer to her.

  “Jane, let me in,” he pleaded, parting her folds, spreading the wetness that lurked between them. “I want to be a part of you.” She heard the buttons of his trousers fall to the floor, and she broke off the kiss, shoved him, and he stopped, his face confused as if he, too, was shocked by the events that had transpired between them.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her eyes glistening with tears that were part pain, part sorrow. She wanted so much for this to be Matthew, but she feared that Wallingford had swallowed him up.

  He ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes, trying to gather himself. “I don’t know, Jane. I don’t know who I am.”

  14

  Matthew blew out the match and puffed on the cheroot, watching as the end glowed red. Closing his eyes, he tried not think of Jane’s ravaged expression. He tried, and failed. Already he had hurt her.