Sinful

by Charlotte Featherstone

  She was only glad that their stations in life would prevent them from crossing paths. He was lost to her now, and while it had been by her own hand, Jane still felt the decision was the right one for her. She wanted to be her own woman, living on her own terms, not a gentleman’s mistress who would shower her with gifts and pleasure when it suited him, only to discard her when he was through with her.

  Jane had seen that happen too many times with Lady Blackwood’s friends. She heard the women at the hospital whispering amongst themselves about their ill-fated love affairs. She had lived it with her own mother.

  A woman’s worth was more than a comfortable home and bedsport for a man. She had always believed that, with every ounce of her being. But lately, she had to remind herself that it was a mantra still worth believing.

  She had wanted an honest relationship with him. A marriage, legal in the eyes of the law and the church. She did not want to live in sin, despite that it was love that had brought them together.

  “Ah, there you are,” Lady Blackwood said as Jane entered the breakfast room. “How was your night at the hospital, dear?”

  “Quite well, thank you,” she replied as she sat down and poured herself a cup of tea. It was increasingly difficult to hide behind the facade she had constructed. She didn’t want Lady Blackwood to suspect she harbored a wounded heart, as well as a pining one, for Wallingford.

  “You’re working too much, gel. I see the weariness about your eyes. Take a break from the hospital. Inglebright will take you back whenever you desire. You know that. Besides, I’m certain you’ve tucked away the tidy sum you made while caring for the duke’s daughter—there is no reason to work for wages at the hospital.”

  She couldn’t give up being a nurse. It was the only thing that kept her from going insane in the long, dark hours of the night.

  Lady Blackwood’s rheumy gaze clouded even more. “You know, Jane, that you do not have to continue like this. It’s no secret that I am not rich, but I have put aside a portion for you after I depart this life. It will allow you to live quite well, I think.”

  Tears stung her eyes, and Jane tried hard to swallow the tea without choking. A life without Matthew, and now the thought of losing the woman who was like a mother to her. “How can I ever repay you?”

  “You already have, with years of exceptional care and friendship. I do not believe you have an inkling of your worth, Jane.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Lady Blackwood cocked her head to the side and studied her. “Will you not confide in me, Jane?” she asked in a gruff voice. “It pains me to see you hurt like this. You try very hard to hide it, but you never were one capable of deceit.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured as she reached for a slice of toast and the crystal jam bowl. “I’m just a bit tired.” Jane nodded to the newspaper, which was folded up and resting beside Lady Blackwood’s plate. “What gossip is there to be had this morning?”

  “Oh, the usual,” she replied, resting her wrinkled and gnarled hand on top of it.

  “Come now, you love to tell me of the gossip.”

  “No, nothing of any import.”

  “Well, that is a first, for every morning for the past fourteen years you have regaled me with the flummery of the society pages.”

  “Jane, don’t,” she commanded, struggling to hold on to the paper as Jane pulled it out from beneath her hand. It was more than a command, Jane thought, freezing, it was a plea.

  Very slowly, Lady Blackwood lifted her wrinkled hand and met Jane’s gaze. “The paper says that Lord Wallingford is to wed Constance Jopson today at his estate.”

  The toast turned to sawdust in Jane’s mouth. She struggled to keep her facade, to find the right words that would throw her employer off the scent she had obviously discovered. But the thought of Matthew’s marriage, the finality of it all, made her disguise crumble.

  “How very nice,” she replied, glancing out the window. “It’s lovely and sunny today. I hope the weather is the same in the north of the country.”

  “Jane?” Her name was a question filled with worry.

  “Is there any other entertaining news,” she asked, smearing more jam on her toast and averting the conversation her employer was bent on having.

  “This came.” A white envelope with a red wax seal appeared from beneath the paper. One glance at the seal, and she knew who it was from. Her heart leaped in her chest, even as her hand tightened around the knife.

  Lady Blackwood rose unsteadily from her chair. “I am rather tired,” she murmured. “I don’t believe I will need you today, Jane. Have the day with my blessing.”

  A warm, leathery hand pressed affectionately atop her shoulder. “I am always here for you, Jane. Please remember that.”

  With a nod, Jane struggled to hide the wetness in her eyes as her gaze strayed once more to the letter. With a gentle pat, Lady Blackwood left her alone.

  When she picked up the missive, she brought the paper to her face, smelling the ink, the faint scent of his cologne and the acrid aroma of a cheroot. Closing her eyes, she rested the missive against her cheek, holding it there as though it were his hand cradling her face.

  She was at once eager, yet terrified, to read it. Either way, its contents would only bring pain. She could not go against her desires to be an independent woman and become his mistress. A mistress was chained to a man, bought by him solely for pleasure.

  And what if he was not renewing his offer, she thought sadly. In all honesty, that would hurt her even more.

  She wouldn’t read it, she decided. But she could not toss the letter aside, or throw it into the fire. She would keep it safe and in a place where she could look at it whenever she felt the need to be close to him once again. And one day, she might find the inner strength and emotional peace to read it.

  The drizzle was cold. Damp. The sort of chill that found its way through woolens and down to the bone, yet he didn’t feel a thing. The sky, a gunmetal gray, was ominous, as the heavy rain-filled clouds hung low on the horizon. Leaning against the stone railing of the bridge, Matthew stared down at the deep, dark water below.

  He always loved the garden in this weather. It looked hauntingly beautiful in this light. It looked ghostly and lonely, the drizzle only adding to the ambience, echoing what was inside him, the place where his soul and heart should have resided. A place that was now a desolate wasteland of emptiness.

  It had been two months since he’d seen Jane, or heard her soft, whispering voice. Yet he recalled her face as clearly as if he had just left her in bed. He heard her voice—constantly—whispering to him throughout the day and night.

  The throbbing in his chest, the need to see her once more had not dissipated over time, but only grown until it had become a consuming compulsion. He had all but moved into his cottage, painting and sculpting all day and night, only to sleep fitfully in the bed they had once shared. Everything always came back to Jane. Even the sculpture of orange blossoms he had carved had been about Jane. His whole damn life revolved around her, and likely always would.

  Not a word from her, he thought, fisting his hands together as he looked out on to the still waters of the lake. Every damn day he scoured the salver, searching for a letter, but none ever came. Did she even think about him anymore?

  Pathetic though it was, his entire days were spent thinking of her. Wishing it could be different, wishing she could be different. If only she had been rich. If only she wasn’t so strong in her convictions. If only she could be bought…

  But then she would not be his Jane. She would be Constance. It wasn’t Constance he wanted. He wanted Jane. The woman who had opened his eyes to life. The woman who had borne his cruel tongue and coldness. The woman who had slowly and carefully pulled away each of his defenses to see the bleeding core of him. The woman who understood his past and how he could have committed such reprehensible sin.

  Jane…

  Between his fingers, he watched the blood-red sa
tin ribbon ripple in the breeze. She had freed him with this bind, yet once again he was bound. The memories of that afternoon constantly replayed in his mind. Alone in bed, he thought how much he wanted to be touched. How he craved the feel of Jane’s delicate fingers caressing his chest. He fantasized of her mouth on his cock, sucking him in deep, her tongue slowly trailing along his shaft. With her it had not been dirty and shameful. With her, he had not looked down between his thighs and seen something sinful and wrong. When he had closed his eyes, allowing himself the pleasure of experiencing Jane’s gentling suckling mouth, he had not seen Miranda between his legs. He had not heard her cruel words. He had not been fifteen. A boy. He’d been a man. Jane’s man.

  Last night, alone in his cottage, he sat in bed, his back to the headboard while he lazily stroked himself. It had felt good, his fisted hand sliding up and down his shaft. He had thought of Jane, her hand, her mouth, and his release had been explosive, coming in hot spurts on his belly. He had gone to sleep like that, spent, yet still hungry for more.

  “You’re going to get sick.”

  Drawn out of his thoughts, he saw Sarah standing beside him. She offered him part of her umbrella. Standing close to him, she sheltered them. “What are you doing out here at this time of the morning, it’s not much more than six,” he asked.

  “I saw you leave your cottage. You looked sad.”

  He could not look her in the eye, so he turned his gaze to the water once more.

  “You’re always sad now,” she said quietly. “My heart hurts when you’re sad.”

  He said nothing, and she pressed closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “I want to make you smile again, brother.”

  His eyes closed, hating the lie on her lips. He’d done nothing but lie to her, and here she was, trying to give him solace. She would never understand the circumstances of her birth, or what Miranda had done to her and why. He would never be able to tell her that he was not her brother, but her father.

  “Matthew, does your heart hurt because you miss Miss Rankin?”

  “Yes.” He could not lie to Sarah, not about Jane. It felt wrong to lie about someone he loved so much, someone who meant so much to him.

  “I miss her, too. Maybe she’ll come back.”

  “She will not be coming back,” he gasped in a choked voice.

  “Lady Raeburn says that if you want something bad enough, that you must pray for it. I’ve prayed every night for her to come back to be my friend. Have you prayed, Matthew?”

  “Yes.” His voice was a pained whisper. Christ, he had prayed, begged, bartered for some miracle to be created so that he would not have to go through with this marriage. So that he could have Jane once more.

  Sarah reached for his hand and clutched his fingers. “I know it’s not the same, Matthew, but I will be your friend.”

  Clinging to her hand, he finally brought his gaze to her face. Such a beautiful face, with honest guileless eyes. The color was his, but his eyes had never shone with such open trust, his eyes had always glittered with mockery and pessimism.

  He kissed her forehead, taking her strength. “You are the very best of me,” he whispered.

  They stood quietly for a few minutes, before Sarah brightened.

  “There is the black swan that Miss Rankin liked so much,” she said, pointing to a spot where the branches of a weeping willow dipped into the water. Paddling through was a lone swan, its feathers black as midnight.

  “Its mate died. He swims about all day looking for her. It would be awful to be alone all the time, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes. Terrible,” he replied, thinking how he had floundered about these past months searching for a way to be with Jane.

  “Do you know that swans only mate once in their lives?” Sarah asked him. “That poor swan will be alone without his mate for the rest of his life. How long will he live?” she asked.

  “Mercifully, not long,” he replied, thinking of the decades he had lying before him.

  “Humans are like swans, they only love once, too, don’t they?”

  His voice became choked. “Yes, they do. But sometimes love is not enough to keep the one you love with you.”

  Looking down at his hand, he opened his fingers and allowed the crimson ribbon to flutter down. He watched it spiral down to the water, a feather falling from the sky.

  It began to rain then, the drops heavy, landing on the satin as it floated atop the water. It reminded him of teardrops, and he was thrust back to his cottage when he chased the shadows of raindrops on Jane’s skin.

  “Goodbye, Miss Rankin,” Sarah murmured quietly beside him.

  Matthew watched as the water took the satin beneath its depths. “Goodbye, Jane.”

  Like an automaton, Matthew reached for the handle and opened the door to his wife’s bedchamber. Christ! His wife. He’d been married that morning, only a few short hours after being on the bridge, saying his goodbyes to Jane.

  It had been a simple, short service. Without any of the fripperies that came with a wedding. The vows had been shortened to within an inch of what was considered a legal marriage. He absolutely refused to say “with my body I thee worship.”

  But the vow had run through his thoughts all day, as he imagined Jane standing before him, him vowing to love her, and her body, until death do they part.

  “At last,” came the husky voice from the depths of the lavishly draped bed. “I was starting to wonder if you would ever come out of that cottage of yours.”

  His body tensed and he paused, just inside the room, wondering if it was too late to turn back and run away. He’d never been a coward before, but this night…what would happen, made him want to run and hide, never to be found again.

  “I see you needed liquid courage,” Constance purred with amusement. “I rather wondered if your reputation was misplaced.”

  Drowning the amber contents of his glass, Matthew set it on the table beside him and closed the door. He hoped to God that five glasses of brandy was going to allow him to crawl into bed with this creature.

  As he stepped farther into the room, he saw Constance lying in the middle of the bed, artfully arranged. She wore a sheer gown, which hid nothing of her body beneath. Her long hair was unbound and spread over both pillows. One leg was bent, and she let it fall to the side, exposing her sex to him.

  His body did not react. His stomach, however, protested. He could not do this, sink himself inside this woman. Not after what he had shared with Jane. With her, he had learned that sex brought more than the physical release of animal lust. With Jane, sex had been about mutual pleasures, a shared connection both physical and emotional. With her, there had been touching, whispering—love.

  “Well, my lord? Am I not to your liking?”

  Constance knew very well that she was any man’s dream. Her body was trim and long legged. Her breasts pert with ripe, pink nipples. Any man would pursue her, any man but him.

  Drawing a finger along her sex, she parted her outer lips, showing him that she was already wet. She was an erotic picture lying like this, and before Jane he would have fallen atop her and taken her, amused by her blatant sexuality. But now, he felt only repulsion.

  “Come to bed,” she murmured as she pleasured herself. “I’m quite certain we will both find it an enjoyable ride.” Her gaze flickered along his body and he willed his cock to respond, but it wouldn’t, and it wasn’t because of the half bottle of brandy he had downed, either. He was simply ruined for anyone but Jane.

  “Take off your robe,” she commanded, “and let me see what I’ve got myself, along with a title.”

  He tore the silk dressing gown off his body, angered that he was not only a prize, but a stud to service her, as well. He was breathing hard, and the muscles of his chest and abdomen responded to the inner rage that was roiling within him.

  “Very nice,” she said with an appreciative sigh. “Even in this state, you are rather large.”

  His cock wa
s limp. He would need to toss off to get it hard, but he didn’t want her eyes on him as he did it. And he didn’t want her hands all over him, either. He was able to have no other hands over his body but Jane’s.

  She kneeled before him as he stood beside the bed. When she looked up at him, her eyes were filled with malice.

  “I will be anything you want tonight, my lord, but there is one thing I won’t be—and that’s your little nurse. So if you’re thinking of pretending I’m her, you can shove that notion aside. I’d rather have you take me as a whore than to make believe I am that pathetic creature beneath you.”

  Never in a million years could he make the mistake that Constance was Jane. The eyes looking at him were nothing but manipulating, scheming eyes, and Jane’s had been so trusting, so understanding.

  “Will we consummate this marriage tonight?” she asked, reaching for him.

  “Alliance,” he growled, shoving her hand away and reaching for his member. He did not leisurely glide his hand up along the shaft as Jane had done. He did not enjoy the first sensations of his cock filling with blood the way he did last night when he had masturbated. He felt dirty doing it like this, the way Miranda had liked, sitting on her knees with his cock before her face. She had liked to watch him pulling and tugging. “Harder,” she would tease as he grew excited and dangerously aroused.

  Constance watched him with the same lascivious gaze as Miranda once did.

  “Look at the size of you,” she purred appreciatively as his cock grew in his hand. “I can’t wait to have it filling me. Your merits certainly have not been overblown. And you certainly know what to do with it, don’t you?”

  Closing his eyes, he tried not to see Constance or Miranda. Tried not to hear Miranda’s voice, saying, “This is all you’re good for, fucking….”

  Harder and harder, he shoved his hand up and down, strangling the shaft and making the head swell. He saw Constance sway, her mouth opening, preparing to take him in, and he froze for the briefest of seconds.