“On your knees,” he growled. “Face the other way.”
If she was disappointed by his lack of finesse in foreplay, she showed no outward signs. Making a show of it, she slowly slid the gown from her body. Her attempts were all in vain, for he could never be ensnared by her charms.
This was fucking, pure and simple. A way to procreate. Not create a child as Raeburn had done with Anais. No, he was fornicating to produce an heir and build the Torrington dynasty. And this woman, this conniving…viper…would be the mother.
“Come to me, my lord. You tease me with your cock.”
“Don’t talk,” he commanded as he reached for her hips. With one swift thrust, he sunk his cock into her depths. She was wet and she moaned, her hands fisting the coverlet as she rolled her hips.
“Oh, God, yes, you do know what to do with that glorious staff.”
If he had thought she was a virgin, he would have been more careful upon entering her. But she was, as he suspected, well used to physical pleasure.
Her hips rolled beneath his palms while her quim gripped his cock. He shoved up against her, impaling his entire length into her. She moaned, and he hated her for enjoying it, for feeling anything but dirty and shamed.
He felt dirty. And guilty.
“Faster,” she begged, throwing her bottom out at him, and he heard Miranda’s voice, all those years ago as he sweated atop her, driving his cock deep into her cunt. “This is the only reason why women will want you, this,” she had said as she scratched her nails down his back and ass. “This body, this cock. It’s the only thing you have that’s worth anything.”
Fingers pressing into her hips, Matthew drove deep into his wife, not to feel pleasure, but to exorcise the voice in his head, the memories of all the meaningless sex he’d had in his life.
He had never taken Jane like this, just fucking and fucking without thought. Without feeling. Without pleasure.
“Yes!” Constance cried out, screaming as he pounded into her. He was sweating, breathless, as he increased the depths and speed of his thrusts. He was mindless now, feeling nothing but contempt and hatred for her, and himself. He didn’t know how he would come like this. And he didn’t want to think of Jane, to sully the nights they had shared as he fucked Constance.
But in the end, it was the only thing he could do, pretend that he was pounding into Jane, punishing her for leaving him, fucking her so hard that she would never, ever think to leave him again.
He hated how he was thinking, despised Constance before him, on her knees, begging for him to give her more. Christ, he was empty, just a shell of himself. He had nothing to give, not even his seed.
He did not want to make a child with another woman he despised. He did not want to give Constance anything of himself. She could have the title, the money, the estate and the house in London, if she would but leave him be, if she would make no demands upon him to take her to bed and breed with her.
But Sarah would not be safe from the clutches of his father. As her brother, he had no power. The only power he had was to come, spill his seed and give his father an heir. That was the only way Sarah would remain safe at home.
He prayed then, like never before, begging for anyone, God or devil, to give him release so he could end this torture. He wasn’t certain who heard him, but he felt his seed speed up his shaft and pulse through the slit in the head.
He watched his shaft bob up and down, still buried deep in Constance, and all he could think about was how he had never once bathed Jane’s womb with his essence.
Constance collapsed against the bed, her face glowing with the last vestiges of pleasure. Closing her eyes, she smiled. “Miranda was right, you are a beast in bed.”
23
“Jane?”
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Jane knew it would be impossible to hide her feelings, or her swollen eyes, from Lady Blackwood.
The sound of her cane thumping slowly across the hardwood floor made Jane’s heart pump faster. Her mind raced for an excuse for the tears.
“I have a terrible headache,” she mumbled into the pillow. “Please forgive me for missing dinner.”
She felt the bed sag, then the warmth of Lady Blackwood’s hand on her hip. “I understand you ache, but I doubt it is your head, Jane.”
Fresh tears filled her eyes, and Jane pinched the feather pillow in a fruitless attempt to stop them and the sob that swelled in her throat.
“No words are necessary, gel. I can see what it is in your heart, and it pains me to know that you’re hurting. I know of your love for Wallingford, Jane. There is no need to protect me from the truth. Let it out, dearest,” she whispered. “A good cry always makes thing seem better.”
“I couldn’t do it,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t be his mistress.”
“Oh, Jane,” she whispered. Jane fell into her arms and cried as Lady Blackwood gently rocked her.
It was dark outside, the moon high in the sky. Matthew would be wed now, and no doubt would be in bed with his new wife. Jane choked through sobs at the thought of his body loving Constance. His beautiful hands touching and caressing, his wicked lips whispering…
Her gaze fell to his letter, which had fallen to the floor. She had not been able to resist opening it, and the pain she knew it would cause her was ten times more horrible than she had imagined.
Dearest Jane,
I do not know what to say, how to tempt you. If you had a price, I would pay it. If you desired particular words, I would say them. I would be anything you want, Jane. Just come back. Please come back.
I am utterly miserable without you. It’s rained every day since you left, and I have done nothing but stare out my cottage window and remember you, lying in my bed, your skin flushed with excitement. I remember the way you felt beneath me—atop me. I can still taste you. I think I always will. My memories are all of you, Jane, and your image will not leave. It haunts me day and night. You fill my dreams, fuel my erotic fantasies.
I miss you, Jane, the sound of your breathing, the feel of you lying next to me.
Tell me you’re miserable, too. Tell me you’re lonely, that you think of me in the night. Tell me you dream of me and the pleasure you once found with me. Tell me that you regret leaving and that you are coming to me on the next train…
You know there are circumstances I cannot change. I wish I could turn back the hands of time, but that is not possible. The only possibility is to tell you that I love you, over and over again, and that I want to be with no one but you, Jane. You are my life. My love. My soul.
I am begging, Jane, come back and let me love you. Let us live in this little cottage, away from the world and worry about only us.
All you need to know is that I will wait—forever—Jane, for you to come back. One day you will…you have to.
My eternal love,
Matthew
“My darling, there is something I wish to say to you, and I’ll only say it once. We will talk about it no more.”
With her gnarled fingers, Lady Blackwood brushed Jane’s tears from her face. “When one is as old as I, one cannot go through life without regrets. I have a few, but do you know what my biggest regret is?”
Jane shook her head and Lady Blackwood clasped her cheeks and forced Jane to look at her. “It’s going through this life as though it were a dress rehearsal.”
Jane frowned, and Lady B. smiled. “I’ve been living my life, trying to get it right for the next go-round, Jane, and there’s no guarantee that we’re going to get it, that chance to live life perfectly. What if this is our only chance?”
Lady Blackwood stood at the side of the bed and smiled down at her. “Once the tears are all dried up, Jane, think of what I’ve said.”
Jane watched her leave, then picked up Matthew’s letter. Had she made a mistake? Would time tell her?
She looked out the window and up at the sky, searching for answers. There was no message, no fork of lightning to let her know what she should do. B
ut the answer was there, niggling deep down inside her.
She thought of Matthew. And missed him so much.
Lying back on the bed, she read his letter again, this time allowing herself to trace the words as she imagined him writing it to her. Her heart hurt, more than she ever thought possible.
She wanted to go to him, but pride was the only thing she had left. So pride kept her in London.
The crisp autumn air was pungent with the smell of drying leaves. The air was chilled, and Matthew took a sip of his tea, trying in vain to warm himself. London in autumn was always dismal and damp, and this autumn in particular was miserable.
It had been five months since he’d wed. Five months of feeling cold and empty. He took another sip of tea and savored the fleeting warmth as he set his cup back into the saucer and reached for the Times.
The slap of a hand on top of his newspaper made him look up. It was Constance, buzzing about the breakfast table. The sight of her irritated him. He always ate breakfast alone, while her ladyship slept the day away. He wondered what could possibly have her up at this hour, interrupting his meal.
“Guess what?” she teased.
“I don’t care for games,” he grumbled.
“You’ll like this one.”
“No, I won’t. Say what you need to say.”
She leaned down and looked into his eyes. “I’m breeding.”
His spoon clanked against the saucer and her grin widened in triumph. Her smile, he noted, was pure venom. “Dr. Inglebright has confirmed it.”
“Which Inglebright?” he demanded.
“Why, the younger, of course. You didn’t think I would allow that old man to touch me, not when his very handsome son is quite capable.”
Matthew swallowed the bile that rose from his stomach. “When?”
“When? Why, our wedding night, it was the only time you ever demanded your husbandly rights.”
He shut his eyes, prayed for patience. “When did you see Inglebright?”
“Yesterday. I made certain to tell him that we would be overjoyed and most thankful if he would share the news with Miss Rankin, who, I believe, is his nurse.”
He reached out and shackled her wrist. “Do not play games with Jane.”
She arched her brow but said nothing.
“When is the child to arrive?”
“Spring. April, perhaps,” she said with a shrug.
He sat back in his chair. A host of emotions swirling inside him.
“I saw Miss Rankin at the Crystal Palace yesterday. And I saw you. Were you meeting her?”
“No.” He picked up his paper and took a sip of his tea. But he had followed Jane. Had followed her for weeks, since they had returned to London. She hadn’t seen him, but he had watched her, and agonized over every second he was parted from her.
He had written to her, but she had not responded to his letters. He had called on Lady Blackwood only to be told Jane was out. Discreetly he had inquired about Inglebright and discovered that he was courting someone, someone he feared was Jane.
“I will not be in for dinner this evening,” Constance announced. “I’ll be dining with friends.”
Which was not different from any other night, he mused. “I have to go to the gallery and will not be home for dinner, either,” he said, rising from his chair. “I…” He flushed, not knowing what to say. “The babe—” He stopped, tried to grapple with what he wanted to say.
“I hope you recall our alliance, my lord. Your brat for my freedom. I will be returning to London as soon as it is safe to rise from childbirth.”
He had expected no maternal feelings from Constance. But the fact she held nothing for the life growing inside her sickened him. Suddenly he felt sorrow for his child. It was a product of an alliance. Not love. The child’s mother would never willingly be a part of his or her life. It was up to him alone to love the child. Yet another one of his children he was left alone to care for.
“You are not going back on our bargain, are you?” Constance asked, her shrewd gaze raking over him.
“I haven’t had a change of heart,” he mumbled as he returned to his paper. Good God, his heart could never change toward Constance. She truly was a pit viper, as Raeburn had so succinctly and correctly described her.
“When will you leave for Bewdley?” he asked, attempting to be civil out of deference for her condition.
She frowned, as he knew she would despise the fact that once she began to appear in the family way, she would be banished to his father’s country seat. How she would rail against leaving London and her cronies. “Another month, perhaps. Longer if I can conceal this monstrous belly.”
“Shall I go with you?” he managed to ask, more out of politeness than desire. Hell, he’d nearly choked on the words.
She snorted and reached for the teapot. “There is no need to dance attendance upon me when both of us know that this is nothing more than a business transaction. I will be gone in a month, banished to the hell on earth that is the north country. I will deliver this infant and pray with all my might that it is a son, so that I might never be forced to endure this again. And then, after my lying-in period, which Doctor Inglebright assures me won’t be any longer than two months, I will be off with my friends on a well-deserved vacation. The continent, or America, perhaps,” she said with a little shrug. “At any rate, you and I will no longer have any reason to get along as the terms of this marriage—” she sneered the word “—will be met.”
He inclined his head, feeling chilled to the bone. He despised Constance, but the child she carried was an innocent, a pawn created by his father’s greed and his overwhelming need to drive Matthew to his knees.
As he sat staring at Constance, he could not help but compare her to Jane. He had wanted to see Jane round with his child. He had wanted to place his head on her belly and stroke her. He was repulsed even giving fleeting thought to doing any of that with Constance.
Their gazes met, and he didn’t know what to say. Congratulations were not right, nor was any expression of happiness. It was relief, for both sides. The end of their acquaintance was at hand, but only if this child was a son.
He thought of Sarah, his daughter. Thought of this babe, and knew without a doubt, that he would care for and love this child, this innocent life who was going to have the misfortune of being brought into the world by two people who could not stand the sight of one another. No, he vowed, once this babe was delivered, he would not think this way. He would love it. Raise it. Forget that Constance’s blood also flowed in its veins. The task would be made all the more easily when Constance was off, traipsing about the world, spending as much money as she desired, leaving him and his child alone, to see to their own happiness.
Shoving back his chair, he stood and addressed her. “Well then, I’m off. The gallery opening is tonight. I’ll be late.”
She waved him off as she spread jam on her toast. “I’ll be shopping.”
Jane shuffled through the entrance of the gallery, hidden among the throng of other guests. She wore her best gown bought with the money she had been saving forever, and slipped her spectacles into her reticule.
Nervously she walked in, hoping that opening night was the right time to come. It was packed and he wouldn’t see her. Just one more time, she told herself. She wanted one more glimpse. And to see his artwork.
Moving with the crowd of women, she hid behind a large woman wearing a feathered hat.
“There he is,” one of the women hissed. “Is his wife with him?”
Jane strained to see beyond the feathers. Between the shoulders of two women, she saw Matthew, dressed in black, looking lethally handsome, standing at the front, greeting guests.
“Of course she’s not. That harpy is too busy out gallivanting.”
“No too busy to conceive, though,” the lady in the feather hat whispered. “I was at Fortnum & Mason’s this morning and heard her announce it. She’s with child.”
Jane gasped, a loud chok
ing sound. Oh, God, it was more than she could bear. She needed to leave before she became ill.
“Five months along,” the woman said knowingly. “A honeymoon babe.”
Unable to hide the little squeak of pain, Jane tried to move, but she saw that Matthew had turned as if searching for the source of the noise. Then he began to move toward the group of women she was hiding behind. Trapped, she turned her back, hoping he would think she was looking at the art, and not him.
As she turned, a slash of pink caught her eye and she whirled back to a portrait done in creams and pinks. It was a nude. A woman with a voluptuous body was sleeping on a bed, quince blossoms scattered over the sheets and her hair—which was red. Her arm was lying crossed over her eyes and her lips were parted as though she was having the most delicious dream ever.
Jane bit her lip and told herself she would not cry.
“Aren’t you beautiful,” a darkly sensual voice whispered into her ear. “That’s how I’ve always seen you, Jane. That is the moment I fell in love with you.”
She whirled around and came face-to-face with him for the first time since their separation seven months before. The effect was dizzying and she fought the urge to fall into his arms.
“Jane,” he whispered, taking her hand. “There is a door ahead of you,” he murmured, urging her forward. “Wait there. I won’t be but a minute.”
Blindly, Jane went through and heard the door close behind her. She found herself seated on a lounge by the hearth, her shoulders trembling from tension and self-inflicted pain. Why? Why had she come tonight? Had she thought she could watch him and feel nothing? Did she actually believe the drivel she had concocted that she could think of him as a friend, could think on their time together as a period of sexual enlightenment?
Fool, she gasped and choked back a sob. She had not thought those things. She did sob then, a small strangling sound, and she covered her mouth and leaned to the side so that she could press her cheek into the curved arm of the lounge and allow her tears—fat and scalding—to slide down her cheeks.
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