The door opened and her gaze darted to it, only to see Matthew shouldering his way through and pressing his back against the door until it clicked firmly shut. His gaze met hers and then suddenly he was on his knees before her, his face pressed into her skirts as he rubbed his cheeks against her thighs.
“I am in hell,” he groaned, and his fingers fisted into the silk of her skirts. “Seeing you tonight has been my salvation and my agony.”
Lifting her face from the arm of the lounge, she bent over him, kissing the top of his head and running her hands through his tousled hair.
“When, Jane,” he asked, his voice gruff and full of emotion, “when will I look at you and think of you as a friend? When will I see you and not feel my body harden and ache to be inside you?”
His hot hands slid down her calves and snaked their way beneath her skirts so that he could wrap his fingers along her ankles and slide them up along her stocking-clad leg.
“When will I stop dreaming of you wearing nothing but crème stockings and lace garters?”
He bent to kiss her ankle, then slowly he raised her skirts, pushing the silk and petticoats up so that her stockings were revealed to him. His mouth was everywhere, nipping at her calves, her knees and the inside of her thighs. He hesitated for a moment, then ran his lips along her mound that she had not been able to bring herself to cover with drawers.
“I dream of this naked, wet flesh. I crave it,” he whispered, and dropped a kiss amongst her curls before wrapping his arms around her hips and clutching her close to him so that his face rested on her bare thighs, and his breath caressed her apex.
“When I saw you tonight without your spectacles, I nearly went mad.” He raised his head and looked at her, and she had never seen him look more handsome than he was peering up at her from behind the crinkled blue silk. “I’m supposed to be the only man to see behind the glass.” Her lips trembled and smothered a soft sob of longing. “It is only me that should be removing them. Only me you should see atop you.”
“Matthew,” she whispered shakily, raking an unsteady hand through his hair.
“God help me, Jane,” he cried, grasping her to him as he buried his face in her lap. “I cannot do this! I cannot let you be. I would forsake her—desert little Sarah for one more taste of you. I swear, I need you—need the little piece of heaven you can give me. What sort of a man am I?” he cried.
“What am I?” she asked shakily as his fingers pressed into her thighs, parting her, exposing her glistening need to him. “What sort of woman am I that could wish—hope—that you would do such a thing? What sort of wicked wanton am I that would turn you, an honorable man, into a shell of himself, and all for an illicit taste of sin.”
“Never illicit,” he whispered, looking up at her. “Never sin. Just beautiful and passionate love.” He blinked and she saw moisture shine in his eyes. “I have never loved before you, Jane. And I shall never love after.”
He needed her. She felt it in his taut shoulders. Saw it in his eyes. Heard it in his words. Felt it through his trembling fingers. And she needed him—so desperately.
He rose from his knees and reached out to her, his hand trembling as he offered her something she wanted so badly. She reached for him and he grasped her around the waist and swung her up into his arms.
“There is so much to say, Jane,” he said, his voice harsh with need. “So many things we must say to each other, but I cannot take the time. I need you. Let me show you with my body what I feel, what I cannot find words for.”
He carried her to his desk, their mouths a frenzy of heated, hungry kisses. They tore at each other’s clothes, their hands stroking, caressing, grasping at silk and flesh.
“Jane, oh, God,” he moaned as she pulled his shirt over his head, and raked her nails down his shoulders. “God, yes, score me. Mark me.”
She was hungry for his love, for the sex he could give her. The emotions created a tempest, and she rode it, allowing herself not to think, only to feel.
Her bodice came free, and he found her breasts beneath her chemise. He groaned when he realized she hadn’t worn a corset and was bare beneath the thin linen.
“I need you,” he growled, and he pushed her back onto the desk. He climbed onto her, tore at her chemise, ripping it—and thrust it aside, baring her breasts. Greedily, he lifted her breasts up to his mouth.
“Matty!” she cried as he suckled her fiercely.
His hands, warm and large, lifted her skirts and she helped him, dear God, she actually lifted them for him and spread her thighs, giving him room to touch her, take her.
With his teeth, he pulled and nibbled at her nipple, and snaked his hand beneath her gown, then his fingers were parting her sex.
“You’re wet, Jane.”
“Please,” she gasped as she pulled at the front of his trousers. But he slid off the desk, depriving her of his body. Then he was bending over her, kissing her thigh, then her sex.
“Very wet,” he whispered. “I want you on my lips, my tongue.”
His tongue wickedly licked her, and she clutched his head, allowing it, begging for more. It felt so good, but it wasn’t enough She wanted him inside her, his cock filling her.
Suddenly, she was pulled to the edge of the desk. He tugged her up so that he was standing between her legs, and they were eye level. When their gazes were locked, he filled her with one thrust, the sensation so beautiful that she said, “Again.”
He did it again. Over and over, filling her with firm strokes, and all the while they looked into each other’s eyes.
“I want to fill you,” he said, his voice hard. “I want you to have me inside you as long as possible, forever,” he whispered.
“Matthew,” she cried as her orgasm built. Yes, she wanted that, too. A piece of him.
His hips moved faster and faster against her, and then his hands were cupping her bottom, lifting her up from the desk to meet his strokes. The penetration was more forceful, deeper, feral.
“Fuck me,” he rasped next to her ear.
She did. She wrapped her legs around his waist, scored his back and bit his shoulder. He filled her hard, his chest, damp with sweat, rubbed against her breasts as she took him deep, the sounds of their mating filling the small room.
Harder and harder he stroked her, pounding into her. He got no closer, no deeper, yet she wanted more. Deeper, harder, she gasped, and he gave it to her.
“Jane, oh, God, it’s not long enough,” he growled as he slammed once more into her, but she clutched him tight to her as he flicked his finger over her sex and made her tremble.
She screamed, and he caught it on his mouth, kissing her, his tongue touching hers. With another thrust he filled her hard, and Jane’s fingers found his buttocks. She squeezed, holding him to her, and she felt him pour himself into her in hot spurts.
“Jane,” he whispered, “please.” He touched her hair, her cheeks. “Will you not come back? Please?”
She kissed him, felt the tears that once again welled in her eyes. “No, I cannot. It is not in me to be a man’s mistress. I need more.”
“I can give you what you want, Jane.”
She slid down the desk, and fixed her gown. “Except one thing.”
24
A whole year had passed since she had first met and given her heart to Lord Wallingford. It seemed so quick, yet so long. She had only been with him a few short weeks, but a year later he was still in her thoughts.
Besides that one glorious night at his gallery, Jane had not seen him. There had been no more letters. No more sightings of him in London. He had returned to the country, where Constance had been delivered of a son.
Edward, they had called him, or so the newspaper had reported. Matthew’s life had gone on, while Jane’s remained stagnant.
A dress rehearsal, Lady Blackwood had called it.
She had learned much about herself this past year—her strengths, her flaws, her humanity. About what it meant to love and what it was to live
with a broken heart and regrets that seemed more unbearable day after day. But most important, she had learned who she was on the inside. What sort of woman she needed to be. At last, she knew the recipe for her own happiness.
She had wept and grown melancholy, allowing the days to pass to weeks, and the weeks to months, until she had finally grown sick of feeling sad and empty, and decided to move on with her life. That was what she was doing today, leaving the past behind, and embracing the future. But the past, she knew, could never be put to bed, without some measure of closure.
As she climbed the hill, trudging through long grass, she stopped and enjoyed the vista and inhaled the scent of spring. It was a lovely day, warm and sweetly scented with the May air.
Pausing, she shielded her eyes and looked across the water, which glistened like gems in the sunlight. Taking a deep breath, she realized that she had come full circle.
The baby began to cry, and Matthew waved away the nurse. Reaching for the babe himself, he brought his son up to his chest and cradled his little head in his palm.
Six weeks old and growing like a weed. Edward nuzzled his fists and was soon placated as Matthew gently rocked him. He would have to go to the nurse soon, but Matthew was not ready to give him up.
Whispering nonsense words, he picked up his brush and began painting again. It was a garden landscape that he hoped to finish soon. He wanted to send it back to the gallery, which he had neglected since Edward’s birth. His son fussed again, and Matthew jiggled him as he had seen the wet nurse do. Unable both to paint and soothe his son, Matthew placed his brush into the jar and held his son up tight against his chest. Edward cried, then stopped, having found another source of amusement.
Matthew looked down to see his son chewing on the pendant he wore around his neck. It was a portrait of Jane he had painted. He never took it off.
“Had it not been for her,” Matthew said, “I could never have loved you.”
“Yes, you could.”
Matthew bolted up and the baby cried in surprise. Turning, he found Jane standing in the grass at the side of his cottage. “Jane?” he murmured as though he were seeing an apparition.
“Hello.”
She smiled and her gaze drifted down to the baby who stopped crying to look at her. “He’s beautiful, Matthew. Oh—” She covered her mouth and smiled up at him. “Oh, just perfect.”
He stroked Edward’s head, kissed him, then passed him over to the wet nurse who carried him off to the house. With a heavy heart that at once ached yet leaped at the sight of her, Matthew turned to Jane.
“You look well, Jane.”
She flushed. “Thank you. As do you.”
His tongue felt thick in his mouth, and he glanced around the garden, searching for something to say. “How long have you been in the area?”
“But three days. I’m staying with Anais and Lord Raeburn.” She smiled. “I’m enjoying their son.”
“They never said…” He trailed off, feeling desolate that his friend had not mentioned Jane staying with them.
“I asked them not to.” She swallowed hard and lifted her gaze to his. “A year is a long time, Matthew, and…things, people change.”
“Yes, they do.”
She nodded, her fingers gripping the strings of her reticule. “Sarah? How is she?”
“Well, very well.”
“I’m glad.”
“And Lady Blackwood?”
“She’ll outlive everyone, I think.”
At a loss for words, he could only smile. They stood there for a few seconds, awkward strangers. “Is Inglebright with you?” he finally asked.
She looked puzzled as she cocked her head to the side. “No.”
“I understand he’s gotten himself engaged.”
She flushed. “Oh,” she said, her voice falling flat. “He has.”
His heart shriveled in his chest; even after all this time, he still thought of her as his and it ruined him to know that she no longer desired what had only grown steadily in his heart.
“Are you happy, Jane?”
“I believe I am. For the first time in many, many months.”
His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “When are you to marry Inglebright?”
“Oh, it’s not me, he’s marrying,” she said, laughing nervously, “but Lord Ascot’s youngest daughter. It’s a love match.”
The tentative flare of hope infused his heart with life once more. “I thought his love lay elsewhere.”
“For a time it did, but I could not return the sentiment,” she said quietly, “for my heart was engaged most passionately elsewhere.”
He took a step closer to her. “And is it still, Jane?”
“It is.”
“My son needs a mother.”
Jane’s gaze flew to his face. Matthew stepped close, and reached for her. “I need my lover.”
She nodded, cried and smiled all at once. “It has taken me all of a year, but I’ve finally come to discover what an independent woman is.”
“Yes?” Their fingers touched, grasping, entwining.
“It’s someone who does what she damn well pleases, and says to hell with the rest when people talk. It’s someone who believes in her worth because of the deeds she does and the loves she gives, not because of her status in society.”
“Jane, you have always been a woman of worth to me.”
“Is it too late?” she cried.
He opened his arms and let her fly into his chest. “I love you, Jane. And I have been waiting, not so patiently, for you to come back to me.”
“Matty,” she whispered, squeezing him, “I love you, and that love has only grown. I need you. So much.”
“I knew I would not have to wait forever for you, Jane.”
“Shall we?” They stood outside the cottage, and Matthew paused on the threshold.
Jane nodded, took his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Yes.”
Opening the door to the cottage, he ushered her through. She felt the trembling of his fingers against her back, and she was nearly undone by the passion he had kept so well hidden on their walk through the garden.
Suddenly, she was picked up and clutched to his chest as he strode through to the room where they had made love, so long ago.
“I’m starved for you, Jane.”
The words were torn from his throat as he pressed her back onto the bed and followed her down. His hands, shaking, began to unbutton her gown. “So many nights I dreamed of this, you coming back. I fantasized so many different homecomings, Jane.”
She kissed him, and when she pulled away, he was looking down into her face. “I prayed every day for you to come back.”
“I am here, Matthew,” she whispered. “And I’m never leaving again, if that is what you want.”
“I want so many things. A future with you, my child growing inside you. I want to talk with you by the fire while I paint you. I want to wake up beside you and feel you against me in the darkness of night. But right now, Jane, I want you, body and soul. I need…I need so much to be inside you—so deep inside that I cannot feel any separation between us.”
He captured her mouth hard with his. His hands divested her of her clothing, ripping and pulling, until she lay completely naked beneath him. He was breathing hard as his mouth worked over hers, his hands tracing her body. The gentleman he had been on their stroll was gone, replaced with this fierce man who was passionate, who held nothing back from her.
They rolled together and Jane landed on him, sprawled atop him. She felt his body tense for the briefest of seconds, before he murmured her name. Pulling her hair free, he let it slide slowly from its mooring. He watched the mass cascade over her shoulders. “Beautiful Jane,” he whispered again. He traced her mouth, his fingertip lingering over the scar on her lip, then up to her spectacles where he caressed the arm. She reached for them, tried to pull them off, but he stayed her, his gaze lingering on her face. “Leave them. I can see you very well behind the glass, and what I see is
so breathtaking.”
She bit her lip, stemming the tears that burned her eyes. She would not cry, even though her heart was bursting with pleasure and joy. Instead, she turned to kissing him—his neck, his shoulder. She parted his shirt, and he pulled it up over his head, revealing strong shoulders and arms. She wanted those arms holding her. She wanted his warm flesh against her, the taste of his skin on her tongue. She bent and kissed his breastbone, then moved her lips over to the tattoo. She stopped and looked up to see him watching her.
“My offering to you, Jane.”
She stroked the ruffled outlines of the blossom tattoo that he had placed alongside the other one.
“Peace and Jane,” he said as he ran his hands through her hair. “Both are synonymous. Both as essential to me as air and water.”
The tears did trickle out, unchecked, as he captured her face in his palms. “There cannot be one without the other.”
His mouth caught hers, kissing her with all the hunger that had grown for them both over the past long year of separation. Her hands found the chain around his neck, her finger skimming down the pendant—the portrait of her. His body bore her marks—the tattoo, the portrait, they were all a gift to her. She had nothing to give him, except what she held in her heart and body.
He broke off the kiss, trailed his lips along her jaw, and over to her ear. “I thought you long gone, Jane. I imagined you lying in Inglebright’s arms, his bed, your body loving his.”
“No,” she gasped, hating the pain in his voice. Richard had tried, and in honesty, she had, as well. But she could never allow Richard’s touch, his kiss, without thinking of Matthew.
“It was only ever you, Jane. There will only ever be you.”
Jane held him, felt his strong arms hold her tight. She kissed him and slid down the length of his body, licking his nipples, which were hard points as she whispered over and over that she loved him. That she desired him. That she needed him in her life.
He had given her so much of himself, and she yearned to do the same. Her mouth lingered over his navel, her finger trailing down the fine length of black hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. She undid the first button, hearing his breath catch and hold.
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