Sinful (15 page)

“You’re wrong. You’ve mistaken me for some other woman.” She groaned when he flicked the tip of his tongue down the tempting throbbing vein that ran the length of her neck. He should not be doing this. He was weakening, despite the fact he never again wanted to be weak in front of this woman.

“I…I don’t want you.”

His gaze flickered up from her throat to her face. Her head was tilted to the side, her eyes closed behind the lenses of her spectacles, her lips, pouting and pink, were parted slightly. He
parted them more as he rubbed his finger along her lower lip. “Liar.”

“I don’t want you,” she said again, this time harder, more forcefully, as if she was trying to convince herself, as well as him.

“You’re afraid of men like me, aren’t you, Jane? Admit it. I do something to you that frightens you. I make you aware that you’re a woman and I am a man.”

“You’re wrong,” she whispered, pressing herself against the door in order to put some space between them. But he followed her.

“I know what you need.”

“No, you do not,” she protested. Unable to speak, she shook her head, whispering the word
no
again as she pressed herself against the unyielding wood behind her. Any space that was between them he closed when he pressed his chest tightly to hers.

“I know what you want, Jane.”

Her lids opened, and she blinked slowly, her gaze slipping to his as her lips trembled. “What do you know?”

His touch softened against her mouth. Her top lip was scarred, somewhat misshapen. He hadn’t really noticed it before now, but now he couldn’t stop himself from tracing his fingertip over the uneven skin, feeling himself softening.
Weak.
He hated it. He might even hate her for making him feel that weakness, for making him admit to it. Yet, he could not stop his body from responding to her, from wanting to learn all her secrets and hidden truths.

“I know the depth of the passion you keep hidden beneath this prim veneer. I know that beneath your protests you secretly yearn.”

“No. No, you’re wrong.”

“You were eager all those weeks ago, and you burned in
my arms. I think you yearned to feel me deep inside you. I think you
still
yearn.”

“Not for you,” she whimpered softly.

“Why lie, when I can feel the truth in your trembling hands. I see it in the way your lips are quivering. Smell it in the way your body is heating, scenting with arousal. There is no one better suited to give you everything you crave, Jane,” he murmured against her mouth. Reaching for her hand, he brought it to his chest and flattened her palm against his waistcoat. His heart was beating hard, she would feel it. He was breathing hard, she would feel that, too. He didn’t give a damn. He didn’t care that she would understand that physically he was aching for her. He didn’t care about anything other than feeling her touching him.

Grasping her wrist, he moved her palm lower over his breast, down over the flat hardness of his belly, where it rested at the waistband of his trousers.

“You don’t like being reminded you have needs and desires. But you have them, don’t you, Jane? It was there in the hospital, in the carriage, all that honest need. The need for a man to touch you, kiss you, whisper in your ear. The need to be filled.”

He pushed her hand lower and made her feel his cock, hard beneath his woolen trousers. He forced her palm to flatten with pressure from his own hand. She went utterly still, but did not attempt to pull her hand from out beneath his. She could if she wanted to. He barely held her hand against him now. Their gazes met and her breathing was so hard that he could feel the brush of her breasts rising against his chest.

Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth, savoring the feel of her hand on his prick, despite the fact it was still innocently covered by his trousers. He was so damn hard. So hungry for the feel of her flesh against his flesh. But whose flesh—Jane’s, or
this
Jane’s? He no longer knew.

It was absurd. Three hours ago, he despised her. Now, he could barely resist the lure of raising her skirts and filling her body with his cock. He was definitely unglued. He wasn’t thinking clearly. It was the lust coursing through his veins that was clouding his thoughts. And that was a frightening admission, as well, because he had never lost his way during sex or lust, or the pursuit of either.

Christ, having her pinned like this, her eyes wide and her mouth parting in invitation, made him so damn excited. It was charged. Erotic. He was becoming addicted to the sensation she—Jane—aroused in him.

“Admit it, Jane,” he rasped. “The thought of us sharing our bodies together fascinates you. And yet, you pretend to condemn me, but secretly you yearn for what I can show you. And show you I will.”

“You will not.”

“I will have either your passion, or the truth you are keeping from me. Perhaps I will even have both.”

He pushed away from her and saw that her eyes changed from passion glazed to mutinous. He left her then, aching and unfulfilled. Aroused and confused. It was for the best. It was always necessary to have the last word with an opponent as skilled as Jane.

Positioning himself so that his cock would cease rubbing against his trousers, Matthew grunted with pent-up lust and lingering anger. Christ, he swore as he left the salon. Where did Raeburn keep the damn brandy?

Bloody arrogant, presumptuous…
Oh!
Jane seethed as she fought to stem the trembling of her hands. Who the devil did he think he was, abducting her from the ballroom and practically ravishing her?

Fanning herself with her hand, Jane strove to control her wobbly arms and legs. Good God, she had been so close to falling for those beautiful blue eyes and that hypnotizing sensual voice. Squeezing her eyes shut, she rested her head against the cool wood of the door and trailed her quivering fingers along her neck, tracing the path his fingers had taken.
I know what you want….

The whispering remnants of his words called to her, causing a strange, forbidden tightening in her belly. Her lips slowly parted as if in anticipation of his kiss. The memory of his hard, warm body pressing against hers heated her blood until she thought she would go mad from the memories.

Struggling to fight the ache in her body, she lost all strength and allowed her hand to slip down the stiff ruffled collar of
her gown. She could hear her shallow, rasping breaths as her palm descended lower and lower until her fingers lay a hairbreadth from her swollen breast. Her nipple constricted, sending her belly tightening and wetness dampening her drawers. He had touched her before—suckled her until she cried out against him. He had been only Matthew to her then. Today she had wanted it again, but it was not only Matthew she had desired—she had wanted Wallingford, as well.

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?”