Sinful (19 page)

At precisely eight o’clock, Jane found herself standing before the cottage. It was a beautiful little place with arched windows and a gothic exterior. His studio, he had called it.

She rapped on the door, then waited nervously for it to open. Looking at her surroundings, she could not help but admire the ducal estate. The gardens were breathtaking, and the cottage, surrounded by apple and quince trees out in full blossom, was something out of a fairy tale. It was so different from the dinginess of London. And the sky, she could hardly believe the number of stars beginning to peek out now that the sun was setting.

It had been a long day caring for Sarah, who was making a remarkable recovery. She had dodged Richard as much as possible, fearing another awkward conversation. As well, she had not seen Matthew since their meeting that morning, but that did not prevent her from thinking upon him almost constantly and wondering what manner of man he truly was.

When her knock went unanswered, she raised her fist to rap again, and stopped when she saw a figure emerge from
beneath the waving branches of a willow tree. It was Matthew, dressed much the same as he had been that morning, with the exception of his breeches, which he had changed for a pair of black trousers. He was still in his shirtsleeves, but they were done up at the wrists. His waistcoat was black silk shot through with silver thread. His cravat was black and tied simply at his throat.

There was a thrilling intimacy to his attire, despite the fact that she had seen him naked before. He was the only gentleman Jane had ever seen in shirtsleeves, and the forbidden dishabille strangely excited her.

He came to stand before her, his shadowed gaze assessing her slowly, roaming over her hair and then down to her gown. Another serviceable gown—her wardrobe was chockfull of them. She had thought herself frivolous when she had bought the striped muslin gown. Wools and flannels were what she normally chose for herself. As a servant, she should not be dressing in the height of fashion. Flannels and wools were practical and sturdy and much more in line with a lady’s companion than silks and brocades. However, some impish impulse had made her purchase the muslin gown she now wore.

The style of the gown was similar to the ones she usually wore—high necked and long sleeved, with no lace or ruffles or other feminine adornments. Her hair was swept back into a bun and secured with the same silver pin she always wore. She had always been quite content with her choice in garments. However, standing here being scrutinized by Wallingford made her feel inferior and plain. Where she once thought the striped muslin frivolous, she now thought it simple and dated. Even if she had wished to dress for him and their dinner, she could not—she did not own anything as fine or as frilly as the women of his sphere.

“What are you thinking, Jane?”

“Nothing of import,” she said with a shake of her head. “I was just thinking that I should have looked in on Sarah. I gave her something—”

“A book,” he said, coming closer to her. “She told me. She also told me that you promised to teach her to read. Did you mean it, Jane?”

She looked up at him and saw he watched her with carefulness. “I meant every word.”

“Is it true that you only learned to read a few years ago?” She flushed red with humiliation and looked away in shame. “One thing you must learn is that you should never tell Sarah anything you wouldn’t want repeated. She means well, she would never intentionally hurt anyone, however, her intelligence…well, sometimes she is like an impetuous child, never knowing when to stop talking.”

“I understand.”

“You comprehend her, don’t you? Most people cannot be bothered. Most people cringe and run the other way whenever they see her coming.”

“You don’t.”

“No, I don’t. I welcome her. She is my purpose in life. There are few whom I would admit that to, Jane. But perhaps we should have our discussion inside,
hmm?
My valet will be arriving with the dinner cart.”

“Very well, then,” She turned to reach for the doorknob. Pausing, she took a deep breath and lowered her head. “Wait,” she whispered, then turned to face him. “I’ve been thinking about this. I want to know. How did you know…I mean, how did you discover—”

“That you were the woman at the hospital?”

She nodded and followed the movement of his hand until it came down to rest upon her fingers, stopping her from opening the door.

“Your name.”

“There are thousands of Janes in London.”

“But none with your voice.”

“Matthew…”

“Jane, believe me when I say I was entranced by everything about you, but it was your voice, an angel’s voice. When I heard it, it gave me such peace. When your voice grew soft in the ballroom, I knew. I couldn’t forget that voice, Jane.”

His breathing seemed harsh to her ears. She struggled not to look away from that intense, almost passionate gaze.

“We have done what we promised never to do,” he said, his voice husky in the dark quiet. “We—both of us—wished never to expose ourselves to the prying eyes of others. And yet we have done the unthinkable, we have sold ourselves to each other.”

She could not help but stiffen at his words. Indeed, they had agreed to complete honesty, to shed the mantle of secrets they both wore, and yet, the reminder of it did little to settle her nerves. She had known what she was getting. She had known that her secrets would now belong to him, yet that had not prevented her from coming to him.

“We are both damaged souls, Jane, marred by darkness and sin. We’re both scarred,” he whispered, brushing his thumb against the uneven skin of her top lip. “You wear your scars on the outside, while mine are hidden deep. But they’re there, Jane. You just have to look hard.”

“And will you let me look deep, my lord?”

“You’ve made it clear that this is the only way I can have you.”

“Honesty will set you free.”

He smiled, and a soft sound of amusement passed between his lips. “The truth enslaves. It will chain us, bind us in a way that the two of us will fight to get free from.”

“I can bear the burden.”

“I wonder if you can. Because beyond this door we will cease to be the people we show to the world. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“I will be only Matthew here in this room with you, Jane. Tell me, who am I to expect? Who are you really?”

“I do not know,” she said, her voice trembling despite her attempts to appear as though she were firmly in control of her feelings. “I always thought I knew myself so well. But then—” The words froze in her throat and she looked away, but he caught her chin with the edge of his fingers and turned her face to his.

“Only honesty, Jane. We promised. We will not go beyond this door until I have your word that you will be completely honest with me, as I have vowed to be with you.”

“I thought I knew what I wanted—who I was—that is, until that night in the hospital. You…you awakened feelings in me that were strange, terrifying yet exhilarating. These feelings were all things I forbid myself—feelings I’ve never wanted to have. I was quite satisfied with never having felt pleasure or passion, and then when I met you, I questioned everything I have ever believed in. You ask me who I truly am? The truth is, I do not know.”

“Do you wish to know?”

“I fear the answer I may uncover.”

His expression seemed to soften. She saw the flicker of something in his eye, before he shielded it with his thick lashes as he watched his thumb glide along her mouth, parting her lips. “I, too, am afraid, Jane. I fear what I will find inside me, as well. I fear the things you will ask, and the answers I shall have to give you. Shall we forget this bargain of ours, then? Shall we pretend that we never agreed to bare our souls to one another? Should we forget that we ever met, ever touched. Ever kissed?”

“Is that what you want?” she asked, fearing the answer.

“No,” he replied in a hard, almost choking voice. “It is not what I want. I want to know
you,
Jane. I want to understand what makes you different from the women I have known. I want to understand these feelings I had, that I still have.”

“Then we will go forward. And we shall never tell a soul what happens in this room. We will never speak of each other’s secrets or use them to hurt one another once this week is over. For, a week is all I dare give to you.”

“Agreed. Our secret.”

Together they released the latch on the door and stepped into the cottage. With a quiet click the door closed behind Matthew. They were now completely alone.

When she turned and looked at him, Jane knew that Matthew would strip her utterly naked, and he would not have to remove one stitch of her clothes to do so.

The room was warm from the fire that blazed in the small hearth. Candles flickered in candelabra that were scattered about the room and atop the fireplace mantel. It was a sitting room of sorts. As she looked about the small parlor, through the dancing shadows of candlelight that cast shifting shapes on the velvet wallpaper hangings, she realized that this cottage was Matthew’s private sanctuary.

Taking a few steps forward, Jane came to stand before two oval portraits hanging above the mantel. The one was of a young boy whose black hair was a mass of riotous waves. His blue eyes were shadowed, cheerless. His lips, pink and full, were set in a hard line. His expression was severe, austere. Far too serious for someone as young as he. Jane could not help but reach up to trace the outline of the sad little face that looked down upon her.

“You were not even happy as a little boy, were you?”

“No. I was not.”

“And now?”

“I am not certain what exactly happiness means. I do not believe I have ever really experienced true happiness, or if I have, it was so fleeting that it left an unmemorable impression upon me.”

Jane did not turn around to search him out. She did not need to see his face to know that he was feeling awkward, defensive. She heard all that and more in his voice.

“I was seven when that portrait was painted. I despised the lace collar my mother insisted I wear. I loathed the artist and how he forced me to sit for hours in that chair and look out the window. It was bloody torture sitting for that portrait.”

“How so?”

“It was summer and for the entire week it was sunny and warm. I knew Raeburn and Anais and my other friend Lord Broughton would be down by the river, playing and fishing. I could hear the three of them, their laughs being carried on the wind. I saw them, running, Broughton holding the string of a kite while Anais and Raeburn chased him.” He smiled sadly and half turned his face from her. “Raeburn and Anais were hand in hand even then. I remember watching him run with her. I could see her smile, and I saw his, and Christ, I hated him for that, for his happiness. I hated him for his freedom, while I was stuck in my father’s ducal estate, trying to be the dutiful son and failing miserably.”

“You wanted to be outside with your friends.”

“Yes. I wanted to be out of the house. Anywhere away from my father.”

“And your mother?”

There was a very long pause in which Jane could hear his rapid breathing. She felt the tenseness in the room grow as the
silence stretched on. “I loved my mother. That is her portrait beside mine.”

“You look like her. You have her eyes, and her smile.”

“How do you know? You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Once,” she whispered, “when you shook hands with Lord Raeburn after the wedding toasts. You smiled then. You have a dimple in your left cheek.”

Jane heard a shuffle along the floor. She peered over her shoulder to see that Matthew was gazing into the mirror, his head tilted to the side as his hand traced his jaw.

“Your mother has the same dimple as you. The artist has captured it perfectly.”

“I am the artist.”

Jane started, then swung her attention back to the portrait. In the painting, his mother was dressed in a ruffled pink velvet wrapper. She was posed, reclining against a crème-and-gold-brocade settee. Numerous pillows were scattered about and a tray, filled with glass bottles of perfumes and silver tins of powders rested beside her. Her long blond hair was unbound, cascading over her shoulders.

The painting was intimate, as if Jane had just happened upon her resting in her boudoir. She could not help but compare it to the memories she had of her mother, servicing her lovers with her cheap, harlot clothes and her rouged cheeks and lips.

“I remember the morning I found her sitting just like that,” he said as he came to stand beside her. “I ran into her room and found her sitting on the settee, sipping her morning chocolate. I was so proud, I couldn’t wait to show her something, so I ran to her room and barged in, ignoring the shrieks of her maids.”

“What did you have to show her?”

“A perfect score on my Latin exam. My tutor had just
given me the results, and I snatched it out of his hand and ran to show her. I remember her smile and the way she kissed my cheek.”

Jane saw him stiffen then shake his head as if chasing the memory away. “It was one of the last times I saw her alive. I was ten when she died. No one else has seen this painting but you.”

“I am honored. Truly. It is so very well done. But I must know something, you said it was one of the last times you saw her alive—”

“Don’t,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Don’t ask me that.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him of their pact, to thrust his words of honesty back into his face, but something in his expression, in his eyes—a pain she had never seen in him before, made her stop.
A soul is never bought,
she reminded herself. It is given.

“Very well, I will not ask you. But tell me, how old were you when you painted this?”

He let out his breath and relaxed somewhat. “Fourteen. My father always chastised me for my painting, saying it was for sissies, that if I were to grow up to be a real man, I would put aside my painting and daydreaming and concentrate on my studies. I was a miserable student, only average at best. Every bloody subject was such a chore for me to learn, but I tried, tried so damn hard to please her…to make it easier for her with him.”