Sinful (8 page)

Her gloved hands fidgeted against the handle of her bag as the drizzle changed to raindrops, which began to fall earnestly above her head. What was she doing here? she questioned. She took a step to leave, when a large black town coach, led by four gray horses stopped at the sidewalk. Raising her head, she took in the gleaming black exterior and the shining gold accents. A lump formed in her throat. He really was rich, she reminded herself, and so far removed from her humble upbringing. They had little to offer each other, except the pleasures of their bodies. Nothing could come of this, and Jane did not know whether to feel satisfied or saddened by the notion.

“His lordship awaits inside,” the coachman said from his perch. As if on cue, the door opened, revealing black velvet squabs on the door. The interior was gently lit by tiny oil lamps. Shadows played deep in the interior, and Jane nearly ran, frightened like a silly little pea wit.

The wind gusted, sending the flame of one lamp sputtering, then dying as a large shadow moved across the width of the carriage. It was followed by the appearance of a black boot. With a swift movement, the stairs unraveled with a clang, and his lordship appeared.

Jane could not breathe. She felt her pulse beating frantically through her throat. She could not look up at him, despite knowing the heavy black veils concealed her face. She was out of her league here, unsure of how to proceed. She did not like the feeling, nor did she like feeling at the mercy of a man and her carnal appetites. Her mother had lost herself to a man, and Jane refused to follow that path.

Standing alone on the sidewalk, she felt small and unsure,
afraid.
Part of her wanted to walk away, another part wanted to run to him and throw herself into his arms for safekeeping.

Seconds of indecision went by in which Jane thought a
hundred different things. It was only when he held out his hand to her, waiting patiently for her to come to him as the rainwater ran off the brim of his hat, that Jane had the absurd sense that somehow everything would be all right. He would make it right. She trusted him. Believed in him, even though she knew nothing about him. His name was Matthew, and he was a painter. If he was a lord or baron, he had not disclosed that information in his letters. To her he was simply Matthew. They were two people standing on the sidewalk, in the rain, waiting to discover one another. The only question left to be answered was, who Jane was. Was she an independent woman who yearned to discover pleasure in this man’s arms, or was she the shy woman, allowing her fears to rule her, and to rob her of this once-in-a-lifetime chance?

She didn’t know. In that second, both women ruled her. Both sought to control her. There was only one thing that Jane knew for certain. If she entered that carriage with him her world would never look the same. It would be different.
She
would be different. She didn’t know if she could bear it, not knowing who she was. She was used to her world, yet she hungered for the smallest glimpse of the world that Matthew could show her.

She only had to reach out to grasp it. To take his hand and allow herself to be taken to a place she had never thought she would discover.

Matthew’s gaze burned into her, memorizing everything about Jane, standing alone on the sidewalk waiting for him. She wore a gray mantelet that was plain and unadorned. Her gloved fingers trembled nervously against the wooden handles of her purse, and he ached to soothe her fears, yet he could not think of moving as he catalogued the way the skirt of her gown fitted over her hips and thighs, the unadorned train trailing out behind her, allowing him to study the contours of her figure. Of its own volition, his gaze slowly caressed her belly and breasts, which were hidden from him beneath the mantelet, till it rested on the black veil that concealed her face.

Damn it, his hands were shaking. He was nervous, strange for a man whose life was filled with nothing but clandestine meetings and couplings. But something told him that this meeting was going to be different. Jane was different.

Ignoring the strange tremors, he extended his hand to her. “Come to me.”

With a moment’s hesitation, she glanced behind her at the
filthy windows of the hospital, as if seeking permission. He half wondered if Inglebright was in there, watching from behind a curtain. But he forgot all about the doctor when she began to slowly walk to him. The few steps it took seemed to take forever. He hungered for her, for the feel of her in his arms. Swallowing hard, he reined in the mad urge to cross the remaining distance between them and crush her to him. But he couldn’t do such a thing. No, he had wanted this, to watch her coming to him, offering herself to him of her own free will.

Their fingertips touched and he felt as though he’d been punched in the middle. As their fingers entwined, he felt something that was at once welcoming yet terrifying. Looking down at their locked hands, he realized it was a sense of…completion. Instinct told him to block the feeling. But then she spoke, her voice causing a warmth to spread throughout his body.

“I almost didn’t come this afternoon.”

Instinct be damned. His past and who he was need not intrude here, not with Jane. He was only Matthew with her, not the scandalous Earl of Wallingford, not the libertine society knew him to be.

Pulling her close, he removed her glove then raised their joined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh above her thumb. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the scent of them together—hers the clean, pure scent of soap and his, the warmth of eastern spice. Together, it was an erotic, heady scent that went straight to his head.

“I…I…” She swallowed and looked away. “I’m not sure—”

“Let me come to you, Jane,” he said, unable to stop himself from pressing his lips against her hand once more. Opening his eyes, he looked down into her upturned face and saw the flash of what looked like green eyes watching him carefully
from beneath the veil. “No questions, Jane. I will take only what you are willing to give me.”

He watched the line of her throat move up and down as she swallowed hard. He trailed his fingers along that smooth skin and felt how fast her heart was beating for him.

“Come to me, Jane,” he murmured, pulling her closer. “My carriage is waiting. It’s waiting for you.
I’m
waiting for you.”

Her breath caught, and the sound wreaked havoc within him. Nodding, she took a tentative step closer and allowed him to guide her around a large puddle, then to his waiting carriage. Bowing her head, she concealed herself from the coachman who sat as still as a statue on the box, his gaze never straying from whatever object he was staring at straight ahead of him. Inside, the shades had been drawn, and once Matthew closed the carriage door behind him, the lamp blew out, making the interior black as pitch.

With a rap of his walking stick, the carriage lurched into motion. It was so dark, so unnaturally quiet, that he swore he could hear Jane’s heart beating from deep within her chest. He could smell her—soap and feminine arousal—and his cock stirred, hungry to be inside her.

“You said you almost did not come today. Why?” he asked, feeling a burning in his chest as he awaited her answer.

“There is much risk for me. My job at the hospital. My name.” She swallowed hard, he heard it in the quiet, along with her fidgeting fingers.

“That is the reason for the veil.”

“Yes.”

“Do you regret it now, Jane, coming to me?”

“I do not know,” she said in a hushed breath.

“Come,” he whispered, reaching for her, knowing exactly where she sat, and wrapped his hands around her waist, bring
ing her forward so that she was sitting beside him. He reached up, his fingers resting against the veil, and her breathing stilled. “Do not be afraid,” he said as he lifted the veil from her face and reached for the satin ties of her bonnet strings. “I will take such good care of you, Jane. You have nothing to fear from me.”

Taking her bonnet in his hands, he reached across the carriage and placed it atop the opposite bench. Then he twisted his body so that he was pressed up against hers, and he turned his gaze to hers, unable to see anything—only hear and smell and feel—and lowered his mouth to her forehead, kissing her softly, reverently. His lips brushed her skin and hair and he could not help but glide his fingertips along the sweet curves of her face, tracing her, memorizing her,
imagining
her. Christ, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything, and that included his art gallery. What madness had she inspired in him? He had never felt this way before, this need to connect so deeply with another.

He wanted to share things with Jane: his body, his heart, the secrets he kept locked inside his withering soul. She took a ragged breath, and he felt her body tremble against his arms, shattering his control.

His mouth found her pulse above the lace she had tied around her throat. Its frantic, fluttering beat caressed his lips, and he sat there, feeling her heart beating against him.

“Jane,” he said softly as he removed the strip of lace and tucked it into his pocket, “come to me. Give yourself to me—only me. Let us share this…this passion that has consumed us. Say yes, Jane,” he murmured as he began to gently suck the tender, supple flesh of her throat. “One word, Jane…
yes.
”

Her heart was racing at a dangerous pace. Jane felt the pulsations bounding in her throat, felt the tightening of her
bodice against her breasts. Her breathing was coming in short, sharp pants as her body, which was no longer her own, trembled like that of a newborn fawn.

She could not hide her response to him. She had not expected this so soon, nor had she thought to allow him to remove her veil. But it was shadowy, the afternoon grew late, and with the black clouds and the rain, it was dark. With the blinds closed it was like midnight in the carriage.

An absurd sense of relief flooded her. She had removed her spectacles while she waited for him to come to her, and in the dark, she could be the kind of woman he desired. The kind of woman she had fleetingly wished she was.

As his lips and tongue blazed a path down her neck, and his hands began to search her body, Jane was stunned by the thought that it was all really happening. Although she had thought of him nonstop this past week, and dreamed of him, she had thought never to see him again. But it was true. She was here with him. His hands truly were on her flesh. It was really his breathing she heard, his lips she felt kissing her cheek. She felt the heat of his gaze travel lower, away from her face, and fix on the bounding pulse in her throat. She knew she was right about that heated gaze when he reached out to put his fingertip to her neck. Pressing toward her, he inhaled once, softly, almost imperceptibly, then again, deeper. The leather squabs creaked as his body shifted, and Jane felt her own body grow limp and warm as he pressed his face against her. Then his lips were brushing against the quivering pulse that leaped with his touch. A deep sound resonated in his chest.

“I thought to talk with you, Jane, to woo you, but I have no skill at it. I haven’t the words to make polite conversation. Need has robbed me of speech. I need you, Jane,” he said in a dark, fevered whisper.

She didn’t want to talk. She wanted him to touch her, to
make her feel the way he had that night when he had bared her breasts and touched them. Besides, she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Jane, I want to be with you—
in
you.”

“Yes,” she murmured huskily. She worked up the courage to unclench her hands, which rested in her lap, and rake her fingers through the luxuriant softness of Matthew’s hair.

Her lips trembled as both his big hands stroked the sides of her neck, caressing her with soft sweeps. Slowly his palms descended the length of her throat and back up again, his thumbs brushing her wildly beating pulse. Closing her eyes, Jane weakened and tilted her head farther back, her lips parting just enough to allow the barest movement of air between them. He groaned and she felt the smooth tip of his finger trace her bottom lip. “Innocent, perfect lips. Such perfection,” he whispered darkly, stroking his thumb along her mouth. “I want to feel them beneath mine. I want to feel them sliding along my body. I want my cock between them.”

Her stomach flipped and she clutched his hair, forcing his head down to her mouth. Jane savored the slow descent of his mouth to hers, felt his lips part and settle atop hers. It was wonderful, intimate, almost as if he was treasuring her. His lips pressed once more against hers, then he angled his head and kissed her over and over with his hot open mouth, a mouth that was hungry and devouring and causing havoc not only with her body but with her mind, as well.

She couldn’t think, her head was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, as if she were drugged, disembodied. She was conscious of the moan that escaped her when he slanted his mouth against hers, encouraging her to open for him.

“Let me in. Let me taste you.”

He parted her lips and slid his tongue deep inside. He groaned and his hand left her face and cupped her breast as he
pressed his hard body up tightly against hers. Fiercely he kissed her, his mouth slanting over hers, faster and faster. His tongue drove into her, and she could do nothing but reach for him and wrap her arms around his neck and hold on as he swept her away. The intimacy of him invading her mouth was nothing like she expected. It was hot and arousing, and it did little to relieve the ache in her womb, but deepened it until she could feel it eating away at every corner of her body. She felt him in her blood, in the pulse of her heartbeat. She heard him, his sounds of desire in her thoughts, felt him knocking at the door of her soul.

With one kiss he owned her.

Jane held on to him, her fingers digging into the shoulders of his jacket while their tongues tangled wildly together, when suddenly he broke off, and breathing as though he was out of breath, he said, “I need to touch you. I need to feel you naked against my hand.”

His hand snaked through the opening of her woolen wrap, and his heat seemed to seep through the thin muslin of her gown, straight to her own skin that greedily absorbed his warmth. She trembled, aware of his large hand resting beneath the curve of her breast. He seemed to know, to understand her response, for he parted the cloak more, and she instinctively knew that he was looking up at her despite the fact he could not see her reaction when his hand slid along her waist to her belly.

She wanted him, with frightening need. She could think of nothing else but shedding her clothes and lying naked here with him. She wanted to ask for it—
beg for it,
but she didn’t know how. What words to use. So she lay still, feeling his hand torturing her as it kneaded and lowered, drawing closer and closer to the mound of her sex, wondering what thoughts were going through Matthew’s mind.

Lovely warm, soft skin,
he thought, wishing he could see his hand resting atop her. Despite the layer of her gown and chemise, he could feel the suppleness of her skin, could feel her body heat enveloping him, teasing him with the thought of feeling the hotness from her core seeping onto his hand. He could not wait to be wrapped in her heat, in her welcoming body, or to feel this gently mounded belly beneath his mouth and hands. He thrust the mantelet from her shoulders. She shivered, but he knew she was not cold, she was too damn hot for that. He could almost see it radiating from her body. He could definitely feel it reaching for him and drawing him in, chasing away the dampness, and the demon inside him.

Christ, she was perfect. Her nipples were hard little points, pressed against the bodice of her gown. He felt, with satisfaction, the mounds of her breasts swell, just like the flesh between his legs that had now grown to an impressive size. How he was going to enjoy giving her that flesh and reveling in her scalding heat.

“Such beautiful breasts,” he said appreciatively, cupping them. “I’ve thought of them nearly every minute this past week. You cannot know how you have captured my attention.”
And held it,
he silently added. “I’m going to paint you naked and have them cupped in your hands. I’m going to paint them swollen with desire, just as they are right now.”

She squirmed beneath his palms. His cock was now so heavy and engorged that it was painful, trapped as it was beneath his trousers. He wanted her hand on his cock—
not hard
—just light and teasing. He wanted to feel his orgasm slowly build. He wanted to come in her hand once more, empty himself into her palm. He wanted the peace of lying with her like this after the last of his climax melted away. “I want to please you. Christ, I do,” he moaned as his lips caressed
the soft skin of her breasts that crept above her bodice. His hand found its way beneath her skirt and his palm made the slow, sensual glide up her stocking-clad leg. “I want to taste you, Jane, to feel your core weep against me. I want you to call my name, score my back as I pleasure you with my mouth.”

She gasped, clutching wildly to his jacket, and his fingers pressed into her firm, lush thigh. He had shocked her with his talk, and he discovered he was aroused by her naiveté. He pushed her farther into the bench, so her back was pressed against the side of the carriage and her legs were draped over his thighs.