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Sinful
Charlotte Featherstone


In Victorian England vice of every kind can be purchased, and Matthew, the Earl of Wallingford, makes certain he avails himself of every possible pleasure.Bored and jaded, he is as well-known for his coldness as for his licentious affairs with beautiful women. While these dalliances fulfill Matthew's every physical need, they secretly leave him numb and emotionally void. Until one night when he finds himself beaten, eyes bandaged and in the care of a nurse with the voice of an angel—and a gentle touch that soothes the darkness in him and makes him yearn for more.Yet Jane Rankin is a lowly nurse, considered shy and plain by most. There is no place for her amongst the lords and ladies of the aristocracy—despite Matthew's growing craving for the fire that burns behind her earnest facade. And then there is Matthew's secret.A secret so humiliating and scandalous it could destroy everyone he loves. A sin, he fears, not even the love of a good woman can take away. . .









Sinful

Charlotte Featherstone











www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)


To my awesome editor, Lara Hyde, because you were the first to see the beauty in him, and I thank you for that! By loving him as he is, you made it so easy for me to write his story. Thank you for letting me write him how he is; darkly beautiful. I’m so glad we got to work together on this book!



To Barbara from the Happily Ever After blog, and Ashley (aka VampFanGirl) from the Lovin’ Me Some Romance blog. Thank you for all your support and enthusiasm for my writing, and all things Wallingford. I am so happy to have found you. You bring so much fun to what is sometimes a solitary career. And to all the blog hussies who carefully gathered all those “Sinful breadcrumbs” I spread on my blog. I hope his story satisfies and gets the inner hussy purring.



And last, but never least, to all the readers who e-mailed me, requesting Wallingford’s book, I hope his story doesn’t disappoint.


And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

—Anais Nin




Chapter One


With a jaded outlook and a black heart, Matthew, Earl of Wallingford, knew exactly what human nature consisted of. Temptation and physical pleasure. At least he had it in him to acknowledge the flaw. Unlike so many of his peers, he did not pretend to be otherwise. He was an unconscionable wastrel without thought or feeling. A rake with insatiable appetites. A disreputable heartbreaker, women said with disgust as he strolled by. Yet it was these same women who entertained him in their husbands’ homes, with anything but disgust.

Ah, the facade of Victorian morality. What a jest.

It was a wonderful time for someone like him to be alive. Someone who didn’t believe the innate nature of humans was anything more than self-serving. He had seen very little goodness in his life. But then he had been the furthest from kind or good himself.

Every day he was confronted with man’s startling avarice. And nowhere on earth was the confirmation of mankind’s selfish, pleasure-seeking ways more evident than in London, among the aristocracy’s elite.

Behind fluttering silk fans, and beyond the fashionable ballrooms where champagne and polite conversation flowed, lay a cesspool of immorality and vice. It was this dichotomy that Matthew found so amusing. He enjoyed watching the members of the nobility feverishly working to implement the queen’s moral views on religion, family and sex. These were the men who married, fathered children and touted the merits of the married state thither and yon. They were the leaders whom the queen respected, whom she believed in. The ones who championed social reform, who rallied vigorously and vocally at parliament to keep the whores off the street and sex buried beneath a cloak of piety. It was these same men, he thought with amused cynicism, that he greeted in the evening as he toured the brothels, the gambling halls and the supper clubs. Hell, he even, on occasion, shared a cheroot and a glass of port with them while watching the naked dancers parade about, jiggling their breasts and bottoms from the stage where they danced seductively to a bawdy tune.

Pious and moral, indeed. Even now the mayor’s secretary had a woman’s face in his lap and another’s breasts in his hand. And the mayor? He had taken his leave a few minutes earlier with his long-standing mistress hanging on his arm. Matthew wondered if the mayor had given his young wife and two-day-old son a second thought this evening. Not likely.

The world-weary space where his heart and soul had once lain laughed at the ever-opposing sides. Morality and London were not symbiotic. Human nature and temptation, now they were synonymous. He, more than anyone, understood that.

Glancing around the smoky supper club he suddenly realized that it never ceased to amaze him, the variety of proclivities offered in the metropolis. Vice of every kind was available in Victorian London. One didn’t even need a fortune to secure one’s pleasure. Some vices came cheap. Others, not so much. Some men would part with their souls for a chance to taste the sweet nectar of forbidden delights. It was that fact, coupled with his knowledge of what his peers lusted for, that had him here tonight.

He knew a thing or two about lust and selling one’s soul. A painful, haunting lesson that, but one that had served him well. One that would pay him back tonight.

Considered a connoisseur of the more pleasurable vices, Matthew was a leader in things such as depravity and scandal, and tonight he was using his reputation to further his goals.

While the gentleman of the ton played at morality by day whilst indulging in sin at night, Matthew could not be bothered to pretend to be the former. He never was one for hypocrisy. Why act the gentleman when he was nothing but a bastard? He had never understood the need to act like two separate people. It seemed a lot of work, and for what? He respected these men no more than he would a thief or a convict. Perhaps, he thought with a small smile, he respected them even less. There was a certain honor among thieves, and these men, in their evening dress and smooth smiles, had no honor.

So, not desiring to be a hypocrite, he lived his life in sin, day and night. And he would have it no other way.

He probably should have felt a measure of mortification that he could so easily admit to such a flaw, but he was incapable of shame. He had no conscience or soul. No heart, either. That had broken and died years ago. The leftover pieces had petrified in his chest, leaving stone shrapnel in a black, empty place that felt nothing. Just a yawning void of…nothing. And he liked it that way.

He didn’t get close to any of the women he took his pleasure from. And he never took them to his home, either, and preferred to rut on anything but a bed. Proclivities, he reminded himself. London could provide for even the most bizarre perversions. Finding women who would give him what he wanted wasn’t a trial. The only real difficulty was avoiding those irritating emotional entanglements that women liked to enmesh with the act. Fucking was fucking as far as he was concerned. The act was nothing but cock, cunt and the grunts of pleasure. There was nothing more to it than a physical connection in which a male and female’s genitals met. Of course, the poets would fiercely argue otherwise, and his best friend, Lord Raeburn would strenuously work to dissuade him of his slanted view. But Matthew knew better. He’d never been with a woman who didn’t spread her thighs for nothing. There was always a reason: coin, advancement, even something as mundane as making a husband or other lover jealous. There was always motivation behind it.

It hadn’t taken a lot for Matthew to discover that women manipulated men with sex. It was a female’s most lethal and effective weapon. And being a man who rather enjoyed getting off, he had no recourse but to submit to them, despite their manipulations.

“Evening, guv.” The sultry voice was followed by the brush of an ample breast along his arm. He stiffened, striving to put the old anxiety and distaste back in that gaping void where his soul had once resided. He didn’t care to be put upon by a female who took the lead. In this chase, he preferred the part of predator. But this one, with her doe eyes and pouting mouth would not easily be run to ground. Her air of innocence was an illusion. She was as calculating as they came, and any submission on her part would be feigned.

“I could suck the Thames dry, you know.”

Focusing on the stage, where the dancers were strutting about in drawers and bare breasts, Matthew ignored her throaty voice and the subtle sounds that were designed to mimic sucking lips. “I’m not in the mood for mouth play.”

“What are you in the mood for then, guv?” she whispered while she raked her hand through his hair.

A bundle of money, he thought savagely, hating how he had to sit there and endure her attentions. Her perfume was suffocating him. So were her tits, which she kept shoving in his face.

“That ’andsome gent over there tells me you’ve painted a naughty picture, and it’s going to be auctioned off tonight.”

Matthew glanced at the gent in question. Broughton. His friend never could keep his mouth shut. Broughton caught his scowl. The bastard actually grinned.

“Why don’t you give me a try, guv?” she purred, running her hand along his thigh. “I could be naughty.”

He ignored her, even as her fingertips traveled down the leg of his trousers. “Cor, yer hard,” she cooed. “Big strong thighs, I bet yer built like a bull, aren’t ye?”

Wrong words. Any erection that was mounting despite his mental distaste deflated like a hot-air balloon. “Excuse me,” he growled, nearly toppling her to the ground when he jumped up from the chair.

“Come back, guv,” she called. “We can have a merry party.”

With a sense of relief, he saw that the woman had now fixed her attentions on Broughton. She was crawling all over him as Broughton leaned back in his chair allowing her attentions.

Matthew had never been one for that sort of play, preferring something more direct, like his cock in a quim without preamble. What was the point of foreplay when it didn’t interest him? When he wanted to fuck, he wanted his pleasure. The rest could all go to hell.

Reaching for a glass of champagne from a passing tray, Matthew made his way to the back room where the portrait he had painted was going to be auctioned off. He had heard enough crude remarks this night, and seen enough antics to know that this was the perfect venue for his art auction. The clientele of the supper club was a good mix of old and new money. They would pay a fortune for his portrait, and in return he would use their money to fund his art gallery.

Downing the champagne, he felt the slow burn along his throat, wishing it was something stronger, even though he was already well on his way to being drunk. More and more, he found himself on the way, he thought morosely. But when one lived the sort of life he did, dissolute and isolated, one needed the company of something that understood.

Taking another glass, he watched the men swarming into the room with the club girls and their mistresses. There were no wives here this night, a fact that Wallingford did not belabor. He was here for the money to fund his art gallery. Plain and simple.

“Everything is going well,” Raeburn said as he slapped Matthew against the shoulder. “What a bloody crush.”

Matthew grunted and took a drink of his champagne as he looked about the room. It was a bloody crush. There wasn’t a corner free of slobbering lustful men waiting for a chance to see the portrait he had dangled and teased before them. Hopefully the piece would be inspiring enough to force the men to bid heavily. He needed the blunt if he was going to get his gallery opened. And the gallery had been the only thing of importance in his life for a very long time.

Finally he tore his gaze away from the crowd and settled it on his best friend. “I wasn’t aware your prison cell had an escape route,” he muttered.

Raeburn laughed, motioning away a serving girl as he did so. “Prison?” he said, his eyes glinting. “If you call having a beautiful woman at my beck and call prison, then so be it. I’ll die a convict.”

Matthew arched his brow in annoyance. Raeburn was madly in love, a fact he could not decide was a blessing or a curse. “I do call monogamy prison,” he grumbled as he looked away from the glimmer in Raeburn’s eyes. “It would be a death sentence to me to spend my life tied to one woman.”

“You haven’t found the right one yet.”

He snorted. “Out of numerous samplings, I think I would have found her, if indeed, she even existed. Admit it, Raeburn, you’re an oddity.”

His friend shrugged. “There are many men who find themselves in love.”

Not like this, Matthew thought churlishly. He had never seen a love like Raeburn shared with Anais. Even he, a depraved muff chaser, had marveled at the beauty of it. And if he were being honest with himself, which he rarely, if ever was, there were times, like now, when the wicked little fingers of jealousy crept up to choke him.

“So, I’ve heard nothing but excitement since I entered the club. Everyone is wondering what scandalous thing you’ve done.”

Matthew shook himself free of all thoughts of love and fidelity. “Why do you not stay and see for yourself?”

“I won’t be bidding, of course. I doubt it is something my future wife would welcome in our home. However, I had to come for just a peek. And what an eyeful it was. Lucky bastard.” Raeburn leered. “Imagine being tucked in your little studio with those naked women spread before you. How you must have been in your glory.”

Matthew listened while he kept his eye on the staff. The champagne was being passed about as freely as water from a fountain. Soon the men would be drunker and itching to begin the bidding.

“Not that I would have done such a thing, of course,” Raeburn continued, “I’m quite happy with Anais. There isn’t another woman who could tempt me.”

“I am well aware of your irritating attachment to your intended. I find it rather annoying, if you must know.”

“No, you don’t.” Raeburn grinned as he rocked on his heels. “You’re just jealous.”

“The hell I am,” he growled.

“Miserable again tonight,” Raeburn taunted. “Don’t worry about a thing, old boy. I have a feeling the bidding will go on for quite some time. Everyone is panting to get a glimpse of the infamous portrait.”

“I never worry,” he muttered. But his insides were tight and he felt as though he couldn’t catch his breath. It wasn’t like him to be nervous.

“I had Anais invite Lady Burroughs to our wedding,” Raeburn said, chatting away. “Thought it might make the weekend more enjoyable for you. I know how you feel about weddings and such. No need to thank me,” Raeburn added when Matthew frowned. “Well then, I think I shall be on my way. Anais, you know, is home alone.” Raeburn waggled his eyebrows at him. Matthew rolled his eyes.

“You have the rest of your life to bed the girl. Why you do not find the idea of monogamy stifling, I will never understand.”

“With the right woman, Wallingford,” Raeburn drawled, “you will never get enough of her. In the right woman’s bed, you will never grow bored.”

Could he be monogamous, even if he desired to be? He didn’t think so. He was a different man than Raeburn. Cold. Distant. He was not the sort to make a woman happy. With him, a woman would only find loneliness and emptiness, hardly conducive to conjugal contentment.

“I’m off, then,” Raeburn said as he set his glass upon a passing footman’s tray. “Do not forget you’re the best man. There isn’t anyone else I’d want by my side as I marry the woman of my dreams.”

“I will be there.”

“I thought weddings give you rashes.”

Matthew shrugged and reached for another glass of champagne. “I will simply instruct my valet to put a salve in my portmanteau.”

Raeburn grinned. “Good luck tonight.”

Matthew saluted his friend with his glass and meandered about the room. Beside a table was the infamous portrait that was still draped in canvas. One corner was beginning to slip, and Matthew saw the elaborate gilt frame peeking out from beneath the sheet. The candles from above flickered, making the gold sparkle in the light, like diamonds in a necklace.

“Gentlemen,” the loud voice of the auctioneer boomed. The cacophony of voices and laughter immediately died to an eerie quiet.

“Damn me, Wallingford, you’ve dangled this pretty little piece before us long enough. Give us a glimpse, man,” Lord Ponsomby said irritably as he tossed more brandy down his fat throat.

“Yes, you’ve had your fun, now give us a peek,” cried someone near the back of the room.

“Gentlemen,” the auctioneer yelled, hitting his gavel against the wooden podium. “All in due time, gents. Now, we will start the bidding for this exceptional piece at five hundred pounds.”

“Let’s see it first,” shouted Frederick Banks, an investment banker. Matthew found himself smiling. Old money never cared what they bought, but new money, they wanted to hold on to it, watching it grow, making certain they got good return for their investment. Old Banks was new money, trying to take a pence and press it into two.

Matthew was reasonably certain that Banks would find his portrait an infinitely prudent investment, if indeed, the old roué’s reputation was to be believed.

“Gentlemen, ladies…I give you the Dance of the Seven Veils.”

With a whoosh, the sheet was pulled away from the portrait by the club’s butler. A collective murmur of appreciation rippled out from the center of the crowd to the fringes of the room. There was a hushed awe, a sort of reverence in their silence that made Matthew turn his head and gaze at the portrait.

It was as stunning as it was erotic. Beautiful, tasteful, yet tit-illatingly explicit.

He heard a series of appreciative murmurs. Simply stunning. Sensually beautiful, as well as Erotically elegant. All words that made him immensely proud.

When he had the idea for the auction, he had known the piece would need to cause a stir. Something that would make the wealthy part with their money, preferably lots of their money.

It had started out as a piece of lewd portraiture, but had morphed and changed into something tasteful, but decadent. Any man who adored the female form would shed his own blood to own this painting.

Standing back, Matthew tried to dissect his work. To pick it apart and focus on the imperfections, yet he could not find anything to criticize. It was perfect, even down to the way the women’s bare breasts were being displayed and how some of their ankles and wrists were bound with their veils.

Each woman, white, black, Asian, Arabic, East Indian, was depicted in elegant repose with brilliant colored silk veils that set off the hue of her glowing skin. All were naked and spread for the admiration of the male voyeurs before them. Some were sprawled out on a crimson velvet chaise. Others were kneeling. Two women were bound together by a blood-red veil tied around their bosoms, their mouths locked in a passionate kiss. Two other women explored each other’s bodies, while one looked on, touching herself, her face awash in pleasure.

In all, the seven women were stunningly beautiful, well endowed, and most of all, supremely comfortable posing for him. It was not conceit, but the truth, as well as the mark of a good artist. The easy confidence shone in their faces, in the way their eyes seemed to sparkle and the way their lips curved in secret, provocative smiles and pouts.

“A thousand pounds,” someone cried.

“Two thousand,” Banks, the frugal investor, rebutted.

The numbers continued to be shouted out, climbing at a most pleasing rate. With this amount of blunt, he could purchase the building he wanted, an old little shop in Bloomsbury with a lovely bow window. It needed work, and while he was a shameless rogue, he was not above working up a sweat. He wanted this gallery. It had been the only thing he’d wanted in the past sixteen years.

“Six thousand pounds,” the auctioneer cried. “Going once…going twice. Sold to Mr. Banks.”

With a satisfied smile, Matthew watched Frederick Banks jostle through the crowd, toward him.

“Damn me, what a pretty picture,” Banks said excitedly as he pumped Matthew’s hand with his damp one. “I’ll deposit a draft in your account in the morning.”

With a nod, Matthew glanced once more at his painting. “I will have one of my footmen deliver it to you. Perhaps the bank would be the best place?”

Banks’s eyes widened. “Yes, yes.” He laughed. “My wife would have a fit of the vapors, although it might teach her a trick or two, wouldn’t it?”

From what he had heard, Mrs. Banks was well versed in a number of delightful little tricks.

“Thank you, Mr. Banks,” Matthew muttered, wanting to depart from the burgeoning crowd that seemed to swell before him. “I think I shall take my leave.”

He never was one for being smothered by bodies. And he had no interest in carrying on idle conversation.

“You look like you could use a drink. A celebratory drink.”

He knew that voice. His rod hardened in his trousers as he took the glass filled with the mysterious green liquid and stared down into a lovely face that looked up at him with hunger. “Ah, the green fairy. How did you know?”

“A woman never tells her secrets,” the woman said with a coy smile as she passed it to him. “Absinthe, it does do wonders for the mind, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm,” he murmured, drinking it down. Nothing made him forget who and what he was like absinthe.

“What a wickedly debauched painting,” she said. Her eyes flickered over the portrait with appreciation. “I would wager that those women actually liked posing for you.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, looking her over. He had seen her a few times before, but had never approached her. Tonight she was wearing a red dress, with a low square-cut bodice. He liked what he saw falling out of the cheap gown.

“I would like posing for you,” she whispered. “Are you up for it tonight?”

Christ, he was already hard and straining. The effects of the absinthe and the euphoria of getting six thousand for his painting only made the ache more unbearable. “The question is, my dear, are you up for it?”

Her lashes fluttered, concealing eyes nearly as cynical as his. “That, my lord, depends on what you want.”

“You. Tied up.”

Taking the now-empty glass from him, she set it down on the arm of a chair. “That will cost extra, of course.”

He smiled, one he knew could only be described as world weary. “It always does.”

“I have a room upstairs. With a delightfully large bed.”

“What of a wall?” he inquired as he trailed behind her, assessing her hips, which swayed erotically beneath the tawdry red satin. “It’s my usual preference.”

The woman gazed back at him as she headed for the stairs. “For another ten pounds.”

He nodded in agreement. What was ten pounds when faced with fucking in bed? It was an investment in pleasure and what little of his sanity still remained.

“You’re an odd duck,” she said to him, her painted eyes softening in the glow of the wall sconce. “Broken, I think.”

“Broken?” He laughed. “Madam, I am completely and unequivocally damaged beyond repair. Don’t bother to try to fix me. I’m utterly ruined and fit only for the rubbish bin. Now, where the blazes are you taking me?” he asked as the absinthe began to find its way to his brain, making his thoughts fuzzy. Maybe a bed would be all right tonight. He was drunk enough, he supposed.

“Just a little farther up,” she whispered.

“That’s the exit,” he barked, trying to clear his vision. “I thought you said you had a room upstairs?”

“Well, I lied,” she snapped in a voice that turned from siren to spinster. “I’m broken, too. Now hand over your money and your jewels and be quick about it.”

He laughed at the absurdity of her trying to rob him, then snarled as someone came from the dark shadows and shoved him out of the club and into the alley. “Now, guv,” came the cockney accent, followed by a thick arm around his throat and the stench of foul breath and rotten teeth. “Give us the goods and we’ll let you live.”

“Oh, what a treat,” he drawled. “Another morning. A new, mundane day. You do know how to depress a man, don’t you?”

He felt the man turn to glance at the woman, no doubt silently questioning Matthew’s mental state.

“I don’t know,” his would-be assignation spat. “He’s as mad as a hatter but rich as Croesus.”

“Right and wrong, love. Mad, indeed. Rich? ’Fraid not.”

The man holding him paused and loosened his hold a fraction, allowing Matthew to get in his surprise left hook.

“Ow! ’E broke me nose,” the man cried, stumbling back. Matthew was on him, using the skills he’d honed over the years studying pugilism. He was as big as an ox with the stamina of a stallion—the frail cockney indigent would be no match for his fists.

“Afraid you chose the wrong target, mate. I’m no weak guvnor. I’ve boxed for the past ten years.”

There was an angry cry from the depths of the alley, followed by three more ruffians who emerged through the darkness. Fists flying, legs kicking, Matthew fought them off even through his drunken haze.

Wait till he got his hands on that bitch, he thought savagely as he landed a jab into the throat of one of the thieves.

He was about ready to dispatch the last by planting his fist in his face when a glimmer of white whisked past his right eye. In a blinding whirl, he felt something crash against his temple. The last thing he felt was the slime-covered cobbles of the alley as his cheek cracked against them.

“Pick him clean,” the woman ordered. “I saw the winning bidder come up to him. I’m certain he passed him some money. Once you’ve found it, make it so he won’t be identifying me.”




Chapter Two


The stench of the wards was always a little overpowering at the beginning of the shift. But tonight it was particularly putrid. The scent of excrement, vomitus, death and disease was literally breath stealing.

Two full pails of water and a pair of mops were placed at her feet—the water too clean to have been put to any use.

“Have you washed the beds and walls yet?” Jane asked the two petulant nurses standing before her.

“Whot fer? They only piss on them again.”

Jane glared at the one, a brunette with a comely face and sinfully curved body. She’d come from the workhouse after being arrested for prostitution. It was clear that the idea of nursing the ill and dying was less appealing than that of selling her body for coin. But for Jane Rankin, a woman of suspect birth, an opportunity to have any sort of respectable job was her idea of heaven.

“When you arrived here, I explained your duties thoroughly. At the beginning of the night you’re to clean the beds and walls before you begin your rounds.”

“And what’s it yer doing, Miss Hoity-Toity, when we’re breaking our backs cleaning?”

Jane straightened her spine. Illegitimate or not, she still had a measure of her aristocratic father’s arrogance. “I am head sister of the ward. Your superior,” Jane stated, prickled by the woman’s insolence. “I take this profession very seriously. If you have no respect for it, then you may leave.”

The new nurse seemed to settle her ire, although anger still flashed occasionally in her eyes. “I like the pay. I ’ate the work. Besides, it’s nothin’ but worn-out whores and old washerwomen doing this work. It’s not like yer an archangel saving lives. More dies in ’ere than lives.” She snorted with amusement. “And alls the men want a tup with their sponge bath. Don’t see ’ow this is any more respectable than whoring.”

“Stop that talk,” Jane commanded. “If we’re to make a go of this, then we must adhere to a strict code of morality and respect. If we want others to see nurses as something other than worn-out women, then we must first believe in the profession ourselves.”

The pair of them snorted. “And whot would the likes of ye know about bein’ on the outs, earnin’ yer coin by spreadin’ yer thighs?”

Jane softened a bit. “I know enough. My mother was a working girl.”

“Yeah? Well it’s not the same as when it’s you gettin’ pawed for a pence.”

“I am well aware of that. And here is your chance to make your life better. You’ll see, in a few years nurses will be respected. As much as a governess, or a…a tutor. Now, go on and see to your duties.”

“Whatever ye say, Sister,” Abigail jeered. “But nothin’ will come of it. You’ll see. It’s just another form of slavery for women.”

Jane watched the two new employees of London College Hospital saunter back to the wards, which tonight, were overflowing. They might take the profession of nursing lightly. They might scoff and laugh at it, but Jane could not. How could a girl, born in the gutter and raised by a mother who prostituted herself be anything but grateful for a chance at employment such as this? No, nursing, while in its infancy, had a long way to go, but already, in the short year she had worked here, it had provided so much for her.

She was no longer an illegitimate bastard castoff. She had purpose. Knowledge. And the power to know that when her other employer, Lady Blackwood, left this earth, she would not be left destitute and alone unable to support herself.

It was knowledge like that, that gave a woman power. She would not be dependent upon a man for her survival. She could rent a small room and furnish it in a home with other women who were making their way in the world. Independent women, she thought with satisfaction. There was a new generation of women such as her. Women who believed they could make it on their own. Women who counted on no one for their survival or happiness but themselves.

The world was changing, albeit slowly. Too slow, as far as Jane was concerned. But she took comfort in knowing that there were others out there like her, trying to live a respectable life without the encumbrance of a man.

It was Lady Blackwood’s doing, Jane thought with a wistful smile. It was her employer’s teaching of this radical new thinking. Many people laughed at Lady Blackwood. She had been blackballed by more than one hostess in the past few years, but Jane knew if someone like Lady Blackwood could make her way in a world dominated by men and their laws, then Jane could, too. Lady B. had grown up in a world where she had everything to lose. Jane had grown up with nothing, and everything to gain.

No, nursing was far better than lowering herself by selling her body in the streets. Or worse, being a mistress. There was something so abhorrent to Jane about the thought of a man owning a woman for his pleasure. For Jane, it would be more than the exchange of her favors, it would be the selling of her dignity, her identity—her soul. She may have precious little in the way of material things, but the things that mattered most to her, her ideals and beliefs, made her wealthier than most women she was acquainted with.

As was her nightly routine, Jane strolled down the dark hall, lantern in hand, quietly making her way from bed to bed, ensuring all the patients were tucked in. Most were lying two to a bed. The blankets, threadbare and some moth-eaten, were too thin to ward off the dampness of the April night. Inside the ward, the air was ripe with disease and the melancholy of death. Bad air, she thought as she gently covered up a child who lay with its mother. She wanted to open a window, but knew the cold would make the patients suffer more. Still, the sickly stench wasn’t much better than a damp draft.

There were sixty patients tonight, all suffering from a menagerie of ailments, and that was not including the five who already died since she arrived for her shift. Such were nights at London College Hospital. At first, she had been horrified by what she witnessed night after night. The beatings, the diseases, the air of hopelessness. But Jane had grown in strength these past twelve months, learning more about herself and human nature than she ever thought possible. The human soul was an amazing thing; the willpower to survive, humbling. The capacity to love, frightening.

She, herself, had never loved—not a passionate love. Of course she felt love for Lady Blackwood who had saved her from the streets and given her a life. But that was a different kind of love—a familial one. Sometimes, Jane would watch the other nurses with the male patients, flirting and flaunting themselves. She was no fool; she knew what went on in certain wards. She had been no stranger to the baseness of men. She had seen prostitutes with their clients. She knew of the acts. Knew that sex could be pleasurable. But what she had never been able to understand was how a passionate connection could be forged between two people. A connection that went beyond the few minutes that sex provided.

Perhaps there was something wrong in her makeup. Some flaw that prevented her from warmth of feeling. It was not that she hadn’t longed for that sentiment, or yearned to discover what sex was all about, it was just that she had never felt moved enough by a man to embark upon the journey that might very well enlighten her about the aspects of pleasure and passion.

She was old by the standards of the day. Twenty-seven, to be precise. She had been kissed only once, and it had left a lackluster feeling inside her. Of course, being a lady’s companion by day and a nurse by night did not exactly bring about ardent suitors. It didn’t help that most found her shy and plain, two facts that Jane had never bothered to worry over. She could not help the way she was born. She would be lying, of course, if she said she hadn’t questioned why she had not been born with her mother’s beauty. Her mother, despite being born in the stews, had managed to capture the notice of an earl’s son, who decided right then and there that she must be his mistress. That aristocrat had been Jane’s father. Homely though he was, he had been a prize for someone like Lucy Rankin. But their life had taken a horrible spiral downward when Jane was six and her father had married another. Lucy had still been his mistress, but his visits were less and less frequent, and Jane had been forced to watch her mother’s beauty, as well her spirit, decline. When her father had kicked them both onto the street without anything to live on, or a roof over their heads, Jane, at the tender age of seven, had made her first promise to herself. And that was, never be a mistress, and never allow a man to dictate your life or your happiness.

At twenty-seven, she was proud to say she had upheld that promise, and without any regrets. Still, she would be a liar if she refused to admit to at least herself, that there had been the occasional time, lying in her bed, that she found herself wondering what it would be like to share a bed and her body with a man.

“How is the consumptive child who arrived tonight?”

The whispered voice drifted over her shoulder, pulling her out of the unwanted, yet haunting, reminders of her past and the eager yearnings that had recently begun to plague her. Turning, Jane held the lantern aloft, illuminating the intelligent face of Dr. Inglebright, the younger. Dr. Inglebright, the senior, was a crusty old bear, with a wrinkled face and a deep mistrust of the new phenomenon of nurses. Inglebright, the younger, was a man with a kind smile, and gray eyes full of genuine concern—and respect.

“She sleeps at last, sir. Although her breathing is not so easy.”

“Give her a quarter dram of laudanum then.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she murmured, unable to look into his eyes. For the past month, Dr. Inglebright had been looking at her most queerly, and it made her insides turn inside out. Why, she didn’t know. She only knew that her response to the presence of Richard Inglebright had dramatically changed over the course of the year that he had taken her under his wing, teaching her about medicine, and showing her how to care for the ill. Perhaps it was only gratitude. After all, without Richard, she would never have had an opportunity to become a nurse. Mayhap it was friendship. They did talk very easily and freely between themselves.

“How is Lady Blackwood?” he asked, concern evident in his eyes. “I wanted to stop by this morning, but I found myself engaged in sewing up a young lad after removing his appendix.”

Richard Inglebright was far more dedicated to the pursuit of healing than his father. If she had any say at all, she would, without batting an eyelash, request the younger Inglebright, despite the fact that his father was very often called to care for the elite of the city. It was episodes such as these, Richard staying on after his shift to care for others, that endeared him to Jane.

“You must be utterly exhausted,” she said with concern. “You performed four surgeries last night.”

Inglebright’s eyes flashed. “Your concern warms me,” he murmured in a deep voice that flustered her and made her look away. “No one cares about my needs like you do, Jane.”

The statement felt far too familiar, and Jane, unsure of herself around men, did the only thing she could—she retreated behind her veil of coolness.

“As you inquired, Lady Blackwood is very well,” she said, stumbling to get their conversation on a safe course. “That tincture you sent for her has helped immensely with her arthritis.”

He smiled, making Jane wonder if he was laughing at her. “Good, good,” he mumbled, his gaze traveling over her face and the white apron she used to cover her gown with. “You do credit to her, Jane. I know of few lady’s companions who would deign to become a nurse.”

“You give me too much credit, sir. You know very well I came to the hospital to work off my, as well as Lady Blackwood’s, mounting debt to your father.”

His smile softened as he pressed in closer to her. “But you didn’t have to stay once it was repaid.”

A little frisson of excitement snaked along her spine at his closeness. It was most improper how close they were standing. “I found I liked helping the ill. And what is closer to the truth, I saw it as a means for future employment. We both know that Lady Blackwood will not be with me forever. And where would I go? There is not another Lady Blackwood out there who would overlook my pedigree and bring me into her home to act as companion.”

“There are many that would overlook your upbringing, Jane.” His smile was like a full kiss on the lips. Jane felt it in every cell of her being.

“Doc, we’ve got somethin’ fer ye.”

Irritation flickered in his eyes, and Jane held the lantern higher. The annoyance swiftly passed as he saw two burly night men carrying in the body of what looked to be an unconscious man. A rather large man, Jane thought.

“’E’s bleedin’, he is. Head’s mashed to bits.”

“My theatre,” Richard commanded, taking charge. “Jane, wash your hands and assist me.”

“Yes,” she said, obeying him with a slight curtsy. She ran to the end of the ward where a porcelain sink and a pitcher of clean, soapy water awaited her.

Pouring the now-tepid water over her hands, she rubbed her palms together, using friction to clean between her fingers and beneath her nails. Richard was fastidious about washing, a fact his father laughed about. But Jane had noticed over the months here that Richard’s patients had less wound infections than those of his father.

Drying her hands on a clean towel, Jane walked briskly to the wooden doors that swung open. The hem of her black gown was swishing around her legs, the starched white apron itching against her neck, which had started to perspire. It was not fear that made her sweat, but excitement.

“We have a significant head wound, Jane,” Richard announced as she entered the room where Richard performed his operations. “And perhaps some broken bones.”

Richard’s hands, covered in blood, searched through the tumble of black hair on the man’s head.

“’E’s a rich cove, ’e is,” the burliest of the night men said. “Look at ’is clothes and that waistcoat.”

“Never mind that now,” Richard growled. “Help me to get him undressed so I can see if there is more damage. Jane, bring over the tray with the ether. I have a feeling when this giant awakes, he will not be in pleasant humor.”

The two men began pulling off the bloodstained jacket and waistcoat. Jane turned her back, preparing the silver tray with the ether and an assortment of tools she thought Inglebright might need. For certain, this man would require needle and thread to close the gaping wound in his head.

“Damn me, the man’s been through a rounder!”

Whirling around, Jane caught sight of a very muscular chest and arms. On the man’s ribs were black smudges, which she knew were bruises.

“Spleen and liver feel intact, and there isn’t any swelling or firmness,” Richard muttered as he palpated the man’s belly, which was etched in muscle. “His limbs seem to be intact, as well. I don’t know how he managed it, but he seems to have avoided breaking any bones. Bring a cloth and water, Jane. Let’s find out where all this blood is coming from.”

Jane set the silver tray down on a wooden table, and began dabbing at the wound. The scalp wound, while large, was not overly deep. More of a superficial gash, really. The blood was already starting to dry, and the wound no longer wept.

Cleaning the cloth in the water, Jane wrung it out, watching the clear water turn red. She turned to his face, bending over him to work. He snarled, his white teeth bared like a rabid animal’s as he grabbed her wrist.

“Givens and Smith, if you please,” Richard said, motioning to where the man held her.

“None of that now, guv,” Givens said. “The chit is only tryin’ to help.”

The man came off the table, swinging and hitting, as the night men struggled to hold him down.

“Get off,” he cried. Like a madman, he swung at anything that moved. “Get the fuck off me, you whoreson!”

“’E don’t talk like a gent,” Mr. Smith grunted as he twisted the man’s arm, forcing his torso back onto the table. “Talks like ’e was born in the rookery.”

The man burst into a litany of profanity about being tied down. He struggled, his strength incredible considering his wounds.

“Give him two drops of ether, Jane.”

With a dropper, she administered two drops of the liquid onto a folded cloth and pressed it tightly against the man’s face.

He struggled, roaring, but it was not a cry of rage, Jane thought as she watched him, it was one of terror. He tossed his head from side to side trying to dislodge the towel, but Jane held firm.

“No,” he said, muffled beneath the cloth, his voice weakening, as was his strength. “Don’t do this. No binds…”



Jesus Christ, not again. He was being held down, his body unclothed, hands, cool and damp, stroked his flesh. He retched, trying to fight through the fog that clouded his brain. Fumbling at his waist told him his trousers were being removed, and he gathered the last of his evaporating strength to fight off his assailant.

The old fear seized him and he began to shake and breathe too fast.

“Shh,” came a female voice. “You’re safe.”

He stilled, going limp, then realized it was a trick. This was no angel in disguise.

Violently he tossed his head, trying to fling off the cloth that was smothering him.

“It’s all right,” came the softly spoken voice, directly in his ear. “Take a slow deep breath, and hold it. That’s right. Now let it go.”

His body seemed to go languid. He felt hands in his hair. They were gentle and soothing. Not like the other hands that had always plagued his dreams. Hands that clawed and pinched. Hands that had awakened him many times in his sleep. Hands that had ruined him.

“You’re bleeding, and we want only to help you,” the voice whispered again. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

The world was blackening. He felt disembodied, weightless. Yet his hearing remained nearly perfect.

“There,” she soothed, her breath caressing his cheek. “There is nothing to fear.” The cloth fell away from his mouth as his body stilled. “Sleep now,” she encouraged.

“You truly are an angel, Jane,” came the voice of a male.

Before the blackness settled in, his fingers reached for her wrist, which he sensed was near his hip. He grabbed her, holding on to her like an anchor clutches the sand at the bottom of the sea.

“Be here,” he scratched out through his cracked lips and dry throat.

She squeaked at the shock of knowing he was not asleep, but then she recovered swiftly. The tension in her hand lessened, and Matthew entwined his fingers with hers, holding on to the only thing that felt safe.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice like that of an angel.

“No,” he growled. “Later. Be here…later.”

“He’s out at last. Jane, hand me the scalpel.”

Jane did as she was told. Thankfully, it was nearly automatic now, for she could not take her gaze off the stranger. He was beautiful, she realized, allowing her gaze to wander along the length of his unclothed body. He was very tall and broad. His were muscles honed and sculpted, reminding Jane of a diagram she had once studied while she learned anatomy. She tried to still her pulse as she ran through the anatomical terms. Pectoralis. His were large and firm, his nipples small and brown. On the left one, above his heart was a tattoo. A crest of some sort.

Rectus abdominis. Stomach muscles. All six of his were prominently displayed. So too was a tantalizing trail of soft black hair that disappeared beneath the white sheet.

“Jane.”

The sharp voice drew her attention and she blushed. Sliding her spectacles back on her nose where they belonged, Jane met Richard’s annoyed gaze. “Needle and thread,” he repeated.

“Yes, Doctor.”

She’d been caught staring. She was no better than the two new employees she had scolded a short time ago. But really, how could a woman possessed of a pulse not notice the man lying before her. He was stunningly masculine, and his face, while exceedingly handsome, held a beauty that was dark and sensual.

She noticed his lips were cracked and smeared with blood. She went to wipe them. “Not now, Jane,” Richard commanded. “I need your hand.”

In the light, he held a shining object between a pair of tweezers. “From a gin bottle most likely,” Richard murmured as he held the tweezers up to the light. “It was lodged in the corner of his eye. You’ll need to sew the outer lid back together. That is what is bleeding. You’ve a steady, delicate hand, Jane. You’ll leave less scarring if you do it.”

“Yes, Dr. Inglebright.”

Richard nodded and reached for the towel. His hands were drenched in blood to his wrists. “He’s an aristocrat,” he muttered as he tossed the towel into the wicker basket they used for laundering. “I don’t want him coming back displeased with me because I’ve bungled his looks.”

Jane hid her smile. She knew Richard’s opinion of the titled populace. It was not gracious.

Bending over her patient, she tried to forget that Richard was watching her, and that her patient’s face lay pressed against her ample bosom as she bent low over his eyes.

Concentrating on steadying her hand, Jane tried to ignore the way the man’s warm breath caressed her exposed skin above the edge of her bodice. Never before had she been so discomposed to be sitting this close to a man. He was asleep from the ether, yet her body was as aware of him as if he were awake, caressing her with his gaze, his hands, his beautiful mouth.

“He’ll need his head bandaged. We don’t want that gash to get putrid, or his eyes. You can see to that, can you, Jane?”

“Yes.”

“Givens and Smith will find a bed for him. I think it best if he stay the night here in my room. He doesn’t need to be out with the others. Whoever he is, he has money. I think he would be rather dismayed to find himself amongst the consumptives and typhoids.”

Squeezing her shoulder, Richard passed behind her, studying her skill with the needle. “It’s unfortunate the college doesn’t allow women in, Jane. You’d be a superb surgeon. Lucky bastard, I doubt he’ll even have a scar.”

That was praise, indeed. No other compliment could have meant more to Jane. It carried far more substance than one based on the superficialities of beauty and feminine wiles. She was not a beauty. She knew and accepted it. But she was smart, and eager to learn all she could. She was a woman of worth, and would continue to be so, despite her looks.

“How do you do it?” Richard asked, peering over her shoulder. “Your stitches are so slight.”

She laughed despite the closeness of Richard at her back, and the stranger’s face at her front. “Sometimes it pays to be a woman,” she whispered, smiling secretly to herself.

“We’ll, you’ve a fine hand, and a quick mind, Jane. I’m glad I found you first.”




Chapter Three


Warm water sluiced from the cloth over the large expanse of the man’s shoulders and chest. The water turned to rust, taking the remnants of dried blood away from his skin.

His skin tone was darker than most, tanned almost, she mused as she dipped the cloth once more into the basin and squeezed it over his pectorals. The water shimmered over the blue ink of the tattoo, and she bent closer trying to see what the image was of.

She still couldn’t make it out. Tracing it with her finger, she saw him flinch and she pulled away, afraid to waken him—afraid to touch him.

Like a child caught stealing a sweet, Jane felt utterly guilty to be taking delight in washing this stranger.

Even with his head and eyes bandaged, he was beautiful. His nose, straight and refined, told of his aristocratic breeding. His lips, however, full and soft yet masculine, were made for pleasure.

Jane didn’t dare touch them. She had wanted to, but had not allowed herself the wicked pleasure of such a thing. He was her patient. It was wrong. Had she not long ago given her two new charges the devil for their misconduct? Moral responsibility, Jane reminded herself. Respectability.

Yet Jane could not stop thinking of how hard he felt beneath her fingertips and how her body seemed to soften as her hands gently touched him. She had never once been physically affected by a patient. She had never felt the slow deep burn inside her, the vague tightening of her loins and her womb. Not even Richard had this effect on her. She knew the words that made her feel this way, but was at loss to explain why they suddenly consumed her.

Desire. Attraction—compulsion. Desire and attraction were what she felt at this precise moment. Compulsion was what she was trying so diligently to fight.

Her gaze fixed on his chest, watching how slowly his chest rose and fell. She allowed her hands to traverse the width of his torso under the pretence of counting his respirations. She heard the breath enter his lungs, felt his heart beating slow and steady against her palm. Saw his lips part as the air escaped through them.

Even when she was certain he was breathing easy, she could not push away. Her hands simply would not let go of him.

It was wrong to be this close to him, to sit on the edge of his small cot, to be leaning over him as she watched him sleep. He was clean now, yet still she bathed him, refusing to take her hands off his body.

He stirred against her, the bandages hiding his brow and facial expressions. Every once in a while, he would tremble, and his mouth would move as if he was trying to speak. His head would then begin thrashing, his body tensing despite the deep sleep produced by the ether.

What demon gripped him? She knew it was something evil that held him now. He should be peaceful from the ether, not grimacing and tensing, as if he was trying to fight.

Perhaps he was dreaming of his attack.

He cried out, his head arching back as his torso and buttocks lifted from the cot. The white sheet slid down, exposing the line of fine black hair that continually captured her attention.

“Shh,” she soothed, pushing him gently back with her hands on his shoulders. “You’re safe here.”

He settled easily, falling back into the slow, even breathing of before. His body was still. His muscles quiet.

As Jane sat back and watched him, she allowed herself to take her fill of his naked chest. She had never seen a man like this before. One who was so large and muscled. One whose shaving soap and cologne still clung to his skin.

His chest was smooth and hairless, all except for the line of onyx down that swirled around his navel and worked its way lower. Without thinking, Jane ran her forefinger along the pathway of hair, marveling at the softness and the steely muscles beneath his skin. It was a contradiction, how something could feel so soft and innocent, yet just beneath so hard and unyielding.

She was utterly captivated by him, by the secrecy of his identity, not to mention the mysteries to be found on his body. Like a child with a new doll, she could not stop looking at him, or prevent herself from running her hand along his chest.

What would it feel like to have his length atop her? To be encased by his strong arms? To lay her head on his chest and listen to the steady cadence of his heart beating as she traced the outline of his tattoo?

What would it be like, she wondered, to have a man this handsome and virile buried deep within her?

As if he could discern her wayward thoughts, the sheet moved as his penis began to swell, the outline of which was pressed urgently against the thin, graying cotton.

Jane was not an innocent. She did not smother a cry of horror and launch herself from the bed. Instead, she allowed herself to pull the sheet down, slowly exposing the man to her curious eyes.

He was as large and beautiful there as he was everywhere else.

His erection continued to fill, and Jane watched, mesmerized as the pink rod filled with blood. He was long and thick. The foreskin pulling back, revealing a heavily veined staff and engorged head.

She was consumed by the thought of feeling him, touching the hardness that still grew. The devil whispered in her ear, and she obeyed, reaching out to skim her fingertip along the veined shaft.

He moaned, and hastily Jane pulled the sheet up, ashamed by her actions. She had no idea what had gotten into her. She had seen many male patients naked before, and never once had she been tempted to touch them, to learn whether or not the skin was as smooth and velvety as it looked.

Perhaps she had her mother’s harlot blood after all, for that could be the only reason for these new thoughts that suddenly began to cloud her thinking and judgment.

“Are ye done yet?” Givens, the night man asked as he entered the room. “We’ve brought a bed and we’ll get him onto it for you.”

“Yes,” Jane said in a voice that belied her thoughts. “I’m finished. But do be careful, he took a nasty blow to his head. I’m afraid I’m going to have to check on him frequently tonight to ensure he wakes up.”

She had seen many patients die in their sleep from blows less severe. Tonight she would have to return to him hourly and wake him, ensuring that he did not slip into unconsciousness and ultimately death.

One of the men reached for his ankles, and the other, his wrists. The third shoved the bed closer so that the mattress of one was pressed against the wooden operating table. Beneath his weight, they grunted as they lifted him, affording Jane a glimpse of how tall he was. Well over six feet and solid as marble.

“Ye better take good care of ’im, miss,” the one grunted with exertion. “’E’s part of the fancy and there’s no tellin’ what will ’appen if ’e cocks up ’is toes here.”

“I am aware of that.”

Jane watched as they plopped him down onto the small bed. The mattress was thin, but it was clean. So, too, was his pillow. It was the best of what London College Hospital had to offer, yet Jane knew it was not even close to what the man was used to.

“Will there be anythin’ else?”

“No, thank you. I’ll call if I need help.”

Jane pulled the screen around his bed, trying to afford the man some privacy. News traveled fast throughout the wards, and there was no doubt that the news of an aristocrat having arrived after being beaten unconscious would be fodder for those well enough to spread the word. Many of the patients, Jane knew, would risk their own health to leave their beds, if for nothing more than a glimpse of the man. Jane was determined to keep him safe and quiet, and not a spectacle on display for the others’ amusement.

“Who are you?” she asked as she drew up a blanket, covering him to his shoulders. “And where do you belong?”



“Who are you?”

The words burned his brain, which throbbed in an unrelenting tattoo against his skull. He swallowed, tasting bile, and knew with sickening certainty the voice would come again, no matter how hard he tried to shove it aside and suffocate it until he could hear it no more.

“Who are you?”

“Your slave.” The words erupted in his mind. Words said in his voice. Words that opened the floodgates of revulsion. Fear and panic swelled as he felt hands sweep over his chest.

He lay still and quiet, hoping that the words and memories would fade, along with the touch, but they rushed back, smothering him.

His heart was racing, his skin sweating, yet he felt chilled as the hated memories came back.

“You know, this is all you’re good for—fucking.”

No. He tried to say it, to scream it in his mind, but no sound emitted from his lips.

“You like this. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be hard. Wouldn’t be leaking your seed, anticipating what we’re going to do to one another.”

He shook his head denying it. Hating that the truth could not be hidden. But it couldn’t. His cock was hard and throbbing, screaming for the release he had begun to crave with frightening regularity.

“Open your eyes and watch me.”

No, he couldn’t. It was dirty. Sinful. Unnatural.

But it felt so damn good, the devious little voice in his head whispered. And it did. No matter how shameful it was, he had never felt anything so good. And if he kept his eyes closed, he didn’t have to see what was happening. Didn’t have to watch the person between his thighs, sucking his cock deep into a hot mouth that knew how to get him off every time.

He was so close, he could feel it in the way his cods tightened up in the palm that handled them. He felt it in the way his seed raced up his shaft. And then it stopped. That hot sucking mouth and probing tongue abruptly abandoned him.

He cried out and reached for his prick, holding it out, offering himself, pleading and panting as he stroked his swollen cock with his hand. Even with his eyes closed he could feel those lascivious eyes watching him masturbate. Harder. He could hear the word whispered in a harsh rasp of growing arousal. Yes. He liked it hard, and his lover liked watching him toss off with ferocious jerks, spewing his seed over his palm.

“Beg me to take you in my mouth.”

No. He wouldn’t. But the word please was pulled from his lips before he could stop it. He was humiliated that he had shown such weakness and need—such perversity to want this—with this person. Yet despite that, he wanted the mouth on him, finishing him off, drinking him down and dry.

He felt the swipe of a tongue as he continued to stroke himself, the tongue teasing him with its elusive touch. “You aren’t going to tell. Are you?”

It was a demand, not a question. No. He wouldn’t tell. Couldn’t. He hated himself for what he was doing. Hated the person who was once again pulling his cock so deep, sucking him until he had nothing left to give.

“No one would believe you if you did, you know. They would believe me, not you.”

Yes. He knew that. No one would believe it, no one would understand.

“Open your eyes,” the voice demanded.

He was loath to do it, to confront the wickedness and shame that played out between his spread thighs. But he was at the mercy of that mouth, and the hands that strayed to his buttocks, pulling them apart in time to the ravaging mouth on his cock. A finger slipped inside at the same time his cock was pulled deep, and the first spurt of come shot from his cock.

His eyelids flew up, and their gazes met. He was shocked by what he saw looking up at him. Despite all the times they had been together, the image still stunned him. Indignity flooded him, mixing with the pleasure he felt at seeing his cock being so greedily sucked as he continued to fist his hand up and down his swollen shaft, milking himself.

Dirty and unnatural. A slave to desire. A prisoner in a prison of his own making.

“You want to come, don’t you?”

He wanted to, yet he despised admitting it.

“You hate me for what I do to you, but you can’t resist, can you? You can’t bring yourself to put a stop to our illicit meetings because you like what I do to you. You like these lessons I’m teaching you.”

He was panting, anger and desire curling within him. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, he chanted in his mind while a hot tongue glided over the swollen head of his member.

He hated this, lying here at his prick’s mercy, but he could not move away, knowing how degraded he would feel after. He could not think about that now. All he could think of was coming and spewing it all over, making his sinful, secret lover feel a measure of degradation at his hand.

He came, pulsing in long powerful spurts. The low moan at once inflamed, yet angered him. His lover should have been dishonored by what he had done, but instead the act had aroused.

“My turn.”

He found his body handled, moved to how his lover desired him. His lips were against a straining sex that pressed against his open mouth. He licked and sucked as he had been taught, listening to the growing sounds of pleasure. His cock was hard again, and his lover worked it, tugging and pulling hard.

He felt eyes on him, watching him. Felt that greedy gaze devouring his body. A hand smacked his buttock, stinging him before a finger traced his opening, and plunged in.

“You are such a dirty, sinful boy,” his lover moaned.

He bit down, angry and mortified. He felt his lover fall apart and he came once more, empting into a hand that refused to release his cock.

Dirty. Sinful. He could never erase the taint. The smothering feel of his body being consumed with his unnatural lust, with his sick perversions.

He had a secret. A secret he must hide. A secret he wished he could hide from himself.



“Water,” the angel’s voice whispered, chasing away the old memories. He felt his head being lifted and cradled in a supple arm as something pressed softly against his lips, which felt swollen and cracked, and he winced. Immediately his head began to throb in a relentless pulsation.

Disoriented, unable to see, he shook off the hold and clamped his mouth shut. Where was he? He struggled to get out the words, but they came out in a growl that was incomprehensible.

“You’re safe. It’s only water.”

The voice was soft, lyrical, with a hint of sensuality to it. It was a woman’s voice, throaty and beckoning, yet it held a measure of authority that forced him to sip at the tepid water.

She tried to get him to drink more, but he refused, and finally she released him back against the pillow. The scent of her rushed over him as she bent down, fluffing the pillow and pulling up the sheet high on his chest. Soap. He inhaled again, discovering the essence, tasting it. She smelled clean—pure. Not overpowering as so many women did, with their flowery oils and perfumes.

He liked the way this woman smelled. Simple, yet enticing.

When she was about to pull away, he clasped her wrist, holding her still against him. He heard her gasp, felt her pulse quicken beneath his thumb.

For a moment he welcomed the feel of her, the heat of her body so close to his, the scent of her. What a novelty, for he hated the feeling of being smothered by another.

“Sir, you will reinjure yourself.”

The voice, still soft and beckoning, was laced with a huskiness that belied her words.

“Where am I?” he asked while he licked his dry lips.

“London College Hospital,” she replied as she tried to extract herself from his hold.

“Who are you?” He gripped her tighter, pulling her down lower until he could smell the starch in her clothes and the delicate scent of feminine sweat beneath the scent of her bathing soap.

“Jane.”

The word exploded in his brain. Such a simple word. Such a plain name. Yet for all its simplicity and its single syllable, Matthew could not help but repeat it in his thoughts and marvel at how exotic and sensual her name could sound on his tongue.

“Jane…” He murmured the name, liking the resonance when murmured in his deep voice. He liked the sensuality of it said in a dark whisper of longing. Jaaaane… He drew out the syllable, allowing it to echo within the confines of his aching brain.

“Your name?”

He fought through the fog, trying to replay the events of the night, and instead he got lost in her voice once again, tripping along in his blindness and mental fog, waiting to hear her speak to him.

“What is your name, sir? Can you not remember it?”

Licking his lips once more, he savored the way her voice washed over his body like honey dripping from a spoon—slowly, in golden, hypnotizing rivulets, unraveling in soothing waves.

Christ, what the devil had they given him to make him think such queer thoughts?

“Sir?” she asked, concern taking away a measure of the sensuality he had heard.

“Matthew,” he finally admitted. He heard her breath stop for the tiniest second. She knew. He was not simply a man, but an aristocrat. No aristocrat gave his Christian name—not when their identity revolved around a title. He didn’t know why he didn’t give her his title. The fog, he thought, that was the reason he was not thinking clearly. Perhaps, though, he wanted to be someone else—anyone else—here with this woman whose name alone aroused him.

“Matthew, will you release me? My back is hurting.”

It was the shock that freed her. He had not heard his Christian name in years. He’d been ten the last time anyone had uttered it. He had always only been Wallingford, or my lord. Never Matthew. The intimacy of it rocked him, aroused him until he felt his cock stir, filling with need. He had released her as though she were fire and he was singed.

“You’ve taken a very bad blow to the head. Do you remember anything at all about your attack?”

“I recall your voice,” he murmured. Intimacy swelled up once more between them, and he searched for her hand that lay in the wrinkles of the sheet. “You spoke to me.”

“Yes, when the doctor was helping you.”

“Come closer.” Desire made his voice thick. “You are much too far away.”

He felt the mattress dip slightly, heard the crinkle of fabric and petticoats as she arranged her skirts. He felt the weight of all that fabric as it pressed against his thigh.

“There now, is that better?”

“No.” He reached for her, pulling her by her wrist until he felt the edge of her bodice graze his chest. The warmth of her skin met his, and she gasped, steadying herself with her hand against his shoulder.

She was too close, his brain warned, but his body overruled logical thought, and he wanted her closer, until her breasts were crushed against him, and his mouth was buried in her throat.

“Sir, release me.”

“Jane…” He released his hold and brought his hand up, connecting with what felt like a soft, plump cheek. She had ample time to retreat from him, but even with his blindness, he could see that she moved closer. “Jane,” he murmured again, not understanding this strange fascination with her name, or the sound of it coming from his mouth. She held still, although he heard her breathing change from slow and steady to shallow, unsteady rasps as he caressed her cheek, the tip of her nose, her full mouth that inflamed him.

He discovered her with his fingertips, painting her in his mind’s eye. Her cheeks were full, her face narrow and her nose little, the tip slightly pointed. Her skin was smooth, like warm butter, her lips full and pouting. He moved his hand upward, to trace the contours of her eyelids, but she inched back, evading his touch, which exposed her throat and the swell of her breasts. His hand fell away from her face and glided down her throat to the apex of her heart, which beat furiously beneath the stiff fabric of her gown. Her breasts were high, full, soft, and the sound she made, part cry, part surrender, had him stirring beneath the sheets.

“You…you’ve had an injury,” she stammered as he traced the contours of her breast over her gown. “You’re confused.”

Yes. He was confused. He wanted to touch her. To learn her, and her lush form. He wanted her to touch him despite the fact he hated to have his flesh stroked. He wanted to stay like this, with his hand roaming over her.

“Matthew,” she gasped, pulling away, “this is most unseemly.”

“Stay, Jane.” A beat of silence whispered between them.

“All right. But you must promise that you will sleep.”

“And what if I dream of you?” he asked as he searched for her hand, and found her fingers trembling.

“You won’t,” she said in a quiet voice he knew he wasn’t supposed to hear. “Men don’t dream about women like me.”

He tried to reply—wanted—to say something, but the blow to his head, combined with the alcohol he had consumed, swiftly robbed him of speech. He was asleep, struggling to return to Jane and her angel’s voice.

How long he slept, he could not say. He only awakened for brief moments when Jane would rouse him, and ask him his name. Carefully she would check the bandage that wrapped around his head and eyes. Gently she would cover him up, and whisper to him that it was all right to return to sleep.

And always he would reach for her, grasping at her wrist, tugging her down beside him until he could feel the outline of her thigh against his.

“Stay with me, Jane,” he mumbled hours later as he clasped her small hand to his chest.

“I cannot,” she replied quietly. “The dawn has arrived.”

“I despise the morning,” he murmured, tracing the satiny nails of her fingers with his fingertips. “I am a creature of darkness, whose element is night and shadows. I belong in the dark with the other sinful creatures.”

She caressed his cheek, and he did not flinch and shrink away in revulsion. Instead, he savored that gentle touch, eating it up like a starving man given a few scraps of bread. Why had he admitted such a thing? Christ, he was making himself vulnerable. Instantly he regretted saying those words, that secret truth. He never wanted to be weak, never wanted to show anyone that there was a chink in his armor. Yet there was something about this woman, this female he could not even see, that invited his trust, that lured the demon within him.

He clutched her tight as she pulled away, trying to keep her with him. “I will return tonight, Matthew.”

“Then I will sleep until you do, and then, Jane, I will stay awake the night with you.”




Chapter Four


Mrs. Blackwood’s old town coach awaited her outside the black iron gates of the hospital, just as it did every morning.

“Good morning, miss, I trust you had a decent night.”

“Thank you, George,” Jane replied as her driver helped her up into the coach. “It was relatively uneventful.”

Well, if you can consider fondling a patient and being fondled in return uneventful.

“How was Lady Blackwood’s night?” she asked, trying to think of anything other than Matthew’s hand on her body.

“Mrs. Carling didna’ say anything, so I imagine it went very well.”

With a nod, he closed the door and hefted himself up onto the carriage box. With a whistle, the horses began their slow canter from the east end to the small house in Bloomsbury where she lived with Lady Blackwood.

On the nights when Jane worked at the hospital, Mrs. Carling, the housekeeper and cook, took over the duties of companion. Theirs was a small household—Mrs. Carling, Jeanette, the maid, herself and George, who acted as coach driver and stable hand. Yes, it was a small household, and a ragtag one at that, but they were all satisfied with their lot in life. Lady Blackwood paid them on time, and treated them with respect. None of them bothered to concern themselves that they hadn’t had a raise in a few years. What was money, if one was treated like a slave? Lady Blackwood treated them as though they were family, especially Jane. A fact she would be forever grateful for.

Long ago, Lady Blackwood had lived in one of the largest town houses in Mayfair. She had been young and beautiful and full of gaiety. She had been the wife of the Earl of Blackwood, and appeared to have held the world in her palm. That had been the outside image. Inside, however, her world had been one of terror and pain. After years of suffering physically from her husband’s beatings, Lady Beatrice Blackwood had scandalized society by leaving her husband and seeking a divorce.

What courage it must have taken her to decide on such a course. She had been a pampered lady from the womb. Everything had been handed to her, and yet, she had left everything she had known to become a woman who was ostracized by her peers and her friends, a woman who’d had to learn to live by her wits and the very small monthly sum the courts demanded her husband pay her, as well as the small inheritance left to her by her father.

Divorce was still a stigma. Jane wondered how Lady Blackwood had endured it, being a social pariah all those years ago.

The carriage rounded the corner, and Jane glanced out through the warped glass to the sidewalk where women and children were setting up carts of fruits and vegetables. A fishwife, busy tossing the early-morning catch onto the table, shooed away a stalking cat, which curled its body around her gown’s tattered hem.

The black soot and the acrid scent of coal permeated the air, mixing with the heavy veil of fog that had rolled in from the Thames. This was the East End, and the place where Jane had been raised.

Every morning on her way home from the hospital, she watched the activity, the hollow faces, the worn expressions of the women. And every time, she thanked God that Lady Blackwood had found her that one night and taken her in from the pouring rain. Jane shuddered to think about what her life would have been like had she not been found and whisked away from this place. Would she have survived long enough on her own to have a similar hollow, empty expression on her face as the women before her had?

Her life had been drastically altered that night. She had been given shelter and food. A bed, free of bugs, and a blanket that could not be seen through. Lady Blackwood had tutored her, teaching her to read and write, to sew and do needlepoint. She had taught her how to conduct herself in society, but most important, she had showed her what it was to live by your convictions.

Years ago, Lady Blackwood had taken an illegitimate, homeless waif without a future, and given her a life. Jane knew she could never repay such a debt.

She had been, and still was, beholden to Lady Blackwood for the life she’d been given. Lady Blackwood was a most excellent employer, providing Jane with food, clothes and lodgings, as well as permission to work as a nurse. She had two afternoons off per week, to do whatever it was she wished. She had a mother of sorts in Lady B., and no amount of money could ever replace that.

She was content with her life. Happy, she thought. Yet now, after leaving work, a little kernel of discontent began to gnaw at her. She could not stop thinking of her patient—Matthew—and what he had done to her, what he had made her feel.

During the years spent with Lady Blackwood, Jane thought she had learned all she needed to know about being an independent, free-thinking woman. Tonight, she had discovered that she had never learned how to indulge her female needs. She’d had needs before, and she was not ashamed to admit that she had eased them with self-discovery and her own touch. But nothing compared to that heated searing deep within her as Matthew’s skin connected with hers.

The rumble of the carriage ceased, and the conveyance swayed to the left, then halted, abruptly bringing Jane’s thoughts to the present. She should have been tired after being awake all night, but she felt an odd hum in her body, as if the stale, coal-sooted air had given her a second wind. Not even the thick fog that still rolled throughout the city was enough to make her eyelids droop.

“’Ere ye are, miss. Home at last.”

“Thank you,” she said as she took George’s hand and alighted from the carriage. Although her feet and back ached like the devil, Jane felt a buoyant energy coalesce within her. She wondered if it had to do with the thought of returning to the hospital and her patient that night.

Through the thickening drizzle, she saw the warm glow of the oil lamp that sat on the rosewood table before the bow window of the small town house. The soft, lumpy outline of Mrs. Carling could be seen lighting the other gas lamp that rested on the hearth. The house was awake, and that would mean that a pile of warm scones and butter, and a pot of hot tea would be awaiting her.

Picking up the hem of her gown, Jane ran up the steps that lead to the home she shared with Lady Blackwood and let herself inside. The scent of cinnamon and sultana raisins greeted her, and she closed her eyes inhaling the aroma as her stomach protested loudly.

“C’mon in, gel,” Lady Blackwood announced from the breakfast room. “I can hear your insides rumbling from here.”

Tossing her cloak and bonnet onto the hall chair, Jane swept into the breakfast room and took the chair opposite Lady Blackwood, who was dressed in her morning gown and cap.

Her employer was a large woman, with kind, sparkling eyes and a heart the size of her body. Her hair, once a dark walnut and given to curl, was gray and thinning.

When was it, Jane wondered, that Lady B. had grown so old and frail? How had she missed it?

“Well, tell me all about it. What mischief did you get up to last night?”

Jane felt her face flush as the image of Matthew’s naked chest flared to life. “The usuals—consumptives, carousers and a few inebriates.”

Lady B. arched her brows, even as her intelligent gaze strayed and lingered over Jane’s glowing cheeks. “I do not like you working there, Jane. It’s a dangerous part of the city.”

Which made Jane ask herself what Matthew, with his obvious aristocratic blood, had been doing in the East End last night.

“How was your night?” Jane asked as she reached for a scone. “It was damp last night.”

“That tonic young Inglebright sent over works like a charm. I slept like a babe.”

“Lovely. He said it would. Dr. Inglebright is most knowledgeable.”

Lady Blackwood’s shrewd gaze traveled over her. “My dear, has the young doctor claimed your heart?”

Jane chuckled and smeared a large pat of butter over the steaming scone. “Of course not.”

“Then why do you stay there, Jane? If not to see Inglebright every night?”

“Because I must.”

“I am truly grateful to you for all you have done. Old Dr. Inglebright is well satisfied with our account and agrees that the debt is settled. There is no need to keep on at the hospital.”

Jane took a sip of tea then a bite of her scone, fortifying herself for the argument to come. It always arrived every morning.

“Jane, that part of the city is just not safe—at any part of the day, let alone the dregs of night.”

“Have you no other concerns than my safety?”

“I do not like to see you working so hard, Jane. I know I haven’t much, but I do have some put aside to pension you and the others off when I depart this earth.”

The scone turned to ash in Jane’s mouth. She did not want to think of living in a world without Lady Blackwood. “You know I do not—”

“Yes, I know.” Lady B. sighed. “You do not wish to take from me, but, Jane, it is my fondest wish to see you settled. And see you settled I will.”

“I like working. It gives me purpose. An identity.”

Jane shrank away from the blue gaze that bored into her. “You do not need to exhaust yourself to be of notice.”

But what of purpose? Jane wondered.

“There are times when I wonder if I haven’t instilled too much independence in you, Jane. It can be a burden to only rely on oneself.”

“I am grateful for everything you’ve given me. Independence is a gift, my lady.”

“Sometimes it can be a curse,” she replied, staring at her with eyes, that despite their rheuminess, showed deep understanding. “And it can be lonely, too.”

“Nonsense,” Jane scoffed while brushing off a few crumbs from her fingers. “A lady’s independence is invaluable.”

Lady B. pursed her lips, but said nothing. “Very well. You have won this morning, Jane, but we will have this conversation tomorrow morning, and the morning after, and the one after that until I have prevailed upon you to quit that place. Now, then, on to other business. I have had a letter from my niece,” she said, reaching for a folded missive that was placed near her left hand. “She fares well, but her sister, Ann, has taken ill. Measles, I’m afraid.”

An image of the breathtaking Ann flared to life in her mind. She would no doubt still break men’s hearts despite the red dots that marred her usually flawless skin.

“Anais has written, wondering if there is anything they might give her for relief of the pain. Naturally, she is hesitant to use laudanum.”

Jane could well understand the reason for that. Anais’s fiancé was recovering from an opium addiction. Anais would naturally fear the worst. “I do have some holistic recipes she might try, herbs and powders. I’ll write to her this afternoon when I wake up.”

Lady Blackwood’s expression darkened. “You work yourself to the bone, Jane, I can’t bear to see it.”

Jane patted her employer’s wrinkled hand. “I like my job, both jobs,” she clarified. “And I’m not working myself to death.”

“Well, you shall have a break soon, for you will be accompanying me to Bewdley for my niece’s wedding. And there, I will assure you that I will make every attempt to play matchmaker. You mark my words, Jane, I was quite a strategist in my youth.”

Jane laughed and left the breakfast room, all the while thinking of her patient, and how impossible it would be to be matched with someone like him. Ah, well, she mused as she climbed the stairs to her room, that was what dreams were for.



The wards were loud that night as Jane entered the hospital. Shouting and the sound of metal hitting the stone floor echoed off the lime-washed walls. A woman’s shrill voice cut through the ringing, followed by the deep rumble of a man’s, full of indignation and anger.

Pulling her bonnet strings, Jane tugged off her hat and placed it atop the hook in the storage room. Her cloak came next, then she reached for the starched apron. She was tying the strings around her waist when the day nurse came in, her face flushed and her gown and apron soaked through.

“Maggie, what have you done to yourself?” Jane asked, watching the agitated woman reach for her wrap.

“I quit,” Maggie snapped. “That devil of a man has been the death of me today.”

“What man?”

“His lordship,” she replied, out of breath from her anxiety. “He’s been nothing but a pill today, he has. Always grumbling about somethin’ and fighting me at every turn. Couldn’t do a thing right for him. He’s been asking for you since breakfast, maybe you can set him on the right track.”

“All right,” Jane murmured. Her body was suddenly filled with little prickles at the thought of seeing him again. He had asked for her. A ridiculous little thrill warmed her blood.

She had not slept well during the day, her slumber interrupted by the most improper dreams and thoughts. She had told herself on the carriage ride over that she would not seek him out. She would not think of him as a healthy, vibrant man, but as an ill patient. And nurses did not have erotic thoughts about their patients.

She had succeeded in putting him out of her mind, that was, until Maggie had mentioned him. How little it had taken to flame the flicker of desire she tried so hard to snuff.

“He’s burning with fever, and he won’t let anyone near him to check beneath the bandages,” Maggie grumbled as she searched through her purse for a crown for the hansom cab. “Dr. Inglebright fears the wound is festering, but his lordship won’t let him get within a hairbreadth of him. He calls for you, Jane, and the doctor awaits you.”

Jane touched the sleeve of Maggie’s damp gown. “You aren’t serious about quitting, are you, Maggie? It would be such a loss.”

The woman, who was in her late forties, flushed again, but this time it was not with agitation, but pleasure. “Perhaps a good night’s sleep will change me mind.”

“And a different patient tomorrow morning?”

Maggie nodded and squeezed her hand. “Good luck, miss. You’ll be in for a time of it. His lordship is quite the handful, and he’s got a tongue that will slice you to ribbons.”

Jane had come across many difficult patients in her time at the hospital—she was certain the mysterious lord would not get the better of her.

Leaving Maggie, she walked down the long corridor that led to Dr. Inglebright’s private room. She heard Richard’s voice through the wood.

“Damn you, if you don’t cooperate, you’ll get the ether.”

“Sod off,” came the deep reply. “I’ll break your goddamn hand if you come near me.”

“May I be of some help?”

The door swung closed behind her, and the two men froze in place. Richard was looking at her, a pair of scissors in one hand and a roll of fresh bandages in the other. Her patient was lying on the bed, thrashing his limbs as the two night men tried to hold him down. His chin lifted and he quieted. She saw his nostrils flare, as if he was smelling something, and then his head turned in her direction.

“Jane,” the two men said simultaneously. The sound of the patient’s voice, deep and seductive, made her tremble, and she was grateful for Dr. Inglebright’s stern voice, for it made it easier for her to hide her response to Matthew’s hushed whispering of her name.

“He burns with fever and rages like a lunatic. I need to check beneath the bandages, but he lashes out.”

“How long has he had the fever?”

Jane came closer to the bed and watched as Matthew’s head turned, as if he was following her path. He could not see, yet somehow he knew where to find her.

“All day, and I’m afraid the wound is full of putrefaction.”

Jane could not smell anything that might lead her to believe the wound was festering, but there was a shadowing of old blood and yellow fluid beneath the layer of binding, which could be pus. The fact he burned with fever was sign enough.

Richard caught her gaze, his eyes pleading silently for her assistance. His gaze said it all, the patient was an aristocrat, and Richard could ill afford the man’s death on his hands.

“Will you not let the doctor look?” she asked as she came to stand beside Matthew’s bed.

“No,” came the hoarse voice, “but I will allow you to look, Jane.”

Richard arched his brow, staring at her in stunned silence before he handed her the scissors. “I will need to cut off the binding. Be still for a minute,” she said.

Bending over him, she gently cut the white bandage and slowly began to unwind it. When she got to the back, she cupped his head in her palm and lifted, allowing the wrapping to come free. His mouth was close to her bosom and she felt the incredible heat rising from his body, as well as the dry warmth from his breath as it caressed her décolletage.

“Jane,” Matthew murmured, and she heard him inhale the scented valley of her breasts. “Help me,” he whispered.

“I am. I will,” she replied as she lowered his head onto the pillow. Dr. Inglebright was watching her with scrutiny, and her fingers nervously fluttered against the white cloth.

“There,” she murmured, pulling the long strip of binding away from his eyes. Inglebright stepped closer and reached out to examine Matthew’s head, when his hand shot out and captured Richard’s throat. “I want Jane,” he growled. “Only Jane.”

“Very well,” Richard gasped as he pried off the fingers that held him. “Jane will look.”

The hand fell away, and Jane pressed in, allowing her fingertips to gingerly part the clumped strands of hair that covered the cut. Blood had dried to his hair and scalp, making it difficult to visualize the wound. From what she could see, there was naught but redness. When she shook her head, telling the doctor that the fever did not stem from the head wound, he ordered her to peel back the dressing over Matthew’s left eye.

“I want to remove the bandage over your eye, but I’ll need to wet it to loosen it. Will you let me?”

He nodded and Jane rinsed the cloth that sat in the basin on the table beside his bed. Carefully, she wet the bandage, saturating it and dissolving the bits of dried blood that stuck to it. As she pulled, she felt him stiffen, and she whispered soothing, encouraging words to him. He responded to her voice, and settled deep into the bed, allowing her to pull the bandage free and probe his swollen eyelids. Both lids were grossly distended and bruised, and Matthew was unable to open his eyes. Standing back, Jane looked at him, studying the face that was still so beautiful despite the bruising and swelling.

“His eyes look fine,” Richard grumbled behind her. “I’ve no idea why he has developed the fever.”

“Perhaps it is the body’s response to all he’s been through.”

“Maybe,” Richard mumbled. “He’s safe enough from his wounds, but if this fever continues to rage unchecked, it could be disastrous.”

“I will get the fever down,” she replied.

“If he allows it.”

“He will.”

Richard reached for her hand when she retrieved the cloth from the basin. With a squeeze, he forced her to look up at him. “I don’t like the thought of leaving you alone with him. He’s violent.”

Jane glanced at Matthew, and something in her seemed to liquefy and soften. “He will not hurt me.”

Richard stared at her curiously, as if he would see inside her, discovering for himself the tempest of emotion that stormed within her. She was at a loss to explain it, or to understand how it had happened—this connection she sensed she shared with Matthew.

“I will return, Jane, to check on you.” Richard’s gaze traveled along her body, before it once more rested on her face. “You will have a care, won’t you, Jane? I’d truly hate it were anything to happen to you.”

“You needn’t worry.”

“Ah, but I do, Jane. And never more since he has arrived. I will return to make sure you are safe.”

As Jane watched Richard leave with the two night men in tow, she realized that it was not a statement from Richard, but rather a warning. He was coming back to check on her, to make sure that she was behaving as she should. Were her thoughts so transparent? Could Richard have any idea?

She turned to Matthew and pulled a chair close to his bed. He was sweating, and the sheet that covered him was damp. His hair was mussed, and black stubble covered his upper lip and angular jaw. He was everything that was beautiful and masculine, and Jane could not look away from him, or the tiny rivulet of sweat that trickled between his pectorals.

“Jane,” he murmured, then cried her name again, his voice rising when she did not immediately answer him.

“I am here.” She covered his hand with hers and was astonished by the heat of it. “You burn.”

He swallowed, then turned his head toward her voice. “I can’t see you.”

“Your eyes are swollen shut. The one is still stitched closed, but the thread will come out in the next day or two. In a few days, you’ll be on your way, right as rain.”

He scowled, changing his face from that of a beautiful angel, to demon. “I waited for you, all day. Where did you go?”

“Home. And I’ve only been gone the morning and afternoon. ’Tis early evening yet.”

“It felt like a lifetime, waiting for you to return to me.”

Her traitorous heart skipped a beat. She had never had anyone speak to her in such a fashion, let alone a man who looked like this.

“Will you stay, Jane?” he asked as he curled his fingers between hers. “Will you sit at my beside and nurse me through the long, dark hours of the night?”

“Yes, of course. It is my job, after all.”

“Is that the only reason you are here?”

She glanced away, despite the fact he could not see that her eyes were busy taking in every inch of his body. No, she thought in silent answer. It was not her job that brought her to his bedside, but some other invisible force that pulled her to him.

He licked his cracked lips. “I dreamed of you today.”

The cloth she was lifting from the basin sloshed back into the water, spilling over the rim and onto the table. She struggled for composure and reached for the rag once more, ringing it out, focusing on the task ahead of her. I dreamed of you today…She let the words echo in her mind, savoring the feeling they gave her. The words were like a soft caress along her body, intimate, alluring, slightly unnerving.

Jane’s hand trembled as she brought the cloth to his face and carefully wiped his cheeks and lips with it. He caught a drop of water with his tongue as it landed on his mouth, and Jane watched, mesmerized, thinking it the most erotic thing she had ever seen.

“I heard your voice speaking to me,” he continued as she moved the cloth down his neck. “It brought me comfort.”

She swallowed and allowed him to talk as she cooled the cloth once more in the water. “Did you dream of me, Jane?”

“No,” she lied as she watched her hand smooth the cool material down his chest, toward his navel.

“Then why did you scent your breasts?”

She paused, glanced up at his face and saw the devilish grin on his lips. How could he have known?

“Last night you smelled of soap, tonight you smell of perfume.”

“Is it not a woman’s prerogative to use perfume?”

“Yes, but why waste something so expensive if not for a certain purpose? Especially here, in a hospital full of the ill and dying?”

“Perhaps it has nothing to do with you, or any other man.”

He laughed, and Jane felt herself flush. He knew. Knew she had thought of him, desired him.

“Lower, Jane,” he rasped as she washed his abdomen. “I’m burning all over.”

She absolutely refused to dip her hand beneath the edge of the sheet, but he reached for her wrist and stilled her. With the merest pressure, he pulled her down so that her ear was to his lips.

“I want to touch you, Jane. To learn you with my hands and mouth. I want to paint you in my mind.”

Her breathing became much too heavy as her corset pressed and squeezed her chest even tighter. “My lord, you rage with fever.”

“Yes,” he replied, the sound husky and deeply male. The maleness was what made her body answer with feminine response.

“You do not know what you are saying, sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His hand left her wrist to touch her throat. With a gentle glide, his hot fingers swept up and down the column of her neck. “Swallow, Jane,” he whispered. When she did, he kept his fingertips pressed against her, feeling the action of her throat moving sensuously up and down. He made a sound, a strange, guttural noise, and she tried to break free, but his arm came around her waist, holding her.

“I can see you, taking me in your mouth, swallowing me down. My cock has ached for it all day.”

Shocked, aroused by his honesty, Jane pulled away, offcentered by the fleeting visual of her, bending over his body and taking him between her lips.

“Stay,” he commanded. The fingers that were pressed against her throat were now skating down to gently caress the quivering flesh of her breasts. The arm that was wrapped around her rose up, his hand perilously close to the underside of her breast.

“My lord,” she gasped.

“Let me touch you, Jane. You’re such a novelty. I can’t understand it, this need I have to feel you, to share myself with you. I never share, Jane—never.”

He cupped her, his hot palm holding her breast, squeezing and molding until she squirmed in his hold. Despite his wounds and the fever that ravaged his body, he was strong, too strong for Jane to fight off, if she had wanted to defend against him. A small voice whispered that she should, that she must, but a larger voice, a dominant one, told her to accept his touch, encouraged her to enjoy it, explore it, return it.

While she warred with herself, Matthew had somehow loosened the top three buttons on the front of her gown. Cool air kissed her bosom as his burning hand reached into her corset and pulled her breast free of the whalebone and linen.

She gasped as he moaned when her breast fell into his palm. She was startled by the sight of her pale breast being held in his tanned hand. The pink nipple, hardening, was stroked by the tip of his thumb.

Jane could hardly breathe for the pleasure that flooded her. As he fondled her, she grew languid. Her core seeping with wetness seemed to open—open to him.

“How wonderfully proportioned you are. I can see you in my mind, and what a treat it is. I can see myself doing all kinds of very wicked things to these breasts, Jane.”

He freed her other breast, and now both were hanging out over her corset, the nipples hard and pointing. He pulled her forward, his hands spanning the expanse of her ribs, her waist, then down to her hips.

“I can see you, naked, lips parted in anticipation. Do you know in anticipation of what, Jane?”

“I can’t imagine,” she said breathlessly.

He held her waist tightly, his fingers pressing into her skin through the layers of her gown and chemise and corset. Her breasts bobbed as she leaned over him.

“Please,” she whimpered. But was it a plea for him to stop, or to ignore her protest? She didn’t know. She only knew her body was trembling everywhere.

His hot palm pressed into the soft flesh of her breast as he rubbed the flat of his hand along her nipple, sending it straining against his smooth skin.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “Ripe, succulent, waiting for my mouth and tongue.” It unnerved her, all that passion she heard. Yet it made her soul soar to hear his praise.

Unable to stand the torture, she looked down and saw how he used his fingertip to trace the circle of her nipple; her areola puckered in response to the featherlight caress. Sharp stabs shot through her, straight to her belly, as he rolled both nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, lengthening them as he gently tugged and plucked. Suddenly she was wet between her thighs, restless with the need to curl her fingers in his hair and guide his mouth to her breast.

When he brought her close enough so that he could brush his chin and lips over them, she cried out and reached for his shoulders, anchoring herself onto him.

He nuzzled her, burying his face between the valley of her breasts. He brushed his chin and cheeks and damp lips over the mounds, before holding her up by the waist, her pointed nipples hovering over his mouth.

Jane watched his tongue snake out between his lips, flicking one engorged tip now a dark shade of pink. She moaned and shifted so that he could take it deep into his mouth, but he refused, and instead amused himself by flicking and licking her nipples with the tip, and sometimes the flat of his tongue.

“Are you watching, Jane?”

“Yes,” she rasped as he circled her nipple then flicked his tongue in a series of feathering flutters.

“Do you like it?”

Her core damped, and she drove her short nails into his shoulders.

“I can feel that you do,” he answered for her. Then he took her into his mouth and suckled. Slowly at first, then fiercely, as though he was starved for her.

His mouth broke away from her, and he gasped. “Jane, touch me. Learn me, too.”

Jane gazed down at him. Her breasts, wet from his mouth, glistened at her. The sheet that covered his lower half slipped, and Jane reached for the edge.

“How?” she asked. “How should I touch you?”




Chapter Five


He was delirious, not from fever, but Jane. The scent of her, the incredibly arousing feel of her petal-soft skin against his face made his flesh and blood blaze until he thought he would be consumed by the heat of longing.

He was amazed by her presence, the calm she washed over him. He had never been able to bear the feel of another atop him, yet he craved Jane like this, her breasts against him, the beat of her heart in his ears. He was starved for this, for the touch, the contact of another human being.

If he had been in his right mind, he would have refuted that wayward thought with a snort and a callous remark. But he was not in his right mind. Desire like nothing he had ever experienced before ruled him now. It was the same driving, relentless need that had fueled him with his first lover. But that had been lust, and animal need. The fucking had been hard, angry, soul stealing, yet the danger of it, the threat of being caught and punished, had made it arousing, made it just as good as the actual fucking.

But this moment with Jane was soft and tender, soul stealing, as well, as he felt something that had long lain dormant begin to awaken. There was need here, too. It was not animal lust, but something else. Something he could not name, something he had never felt before.

“You burn with fever, my lord.”

“Matthew,” he corrected. He did not want to be Wallingford here with her. He did not want to be an earl and heir to a dukedom. He wanted only to be a man, a painter and lover. He wanted Jane, not as a damaged soul who could not enjoy the feel of another, but as someone who was whole, untainted.

She was good and kind. He sensed it in her, and the devil inside him wanted to have a bit of her goodness all to himself. He had never known what it was to be good, or kind. He was cold and callous, purposefully hurtful. Yet here was this angel lying against him, allowing herself to be corrupted by a demon in a gentleman’s disguise.

“We must stop this,” she breathed in a husky pant that sent his cock lifting beneath the sheet that had grown just as hot as his body. “I must see to ridding you of this fever.”

“Yes, you must,” he agreed, his mind taking a turn down a wicked, wicked path. It was bad enough that he had envisioned her taking his cock into her lush mouth and swallowing him down, something he could never allow in any real way. Now he thought of her touching him, every inch of his body. When he felt the cool cloth return to his chest, he reached for her wrist and brought it low, guiding her. With his hand leading hers, he brought the cloth, which she clutched steadfastly, to his cock. He heard her gasp; it was followed by the rustle of starched muslin, and he imagined her shifting on the bed, her waist turning so she could look down at him, and the heavy sex that lay between his thighs. Her breasts would still be exposed, and he knew the image of her like this would be forever imbedded in his mind. He would paint her the minute he arrived home.

“Touch me, Jane,” he choked out as he forced her hand to release the cloth, and instead hold him. He groaned, threw back his head and gritted his teeth as her palm engulfed his thick shaft. With little pressure, he moved her hand up, then down. The image of his fingers locked atop hers as he worked his cock made his excitement grow. He was rasping in shallow, hard breaths, which mingled with hers.

She was watching, he could feel her eyes searing into the spot where their hands wrapped around his shaft. It aroused him, not angered him, knowing her eyes were upon him. He did not feel defiled as he once had when his lover had watched him masturbate. His lover had taken perverse delight in ordering him to pleasure himself and come all over his hand. His lover had enjoyed barking out orders. Even now he heard them: harder, faster, now slower, stop…

But Jane did not say anything. Their breaths were the only sound in the room. It had a strangely calming effect on him. Normally he was tense, his big body taut with urgency, but tonight, he felt himself go limp and fall into the thin featherticking mattress. He allowed himself to enjoy the feel of their joined hands on him, and the images that played out in his mind, how she would look like this, taking him in hand and tossing him off.

It seemed forever he lay like that, his pleasure building, Jane’s breaths frenzied. The scent of her wafted over him and he used his free hand to tug at her nipple in the same rhythm she used to stroke him.

“Matthew!”

The sound of his name in her angel’s voice weakened him, and he came, exploding in a hot jet onto both their hands. He heard her cry of shock, but she did not pull away, slowing her strokes instead, watching as his cock pulsed with his seed.

My God, he had not come into someone else’s palm in fifteen years. The shuddering orgasm unnerved him, and he turned his head, not wanting Jane to see his expression of terrified wonder. For he was alarmed by the emotions that suddenly ruled him.

Mercifully she said nothing as she rose from the bed. He heard the water in the basin softly slap against the porcelain sides. It was followed by the wringing of a cloth, then the sound of Jane’s fingers buttoning her gown.

Was she ashamed? Horrified he could be such a beast? He was ill, burning with fever, and yet he was still ruled by the needs of his body and cock.

“The water has turned too cold. Tepid is best for bringing down a fever.”

“Go then,” he said in a hoarse voice. He wanted to add a request that she return to him, but he bit his tongue, refusing to ask or beg. Yet as soon as he heard the door swing shut behind her, he heard her name, whispered in his broken voice, “Jane, come back.”



Scooping the water from the rain barrel, Jane watched as the clear liquid splashed into the bowl. Her hands were shaking, as was her body. The sounds of the wards inside the hospital were a distant whisper compared to the husky groan of male satisfaction that was ringing in her ears, even now.

Good God, what had she done?

Setting the bowl on the steps, she sat down and brought her head to her knees, trying to regain her innate sense of calm and composure. She refused to close her eyes and instead stared down at the starched white cotton of her apron. It was no use. Even with her eyes open she could see Matthew’s fine, strong body lying on the bed beside her, completely naked, the sheet thrust to his thighs, his phallus thick and long, heavily veined, engorged with desire. Desire for her.

Jane still could not understand, or make sense of the way she had instinctively known what he wanted. She had never done such a thing before, yet the feel of him, heavy and hot in her hand, had felt so right, as if she had pleasured many a man before. She gazed down at her palm and studied the lines in the moonlight. She could still feel it in her hand, still hear her own thoughts whispering in her mind, I want to know what this would feel like inside me.

It shocked her to hear such an admission, and in her own voice. She was not a naive prude. She had seen much growing up in the rookeries of the East End. Yet it still shocked her that she could want such intimacy with a stranger. Never before had she looked at a male patient and wondered what it would feel like to take his body inside hers. She had not even thought of Richard in such a way. Strange, since she felt a measure of affection for the young doctor.

Jane closed her eyes and forced an image of Richard to mind. Gray eyes, pale skin and golden hair. He was handsome in a typical English way. He was tall, too, although not as tall as Matthew, and much, much leaner. In all, he was very pleasing to the eye, and there was no shortage of nurses and patients who flirted with him. To Jane’s knowledge, he had never taken up their offers. She knew with one-hundred-percent certainty that Dr. Inglebright would never have touched, in a sexual manner, a patient under his care.

How far she had fallen for the touch of a man. Jane had no idea she yearned for such things. Certainly there were some nights when she felt the urge to touch her breasts and quim. She had found it naughty, in a forbidden way, to touch herself. And it had felt good. Now, those times of self-pleasure paled when put beside this brief, erotic interlude with Matthew. She sensed that what he had done to her, what she had done to him, was merely the starting point of where their shared passion might go.

She yearned to explore it, she realized, giving honesty to her feelings. But to do so could be disastrous. Besides, there could be nothing out of it except a few stolen moments, hardly worthwhile when one thought of what she could lose if it ever got out what they were doing behind that swinging wooden door.

Her job at London College would be lost. Her name and that of Lady Blackwood would be further tarnished. The profession, which she was trying so hard to make credible to the eyes of the world, would be thrust back down. Only old harlots and washerwomen are nurses…that would be accurate, if the truth about what she had just done got out.

No, she could not repay Dr. Inglebright or Lady Blackwood by sullying her name, her profession or the hospital.

Standing up, Jane retrieved her basin of water and determinedly stepped back into the ward, resolute to rid her patient of his fever and survive the long night ahead without further thinking on how much she wanted to lie on top of him and feel him thrusting that beautiful phallus deep inside her.



The tepid water trickled over his skin as Jane changed the cloth that she had folded on his forehead. His fever was higher, despite the hours of sitting at his bedside, bathing him.

“I don’t understand it,” Richard mumbled behind her. “Where is this fever coming from?”

“I do not know,” she whispered, worry clouding her thoughts. “He’s so strong and healthy, I don’t know why it holds him.”

“He smelled of spirits when he arrived. Perhaps he is a chronic drinker. I’ve seen the fever in the gin addicts when they don’t have it.”

Jane glanced at Matthew’s face, which was drawn tight. Occasionally he would frown, as if he was being plagued by dreams. Taking her fingers and dipping them in the basin, she brushed them over his cracked lips, while Richard continued to pace behind her, deep in thought.

“Perhaps it is the head trauma that is causing it. The body’s natural response to pain and injury.”

Jane did not respond. She knew no answer was necessary. This was Richard trying to solve a medical puzzle. Instead, she continued to bathe Matthew, studying the way his body felt taut with tension.

“Don’t touch me,” he suddenly cried, and thrashed in the bed, his arms flaying wide, nearly hitting her in the head. “Jesus Christ, get off me.”

He knocked her off the bed with a blow to her shoulder. With a thunk, she landed on the floor, and the ceramic basin smashed to bits around her.

Richard ran to her and helped her up. “Are you cut?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she muttered as she looked at her shaking hands then back at Matthew. “He rages with fever. He didn’t mean it.”

Richard looked at her skeptically. “From now on I will assign another nurse to care for him.”

“No!” The rebuttal was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Richard looked startled, then his gaze slipped past her shoulder to where Matthew lay still on the bed.

“No?”

Jane swallowed hard. She could not bear the thought of another woman sitting beside him. He was hers—her patient. The thought that perhaps he was already married or engaged did not enter her thoughts. For Jane, he was hers. It was the last remnant of growing up in the East End that still clung to her. She had grown up with nothing, not even a decent parent. As a result, anything that was hers, she held steadfastly on to with a selfish single-mindedness. Matthew was something she knew she had to keep hold of, if only for this night.

“Very well, then, Jane. But only because you are my most skilled nurse, and he is a man of good breeding.”

Jane nodded. “Have you any idea of his identity?”

“My father thinks he knows. He’s gone to Mayfair tonight after learning a few things at his club this afternoon.”

“I see.”

“Well then, I will let you tend to him, but I will be back,” Richard murmured as he ran his palms down her shoulders. He squeezed her arms gently before leaving. He didn’t say anything to her, but the look in his eyes said it all. He knew. Somehow Richard had discovered her fascination with Matthew.



Someone was touching him, but it was not that filthy lover in his past whose hands were covering his body. It was Jane. Amazing how he had the wherewithal to discern such a thing. Yet he knew it was not the other.

The other one had come, though, for a visit in a dream. He loathed those dreams and the way his body felt after them. But it was Jane’s body here with him now.

“Jane?” he asked, croaking through his dry lips and raw throat.

“Here,” she whispered, “take a sip, slowly.”

The cool water that slipped down his throat felt so good that he could not sip, but only gulp, despite her warnings. When he sat back, he felt weak and exhausted. He recalled what they had done, and the effects on his body still pleasantly lingered.

“You must rest,” she ordered, her voice now cool and detached.

“I have slept enough.”

“Sleep is the body’s best medicine.”

“No, Jane. You are the tonic I need.”

Silence blanketed the room, and Matthew cursed himself for his loose tongue. He was not a talker, not unless he was cutting someone off at the knees, but tonight, with Jane, he couldn’t seem to hold his tongue, or hide the strange emotions that bubbled beneath his skin. In truth, he had no idea if he desired to or not. His brain knew he should lie in silence and leave her to her work. But his body cried out for her presence at his bedside, her voice in the quiet, her hands on his flesh. He refused to wonder if it was the fever provoking these thoughts, or some deeply hidden need he had never known that lurked within him. Neither reason mattered now, the only thing that mattered was getting Jane back close to him, drawing her into him.

“Will you not sit with me?”

“No. There are other patients who require care.” She brushed past him. He heard her stiff skirts brush the sheet and he reached out, grasping for anything that he could hold.

“I wish I could see you,” he whispered. “Here, help me to, Jane.” He held his hand out in the air, waiting for her to take it.

“Matthew,” she said in a voice full of pleading, “please don’t.”

Despite his blindness he found her hand and pulled her down so that she was sitting beside him on the bed.

“If you are in pain, or in need of something—”

“I am in need of you.” Their fingers entwined and he ordered her to bring their hands to her face.

“I don’t understand what this will prove.”

“I want to paint you in my mind.”

He found the soft curve of her chin, and traced his trembling fingertips over the downy skin. In his mind he saw unblemished peaches-and-cream skin. His fingertips skated over the bridge of her nose down to her lush mouth. She turned her head when he reached the corner of her lips. Despite his coaxing words, she held herself away from his touch.

“Let me touch your mouth.”

“No.” She tried to move away, but he held her to him and brought her forward, capturing her mouth with his. It was a soft, lingering kiss, just lips brushing, and his soul stirred.

She pulled away, his lips kissing the air. “We can’t do this, Matthew.”

“Why? Is there another?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

He smiled and reached for her once again. “No, it really doesn’t.”

“Matthew, stop.”

“What color is your hair?”

There was hesitation before she answered, “What does it matter what color it is?”

“Because I want to know what color to visualize when I’m dreaming of you and your hair spilling over me.”

“Please,” she whispered, “do not say such things.”

“Why?” he asked, the fog from his fever lifting, giving increasing clarity to his thoughts. “Did I shame you by forcing your hand to pleasure me?”

“You did not force me.”

“But I did shame you?”

The accusation hung heavy and he heard Jane leave the bed and walk to the corner of the room, her heels clicking against the floorboards.

“Why do you run, Jane?”

“I do not run.”

“Aye, you do. Every time the rope that is wrapped between us pulls you closer to me, you pull away, untangling us.”

“There is no us, Matthew. You’re confused. Febrile.”

“There could be an us,” he replied, hating the desperation he suddenly felt flare in his breast. “Jane,” he whispered, “come away with me.”

He knew he had caught her attention when he heard her movements stop altogether.

“When I leave here, come with me. Let us explore this…this…whatever has brought us together. Let me paint you, pleasure you. Be my muse,” he added, tossing in anything that might persuade her to come to him.

“Your muse?” she questioned.

“Yes. I’ve done nothing but paint you in my mind with nothing but my fantasies. Let me see you with my own eyes. Let me paint my fantasies.”

The door opened, and the sterile odor of Dr. Inglebright flowed around them. “Jane, the carriage is here. I ordered it ’round early. You’ve had a long night.”

Hatred fused his thoughts. Was Jane the doctor’s lover? Wife? Bloody hell, he had not thought of her as anyone but his.

“How very kind of you, Dr. Inglebright, but I will stay to finish my shift.”

There was no feminine welcome in that tone. No gratitude, either.

“I insist, Jane. There will be no argument.”

“Very well,” she muttered, and Matthew heard the clicking of her heels on the floor once more. This time they belied her true thoughts. She was not happy to be ordered about by the good doctor.

“Jane,” he called. “Sleep well. And you might do me the favor of reflecting on my offer.”

The door swung shut, and Matthew sensed the doctor staring him down where he stood at the foot of the bed.

“Lord Wallingford,” Inglebright growled, “you’ll be leaving us now, returning to your side of the city.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?” he asked, feeling his heart sink back into the black depths of his chest.

“Tell her what, that you’re a licentious rake who feeds off women and discards them when your amusement fades? Amusement, I have been told, that is rather dark, and decidedly not the sort of entertainment that Jane would find amusing.”

Matthew growled, “Yes, why didn’t you tell her I’m a soulless bastard?”

“Because it would have made you all the more attractive. Now then, my lord, your father has sent a carriage around to fetch you. The night men will make a litter for you—”

“The hell they will. I will walk out of here on my own two feet if it’s the last damn thing I do. And the last thing you’re going to do, Dr. Inglebright, is give me Jane’s direction.”




Chapter Six


“Lord Raeburn to see you, milord.”

Matthew looked up from his easel and over to the paneled door where his aging butler peered at him with rheumy eyes. The man’s fingers, gnarled with arthritis, gripped the edge of the door as he pressed his frail frame against the wood for support. He really was going to have to see to pensioning off the old retainer, and soon by the looks of it.

“You may send him in, Thomas.”

“Very good, milord.”

“I had to come and see for myself, days holed up in bed, and without anyone for company. It must be the end of the world.”

Paintbrush poised in the air, Matthew arched his brow in annoyance as he watched Raeburn, breeze into his studio. “I am well, as you can see. Nothing untoward after my brush with death.”

“I do see. Incredible the way you can reconstitute yourself. Are you certain you’re human and not a vampire?”

Matthew grumbled and motioned to the settee by the window. “Trust me, I would need more than blood to sustain me. Just toss the papers onto the floor. I haven’t the heart to ask Thomas to clean up in here. He and the rest of the staff are working themselves ragged.”

“Slave driver, are you?” Raeburn chuckled as he lowered his tall frame onto the settee. “Working them to the bone?”

“Had my father not decided to cut back my living expenses by nearly twenty-five percent, I would not be forced to run my household on the barest-minimum requirements. Hence, the servants may thank my father. It is his fault they have had to work their fingers to the bone.”

Raeburn grinned and gazed into the hearth. A small fire burned in the grate, dispelling the chill in the air from the rain that had not let up since midmorning. Odd, but Matthew had felt chilled since leaving London College Hospital a week ago. He had not been cold then, when he had Jane pressed against him. He could still feel the warmth of her body as he pressed against her breasts, still tasted her on his tongue, smelled her on his hand. He could hardly paint, so consumed was he by thoughts of her. He had relived that night with Jane over and over, and each time he marveled at how beautiful it had been.

Damn Inglebright for refusing to divulge any information in regard to Jane or where she lived. And damn him for not giving up the idea of pursuing her. Already the day’s letter had been shipped off to the hospital. Another missive for Jane requesting that she come away with him. Anywhere. Just him and her and a place that was private, so he could fuck her senseless and purge her from his body and mind.

“I was worried, you know, when I heard you had been ambushed in the East End. Nasty work, that.”

“You, of all people, know that I have an exceedingly hard head. It would take much more than a few rookery ruffians to do me in.”

“Still, I was worried.”

“No need. I’ll still bear witness to your nuptials, if that is your concern.”

Raeburn sent him a scathing glare. “I’m here because I care for you, damn you, not because I’m concerned I’ll need to find myself a new best man. Devil take it, Wallingford, you know I care.”

Of course he did. Raeburn wore his emotions on his sleeve, unlike himself who buried emotions to the pit of his being. Feelings led to weakness and he never again was going to weaken. Despite that, he did love his friend, and acknowledged the sentiment with his usual hauteur and a deep grunt that Raeburn was able to interpret. Theirs was a long-standing friendship that no longer required words. And Matthew thanked the Fates that he still had such a friend in his life. Raeburn understood, and wisely chose a different tack for his visit.

“You know, if this business of money has got you tied in knots, why not set your cap for an heiress?” Raeburn suggested as he continued to study the flickering flames. “It’s a simple enough option, and it’s all the rage, you know. The nouveau riche are clamoring for titles as illustrious as yours. What railway magnate’s daughter would not swoon for the opportunity to become a countess, not to mention a duchess? You could have your pick of them, you know. Your reputation could easily be swept under the carpet. No one would bat an eye once you made it clear you intended to actually do right by the girl. You could easily become the most sought-after bachelor, with your looks and your estates, and your other—” Raeburn waggled his brow “—sizable attributes.”

“Sod off,” Matthew cursed, swiping his brush along the canvas while he ignored Raeburn’s taunting. ‘I’d rather become a damn eunuch than find myself married to some simpering, weeping girl.”

“Get yourself a feisty American chit, one with a large dowry and a minx of a body. That should change your mind about spending the rest of your life living without your bullocks.”

“Surely to God you have not traveled to Berkeley Square to talk to me of marriage.”

“Well—” Raeburn shrugged as he tossed a pillow aside and stretched his booted feet out on the settee, lounging in negligent repose “—I did come to see you to make certain you were on the mend. Thomas told me you had the fever.”

“I am recovered, as you can see.”

“But still stewing over money.”

“There is very little in my life to occupy my thoughts. Naturally it falls to money to become my fixation.”

“Fucking used to be your fixation.”

“What does your future wife think of your crudeness,” he snapped. “Does she find it as tiresome as I do?”

Raeburn threw his head back and laughed. “I assure you, crudity has its place in the bedchamber. And while we’re talking of the fairer sex, I was introduced to an extraordinarily lovely young lady last night. I thought she might do very well for you. Beautiful face, quite perfect breasts, at least from what I could tell—I don’t really look, you know, as I’m very devoted to Anais. However, I could not help but notice—”

“Stop.” Matthew held out his hand and glared at his friend. “I am not the least bit interested in meeting some young twit who cannot string two words together. Furthermore, I am not interested in virgins. Innocence is highly overrated and more often than not, feigned. Give me the jaded whore any day over a naive virgin. Give me a woman who can indulge her passion without blushes and remorse. If we’re exchanging currency for fucking, I’d rather do the buying instead of being the one sold off. It’s much more palatable to know I can toss a few pound notes on the bed and leave forever, than it is to fuck a wife, knowing she’s purchased your cock just for your title. I’ll not be bound like that—never.”

“Christ, you’re so bloody cynical,” Raeburn grumbled. “Not every woman is the devil disguised behind a good set of tits.”

Matthew arched his brow and peered at Raeburn over the top of his easel. “I’ve yet to meet one that is an angel.”

But that was not entirely true. He did not think of Jane as he did all the other women who had come and gone in his life. She was not made of the same stamp as the women he had taken to his bed.

“Right, then, since a rational discussion of marriage seems to be out of the question, let us talk of something else.” Raeburn inclined his head to the easel. “What are you painting, now that your masterpiece is completed?”

“Nothing, really.” Matthew looked at the portrait he was just starting. Pale lines lay in contrast against the vanilla-colored canvas. It was the shape of a woman, all soft curves. She was reposed on a lounge, naked, her fingers tangling in her blond hair. She was faceless. Frowning, he realized he had painted Jane without even thinking.

Raeburn cocked his brow and studied him. “You’re in fine fettle this morning. Up a bit too early, or is it you’ve gotten to bed too late?”

Matthew ignored him and proceeded to close the lids on his ink pots.

“Damn me, man, you are not yourself. You’ve become as dull as a vicar’s wife. It is not like you to not have gotten into some sort of illicit scrape with a lord’s wife or infamous actress. Or perhaps you’ve managed to seduce a maid who was taking care of you on your sickbed?”

“No…no scrapes.”

“What of the famous Lady Burroughs? How goes your pursuit of her?”

Christ, he had not thought of her in a week. Not since Jane had entered his life.

“Word is that the young countess is looking for someone to warm her bed. Her husband seems incapable of pleasing her. I’m quite certain, from what I’ve heard from your past paramours, that you are more than up to the challenge of pleasing Lady Burroughs.”

“You’re remarkably well informed in the latest gossip.”

Raeburn shrugged and crossed his legs. “I had not stepped foot in Lord Halifax’s ballroom last night for more than five minutes before I was inundated with gossip and questions.”

“Tell them all to go to hell, that’s what I usually say.”

Raeburn shrugged off his rebuttal. “Has your father come to you yet, about the portrait and auction?”

“No.”

“I wonder what the duke will say when he finds out about it?”

“With any luck, this one might finally kill the old bastard.”

There was no love lost between him and his father. In fact, he rather relished the confrontation that would ensue when the news of his auctioning off of a scandalous piece of art reached his father. He smiled, thinking of the blows they would come to.

Served the pompous bastard right for systematically denying him of his rightful income. Bloody hell, the man had no right to do such a thing. He was the heir. He’d been reminded of that fact more times than he could count. Well, damn him, didn’t the heir deserve more than what his father was currently having his solicitor pay him?

Bugger the old bastard. He had found another way to pay for his art gallery. If it was not going to come from respectable money, it could damn well come from another source. Yes, let the bastard come to him after learning of his latest scandal. What was another one in a long list of outrageous behavior? Scandal was his way of life. He was completely and utterly immune to shame and the whispers behind his back. He was a ne’er-do-well and a muff chaser. He cared for no one but himself. Everyone knew that.

But does Jane? Did Jane know of his true reputation, or was she blissfully unaware? A little niggling of hope entered his breast that she did not know him.

“Has some hussy bit off your tongue?” Raeburn said on a laugh. “Bloody hell, man, what the devil is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he said with a scowl.

“Nothing? Good God, you’ve taking up woolgathering, you haven’t bedded a lord’s wife in God knows how long and you’ve been relatively scandal free for days. And don’t bother to deny it.”

“I’ve been occupied.”

“With what?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Ah, a woman, then. Tell me, is it the lovely countess? Have you succeeded in getting her into your bed?”

“Go to hell, Raeburn.”

But his friend only smiled. “Oh, come now, Wallingford, pray do not play the gentleman now. You’ve never been one to keep your exploits to yourself—” Raeburn halted midsentence and watched him thoughtfully, a sly grin suddenly parting his lips. “Don’t tell me that the infamously debauched Lord Wallingford has found a woman he would actually like to talk to, as well as fuck. Christ, is the world coming to an end? I never thought to see the day that you—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Raeburn,” Matthew growled as he leaped up from his chair and prowled about the room. “My notion of the proper woman has not changed since you decided to get married. My concept of a proper woman is still one who raises her skirts, spreads her legs and lets me have my way with her, then puts up little fuss when I leave her without a backward glance.”

A thought of Jane flashed through his mind, and he felt ill. This was something he didn’t want with her, the coldness, the distance.

Jane. Lovely, mysterious Jane. Jane, whose body was full and curved beneath her plain woolen gown. Jane, whose voice alone made him shiver in longing.

Bloody hell, he was a man possessed. A man obsessed. Never had his need to know a woman been this strong. The only needs he had ever had in regard to women were sexual. He never really talked with women, unless of course it was in double entendres and sexual innuendos. And yet, he craved Jane’s company. He yearned to be with her, sitting beside her. He needed to know her—all of her. He wanted her carnally. Emotionally. Spiritually.

It didn’t make sense, she was just a woman. Weren’t they all the same? Yet somehow he knew she was different from all the others. Somehow he knew she was forbidden. Forbidden to be tainted by someone as debauched and amoral as himself. But damn him, he could not resist this temptation—this woman who made him yearn. Made him dream. Made him hope.

Christ, it was dangerous to hope.

It was dangerous to feel alive.

“Are you ill?” Raeburn asked once more.

“Quite possibly,” he muttered.

Alive…hope…he hadn’t felt those things since he was a ten-year-old boy. He should have been frightened, terrified by the whole damnable idea. However, he was not. He welcomed the feeling, hoping that this afternoon would bring Jane’s reply to him.

She was going to go to him. Jane could hardly countenance such a thing, but here she was, standing at the iron gate of the hospital, waiting in the drizzle beneath a black umbrella, sporting her finest cloak and reticule. She wore a bonnet and veil, shielding her identity from any passerby. From Matthew.

This was only for a few hours, she reminded herself. A few hours of indulgence. Today was her regular afternoon off, and tonight she was not scheduled at the hospital. These few hours were hers to do what she desired, and what she wanted was to see Matthew once again.

Jane was nervous. She could hardly breathe as each carriage passed her by, wondering if it would be the one to stop before her. It had only been a week since she had seen him, yet if felt like a month. Nervous butterflies made her insides quiver—with dread, or anticipation, she could not tell.

Perhaps she was making a mistake, agreeing to meet him. What if he didn’t come? What if he saw her standing there in the drizzling rain and thought her someone else? What if, she finally admitted, he found her lacking? That was the crux of her uneasiness, she finally admitted. She was afraid to see him. It was one thing to carry on when he could not see her, quite another when he was able to see her. He had painted her in his mind, he had said. She doubted the image had been of a red-haired spinster who sported spectacles and a top lip that had been scarred from the back of a man’s hand. No, he had seen her as a beauty. He had elevated her to the status of a goddess in his mind and she knew it was lie. She was not a goddess. Plain was the most honest description of her.

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.




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