Sinful (12 page)

“Perhaps I might just stay in my room for the weekend,” Jane muttered as she relived that night, standing out in the rain, hungry and cold and seeking refuge from the elements and the pain in her body from Thurston’s beating. Thank God Lady Blackwood had stumbled across her a few hours later after returning from a friend’s house.

“If it were any other event, I would have declined the invitation, rather than risk a chance of a run-in with Thurston,” Lady Blackwood said, pulling Jane out of her memories. “But
I am afraid that I cannot miss dear Anais’s wedding. I also fear, that as the maid of honor, you cannot reasonably spend your time cowering in your room.”

No, she could not.

“I thought it best that you know ahead of time, dear. I know you will want to be prepared for any surprises.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Lady Blackwood smiled affectionately and pressed forward. Laying a reassuring hand atop Jane’s folded hands, she patted Jane’s trembling fingers. “Stiff upper lip, Jane, dearest. The old goat will not get the better of you, or me, for that matter. Show him you are made of better stuff than he. Let him know that he never broke your spirit.”

Nodding, Jane continued to keep her gaze averted from Lady Blackwood. The world outside whirled by, all bright and welcoming, while the darkness of her thoughts and the memories of her unhappy childhood raged like a tempest inside her.

For the next hour, Jane waged a private internal war. It had been a long while since she had allowed herself to recall the miseries of her past. Memories that were left best buried threatened to reawaken, and Jane shoved them ruthlessly deeper. She refused to think of her mother—the mother who could not live without a man in her life. Her father, a selfish aristocrat who wanted nothing to do with her. Her mother’s protector, who wanted to sell her to a lecherous old man after her mother died. She refused to think of any of them, and the hell the three of them had put her through.

With a little shake of her head to clear her mind of the disturbing memories, Jane leaned forward and squinted against the glare on the glass. Beyond the gentle slope of grass loomed the Marquis of Weatherby’s enormous mansion. An Elizabethan palace, three stories high, it was also the home of the marquis’s
son, Viscount Raeburn. Eden Park, as the estate was named, was the stage for Lord Raeburn’s wedding to Lady Blackwood’s niece.

The sun-baked limestone country house rose above the valley in which they were traveling, like a mammoth iceberg rising from the sea. Sitting forward on the bench, Jane pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose, watching in wonder as the mansion grew larger as they approached. Imagine being mistress of such a place, Jane thought in wonder.

Jane finally tore her gaze from the rolling green hills and turned her face from the window. She saw that Lady Blackwood was watching her intently with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“You know, Jane, that I am always here if you need to confide in anyone. I would hope, dear, that you would trust me in matters close to the heart.”

Lady Blackwood was looking at her with shrewd scrutiny. Jane felt herself shrink back from that knowing gaze.

“Thank you, my lady. I do feel quite comfortable speaking plainly with you. Although, I do not have anything to converse with you about at the moment.”

Lady Blackwood arched her brow and sat back against the squabs. Jane knew without a doubt that Lady Blackwood’s intelligent mind was busily trying to fit all the pieces together.

No one knew her as well as her employer, and Jane was well aware that Lady Blackwood suspected Jane was harboring secrets. God help her if Lady Blackwood ever discovered what had happened at the hospital, or in Wallingford’s carriage. What would she say if she were to discover that Jane had once fancied herself in love with Lord Wallingford!

“You are very quiet this afternoon, Jane. You seem to be in deep thought.”

“I underestimated him and allowed him to humiliate me,”
Jane murmured absently then caught herself. She had not meant to say that aloud. Fortunately, Lady Blackwood appeared not to hear her.

She really needed to gather her thoughts and her considerable control. Her behavior was irrational, moody, not at all in keeping with her steady character. More than once Lady Blackwood had commented on it. Jane knew it was only a matter of time before her employer demanded to know what was causing Jane to shirk her duties as an attentive companion.

Damn it all! She could not stop from continuously thinking about Wallingford and all that had happened between them.

She had erred. She had done something she had never allowed herself to do before. She had hoped. She had dreamed. And all those dreams had centered around a man she thought was the missing piece of her soul. A man who could read her thoughts and actions so well. A man who truly looked beyond her facade to the depths that were hidden beneath.

Silly romantic twit! Her desire to be desired was nearly her ruination, and all at the hands of the most notorious debaucher in England.

“Look, here we are at last!” Lady Blackwood cried with glee.

Jane looked at the house and swallowed hard, wondering if Lord Thurston would already be there, lying in wait to pounce on her one more time. Or worse, Wallingford.

God, she hoped not. She didn’t think she could handle any more surprises.

“Smoke?”

Raeburn declined the offered cheroot with a shake of his head. “Anais can’t abide the smell of it.”

Matthew snorted and put the cheroot to his mouth. Striking a sulfur match, he lit the end of it and puffed, making a great display of smoke. “Seems like a lot of rules and inconvenience when one seeks to please a lady. Myself, I don’t give a damn, and I suspect I am happier for it.”

Raeburn chuckled and continued to look out the salon window that overlooked the drive and the steady stream of conveyances that carried the wedding guests.

“I am the happiest of men, Wallingford. You, of all people, know that.”

Matthew gave an inelegant grunt and blew a cloud of smoke up into the air. “But how long will said happiness last. A year? Two?”

“A lifetime.”

Not bloody likely.
However, who was he to drive the joy out
of his friend, and on this, the day before he was to wed? Let him keep his hopes for a lifetime of love. He knew better. Nothing lasted a lifetime, least of all the love for a woman.

“She’ll give me the devil for telling you, but I am afraid I cannot contain myself.” Raeburn turned his face from the window. A smug, masculine grin widened his mouth. “Anais is with child.”

“Randy old goat.” Matthew laughed as he congratulated his friend with a hearty slap between the shoulders. “Christ, you’ve anticipated the marriage bed. I’m shocked.”

“I’m not a saint,” Raeburn said with a leer. “I’ve bedded her every chance I’ve had.”

“Better take it a wee bit slower. You’re going to be married to the woman for a lifetime. There are only so many carnal delights. What can be left to experience?”

“Many. For instance, making love to one’s wife while she is big with your child is an experience I cannot wait to try.”

Matthew frowned. “Fat and awkward. Not my idea of a good tumble.”

Raeburn studied him quietly. “Truly? You do not feel a sense of possession when you think of the woman who will bear your sons and daughters? Imagine a woman ripe with your babe inside her. Is there any other thought that makes you feel more manly and virile?”

“I had three wenches at the same time last week at Recamier’s. I felt damn virile and manly, I assure you.”

“Be serious for once,” Raeburn chastised.

“I am being serious. The logistics were a bit trying, but after a few goes, they got the way of it.”

Raeburn’s smile faded. “Think on what I am saying, Wallingford. The woman you love carrying your child. Watching a part of yourself growing inside of her, feeling it move. The profoundness of it. The
rightness.
”

Stomping out the end of his cheroot, Matthew looked away from the intensity and the probing he saw in his friend’s eyes. He did not want to think such things, for he knew that the miraculous love Raeburn felt for Anais was not to be his. Any woman impregnated with his seed would be by accident and by the way of a one-night stand or a woman who had the misfortune to become his wife and thus a brood mare for the ducal dynasty.

What Raeburn had with Anais was the rarest love he had ever seen. It had survived through childhood and adolescence, past young adulthood and numerous betrayals to survive and flourish. He had never seen that kind of love, and he knew without a doubt that such a thing would never be his.

But did he even want such a thing? He always thought not. A wife was too stifling, children too loud and dirty. Marriage and brats meddled with a man’s routine and a man’s home. He did not want a wife and brats, but he could not deny it to himself, he had thought of a woman carrying his babe.
Once.
One unguarded moment in the middle of the night, he had thought of a woman dressed in a drab gray gown, a black veil covering her face, her delicate gloved hand caressing her swollen belly. And he had seen his hand, ungloved and large, reaching out to rest upon hers. That night, alone in his bed, he had wanted a wife. He had wanted a child.

Shaking his head, he focused on a black town coach that was lumbering along the drive. Shaken from his thoughts, he raised his arm to lean against the window frame and assumed his bored, careless air, the one that hid so much of himself from the world.

“The trouble with pregnant wives, Raeburn,” he drawled, “is that they tend to lose their looks after they’ve given you an heir and a spare. In short, they usually continue to look pregnant when they are no longer belly full.”

“You’re wrong,” his friend dutifully protested. “I think they only look more beautiful to a man.”

“If you say so,” he said with a shrug. “Who is this?” he asked, pointing to the gold crest on the door of the town coach. It had pulled to a stop, and a footman, dressed in a powdered wig and pair of silk breeches and white stockings, was in the process of opening the door.

“That is Lady Blackwood,” Raeburn answered with a smile. “An original as a young woman, and a force to be reckoned with as an old one.”

“The woman who fancies herself a suffrage leader?” he asked, amused. “She’ll swallow her tongue when she finds out that I am in attendance.”

“She knows. Anais told her. You will recall that Lady Blackwood is her aunt. So be nice.”

“As a matter of fact, I do recall the old bird, and her frosty companion, as well. What is her name?”

“Miss Rankin.”

“Ah, yes, the unfortunate Miss Rankin,” he drawled, amused. The last time he had seen her had been in the late winter, in Bewdley, at church. She had garnered his notice because of the color of her hair—an unfortunate red mass that appeared unruly beneath her bonnet.

He had seen that particular shade of red before. The sharp-mouthed woman who had stomped on his pound note had sported hair that color. His teeth ground together. He still felt anger over the fact that Jane had run from him. Naturally, that anger extended to the woman who was brave enough to deny him any information of Jane.

“Has Anais informed you that Miss Rankin is to be the maid of honor?”

Matthew promptly choked. “Surely you jest at my expense?”

“She is one of Anais’s closest friends,” Raeburn said with a grin. “I wouldn’t jest about such a thing.”

“Christ, Anais could have at least chosen a pretty friend, if for nothing else but for my sake,” he grumbled as he watched her fall into step beside Lady Blackwood. “What should I know about the woman?” he asked. “Will she converse, or will making conversation with her be as torturous as having my eyelashes plucked out one by one?”

Raeburn chuckled. “I find her rather a delight, if you must know. Well versed on many topics, and full of opinions—which, of course, should amuse you.”

“Of course, because my notion of a delightful woman is one who sprouts opinions,” he muttered sardonically.

“Lady Blackwood and Anais treat her as though she were a part of their family. So perhaps you might think of her as Anais’s cousin who is tainted by scandal. Lady Blackwood is a divorced woman, you know.”

“Christ,” he mumbled as he watched the pair make their way up the gravel, to the steps that led to the house.

“Take comfort, old boy. If anyone takes delight in scandal, you do. You’ll make a good job of creating one. I know you will. You’ll give that drab little peahen a day of excitement.”

“What is the peahen’s full name?”

Raeburn glanced at him. “Jane Rankin.”

The hair on Mathew’s nape rose and he glanced down at the woman, watching her disappear beneath the window. It couldn’t be…

Jane was an immensely popular name, especially amongst the working classes. It was merely a coincidence they were both named Jane. She was not
his
Jane. Impossible.

“You could have told me!” Jane snapped as she smoothed the long silk train of Anais’s wedding gown.

“I had no idea you would be offended by the matter.”

“No idea? Ha! The man is a misogynist. He uses women and throws them away like last week’s rubbish. To think I shall have to stand up with such a man.”
Oh, God,
Jane silently added. What if he remembered her from the sidewalk, when she’d ground her boot into his pound note?

“He is Raeburn’s dearest friend.”

“Your intended ought to know better than to pick friends of such dubious reputations.” What would she say if he did recall their meeting? Worse, what if he thought she was
his
Jane. She was, of course, but she couldn’t let him know that. Thank God the shame of being broke had kept her and Lady Blackwood silent about her working as a nurse. No one but the two of them knew. If Wallingford took it into his head to ask questions, everyone would deny that Jane was anything but a companion.

“You should have voiced your complaints last night, Jane, when you first arrived.”

“I did, if you will but remember. You chose to ignore my concerns.”

Anais met Jane’s gaze in the cheval mirror. “You aren’t backing out now, are you? I am getting married in three hours and there is no other friend in the world I want witnessing this day than you.”

“Of course not,” Jane said with a sigh. “Forgive me, it’s just that…well…oh, it’s nothing. You look stunning, Anais.”

Anais laughed and reached for Jane’s hands. “Thank you, but you aren’t getting off the hook so easily. Tell me, why does Wallingford offend you so? Well, beside the obvious fact he’s a womanizer?”

“He trifles with women and their feelings and he hurts them unbearably.”

“Does he? I am not so sure about that. I think the women
that choose to be with him know exactly what they are getting. A night of pleasure and a cold spot in bed come morning.”

“No, he trifles with them. He makes them feel special and wanted and desired, and then he cruelly takes those hopes away from them.”

Anais looked at her curiously. “Do you know someone who has personally suffered such treatment by him?”

Jane looked away and started plucking at the orange blossoms that lay between the tiers of lace on Anais’s crinoline skirt. “I know of someone. Naturally her name must be kept in confidence.”

“Naturally,” Anais murmured. “Jane, is something wrong? You are not yourself—”

“A long journey, I am afraid,” Jane said, cutting off Anais. “And more than a bit of excitement. I am so happy for you that you are finally marrying your knight in shining armor.”

“Well, he is a bit tarnished, you know.”

“All the more interesting when they come a bit dented and tarnished. Isn’t that what you used to say?”

“I did.”

“You are perfect,” Jane whispered as she stepped back and took in the sight of her best friend in her wedding gown. “Your knight is going to fall to his knees when he sees you.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so,” Jane said with a smile. “Now then, I have one thing left to do before we leave for the church.”

“And that is?”

“I have to confront the devil himself. Wish me luck.”

“He’s really a romantic, you know,” Anais called as Jane reached for the door. “Look beneath the brashness and you will see a completely different man.”

“And see what?” Jane asked. “A heartless, black soul?”

“A bleeding one, I think.”

“Nonsense, to bleed means that you have a heart and blood in your body. Wallingford has ice in his veins and a mechanical device in place of a pulsating heart. He is an amoral, unfeeling rogue.”

And with that, she closed the door in search of her prey. What she was going to say when she found him was something else entirely, and what she was going to do if the lecher had a decent memory and recalled that it had been her standing on the sidewalk was something she did not want to contemplate. But she had to do this before the wedding. She owed it to Anais not to cause a scene.

She found him on the terrace, his black hair shining nearly blue in the brilliant midmorning sunlight. His face was cleanly shaven and devoid of the cumbersome sideburns most men favored. It was strange that a man who was clearly a leader in society was markedly out of step with the current fashions. His tailoring was cut elegantly, and his choice of fabrics was expensive but simple. He shunned the fashion for facial hair and bushy sideburns, and kept his hair neatly trimmed.

A frisson of physical awareness rushed through her as she watched his large hand rake through his silky hair. That hand had once caressed her so softly, so passionately. But that was another time. He had been a different person there with her, and to some extent, she had not been herself, either.

It was those moments at the hospital that continued to plague her. She told herself those memories were nothing but a foggy dream of a faraway time and place. Little remained of that dream now, save for the familiar tremors of yearning that slithered along her nerves whenever her gaze strayed to him.

A beautiful dark angel,
she mused,
with a black, fathomless soul.

“Lady Burroughs,” he murmured seductively as a figure in silk sauntered toward him. “Good morning.”

Jane froze, her breath trapped in her lungs. What was this? Her mind buzzed with the possibilities and her heart constricted traitorously in her breast. How easy it was for endearments to drip from his tongue. How blasted simple it was for him to insert different women without a care or a thought. Had he even given her—Jane—a parting thought? Had he gone to the hospital to try to see her? Had he been upset when she had not returned? Not bloody likely, she thought venomously. He hadn’t cared a fig for Jane—for her.

“Good afternoon, Lord Wallingford. What a delightful surprise to find you standing here on the terrace—and all alone,” Lady Burroughs said silkily.

“Surprise?” he purred, and Jane could see that he was leering down the bodice of Lady Burroughs’s gown—a bodice that was nothing but a thin-as-water scrap of fabric. “I think not, my lady. This was as calculated a plot as ever I’ve seen.”

“All right,” she said huskily, stepping closer to him so that the sliver of daylight between them was snuffed out when Lady Burroughs’s blue gown caressed Wallingford’s silver waistcoat. “I admit I followed you out here. There, does that please you?”

“It’s always pleasing to me when a lady comes to heel,” he said with a slow grin.