Authors: Charlotte Featherstone
“And you didn’t?”
He grimaced and looked away from the painting. “I rarely pleased anyone, least of all my parents. I’m afraid I was something of a disappointment to both of them.”
“And your tutor, did you please him?”
Matthew laughed, a humorless, hollow sound. “Not usually. He was a hard old bastard who was exceptionally fond of flogging.”
“Did he flog you?” she asked, thinking of him as he was in his portrait, with his sad eyes and sullen expression.
“Every chance he got. He took perverse enjoyment in it, and I refused to cry, which of course made him work harder.”
Oh!
She wanted to weep for him, to hold him.
“I haven’t the mind for studies and books,” he said flatly. “I learn more by seeing and doing, but the English education system is not based that way, therefore I muddled through with nothing impressive to show my father, who would only accept excellence.”
She glanced again at his portrait. “He wanted you to quit painting. Did you give it up like he asked?”
“No, I hid it. I would stay in my room late at night when I was supposed to be studying and instead I would sketch. I would never dare attempt to paint for fear they would find out. I never cared about going against my father, but I never wanted to disappoint my mother, so I hid the fact that art was my world. My escape, so to speak. I have never shared my art, with the exception of a few pieces that Raeburn has seen, and the portrait I auctioned off.”
“The one that was indecent.”
He inclined his head, but held her gaze. “There is so much about me that is indecent, Jane. My entire life has been nothing but. But enough of me now,” he said, turning to her. “What of you and your mother?”
Jane stilled and fisted her hands at her sides as the unwanted memories began to float back into her mind. “My mother was lovely—nothing at all like me. She was blonde and blue eyed. Angelic. She was an opera dancer and an actress when she met my father. After…” Jane swallowed hard, ashamed to admit what her mother had been. “After my father left us, my mother was forced into prostitution.”
“And your father?”
“An aristocrat. My mother was his mistress. I am illegitimate.” She looked up to gauge his reaction, but he hardly even blinked at the news she was a bastard. “I barely remember him,” she said, gathering her courage to tell him of her past. “He left my mother when I was seven, tossing us out onto the streets. I’ve never seen him since. My mother always said I have his eyes. The garish red of my hair is a mystery. I am not certain what hateful ancestor bequeathed it to me.”
“It is not garish.”
“Kind words are not necessary,” she said with a fleeting smile. “I’m well aware that it’s a terribly bright color. Not at all fashionable.”
“You are mistaken. It is not at all offensive. In fact, I like the way it burns in the firelight. It glows,” he said as he curled a loose ringlet around his finger. “It feels like silk. I would like to see it unbound and resting over your shoulders.”
A little tremor snaked down Jane’s spine. She hid it by stepping away from him and walking about the perimeter of the room. But the sensation of his touch still discomposed her, and she fought to think of anything other than the image of her unpinning her hair for him.
“Is this your studio, then?” she asked, thinking it better to return to a safer, less intimate topic.
“It is. It was my mother’s cottage. I used to spend hours here with her, watching her write or read. I began to sketch here. We would sit for hours in our quiet pursuits. It’s the only time I can ever remember feeling at peace. Perhaps it was even happiness I felt here in this room with her.”
“So you left it the same, trying to recapture those days with her.”
“Yes, I suppose so. The window overlooks the orchards, and when they are in blossom like they are now it’s the most spec
tacular, inspiring sight. I hope you will come to this room in the daylight and see for yourself.”
“Perhaps I will,” she murmured as her gaze hungrily drank in her surroundings. Empty frames and canvases were scattered about. Easels and paint jars with abandoned brushes littered the tables. In the middle of the room was a black velvet lounge with gold cording and tassels that decorated the curved arms. Behind it was a black-lacquered screen with painted pink blossoms on it. In the corner, by the window, sat a delicate rosewood desk. Atop it were painted miniatures of Matthew as a child, and a young woman, who, she suspected was his mother.
As she walked, she allowed her fingertips to graze the pictures and the furniture, taking everything in about the room and her rich, luxurious surroundings. Matthew’s sentimentally struck her as incongruent with his callous shell. She would never have thought that the Earl of Wallingford would have had a soft spot for his mother.
“I was ten when she died,” he murmured, his voice thick. He turned away from her, giving her his back as he looked out the window. Yet he still continued. “She left us—me,” he clarified. “My father made it intolerable for her. I was her only method to get to him, you see. It was me, my successes, my failures that made my father either happy with her, or unhappy. He felt it was her fault if I was bad or…stupid,” he said, “and I tried very hard to be what my father needed, for my mother’s sake. But I was a miserable failure. It was not long before my father turned completely from her. She loved him, but that love turned to melancholy. I tried to replace that love, but she turned from me, as well. She took a lover, and left. I followed her, running down the lane after the carriage, begging her to come back. But she would not. Finally I could run no more and was forced to watch the carriage disappear amongst the
dust. When it turned the corner, the harness broke, and it sent the coach tumbling down the hill. She was killed while running away from me.”
Jane went to him, and held him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she pressed her face against his back. “Matthew.”
He stiffened and Jane felt his breath freeze in his lungs before he gathered himself and stepped away, unable, or unsure how to accept her touch.
He turned and looked at her, pain and sorrow etched in his eyes, but there was something else there, as well, lurking in the dark blue depths. He spoke in an urgent rush of words.
“I wish to change our bargain.”
“In what way?” she asked skeptically, her instincts suddenly on alert.
“I wish to reserve the right to ask a favor of you in lieu of a question. And you may do the same of me.”
Jane stared at him for a long while, trying to understand what he was asking of her. “I thought you wished to paint me. Is that not what you wanted in return for answering your questions?”
“Yes, and I still do. However, I want…” He cleared his throat and tugged at his cravat. “I want other things.”
“I will not sleep with you.”
His gaze flew to hers. “Are you an innocent then, Jane?”
Any other woman would have been outraged by such a question, but Jane was not. How could the question not have come up in his mind, especially after the events that day in his carriage, and in the hall with Thurston?
Taking a step back, she walked toward the settee and trailed her fingers along the soft nap of velvet. “In the physical sense, yes, I am still innocent. But am I an innocent?” She smiled sadly and walked around the settee watching him warily. “No,
I am afraid I am not an innocent. I have seen things that no woman or child should ever see. I have lived in places that no human should have to live. My innocence, if I ever had any, was stripped from me when my father left my mother and me destitute…” She trailed off and watched as her fingers, so white, sunk into the black velvet. “After he abandoned us, I truly learned what hell was like.”
“And you plan on staying a virgin, then?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until I am ready to relinquish it.”
“Are you waiting for marriage, then?”
“No, I am not. I am waiting for love.” Lifting her gaze from the settee, she found him standing before her. “You probably find that amusing, don’t you? Someone like me, waiting for love. Even I think it is foolish. Love is such a fickle thing, and yet I can’t help but desire it. I don’t know why, but it is the last wistful desire from my childhood that I have not been able to banish.” Shaking herself, she smiled and shook her head. “I am saving the only thing I have of any value for the man I love. He need not be my husband, he need not even love me. But,
I
must love
him.
That is the price of my virginity.”
“You confuse love with sex, as do most females.”
“Do I?”
“Yes. You needn’t have love to have sex.”
“You must at least like the person.”
He snorted and stalked to the window where he stood looking out at the sky, which was now black. “No, you needn’t even like them.”
“I cannot believe that one can—”
“Do you know how many I’ve fucked that I can’t stand, that I actually hate—” He stiffened, as if catching himself saying
something he should not. A few seconds of silence followed before he spoke again. “I will not mock you for your thoughts on love, if you will not mock me and my views on the same subject. And my favors will not be for sex—your virginity is safe from me.”
“Then what will these favors be?”
“I do not know,” he said quietly. “I only know that I wish to reserve the right to ask them later on, if I so desire.”
“All right then, I will grant you that, as long as you do not ask for my virginity, I will grant whatever favor you ask.”
He nodded and bowed his head as he looked down at the ground below. Jane studied him, observing the way his shoulders were set, almost rigid. She watched as the sliver moonlight glinted off his hair. Listened to the even cadence of his breathing as it filled the quiet.
“Why did you offer this?” she asked, unable to stem her curiosity. “Why me?”
He did not turn around, but instead raised his head and sighed. She saw that his knuckles had turned white as his fingers gripped the ledge of the windowsill. “I have asked myself that very same question.”
“What, why the offer or why me?” She laughed, attempting to make light of her question. But inside she was not laughing, for she was afraid of what his answer would be.
“The offer, of course,” he said, blowing out his held breath as he turned to face her. “I cannot fathom what made me offer such a thing, what made me yearn to open up myself to you and your ridicule, and possibly even your revulsion.”
“And you have never questioned why me?” she asked cautiously as she stepped around the arm of the settee. “Why a red-haired, spectacle-wearing spinster could induce a man like you to offer such a thing as secrets.”
“I sensed—I still sense—that there is a likeness between us.
I felt it from the first moment I saw you. We are alike in the fact that we are not truly the people we show the world.”
“Am I not?” she asked, taking another step toward him. “What makes you think that I am not really cold and indifferent?”
“Because I felt the warmth in you when I held you in my arms. That was not indifference.” He turned and half looked at her over his shoulder. “If it was, tell me so at once, Jane. If you felt nothing for me—not even physical need—tell me now and I will release you from this bargain.”
“Why would you agree to such a thing when you wanted it so badly last night? You wanted my secrets. You were willing to pay for them. How can you so easily say you don’t want them now?”
“I do not want your secrets for a price, Jane. I do not want to share mine with you because of a bargain.” He looked away and stared out the window. “I want whatever you give to me to be willingly. I want what we shared before, give-and-take. If you cannot give me that, if you truly felt nothing for me then, then you may go now, for I want
all
of you, Jane, not just the little bits you’re willing to give me.”
The seconds stretched on, marked by the ticking of the clock that sat atop the rosewood desk. How much he asked for. Did he know how much he asked? Did he know that to answer him would be to look deep inside her, at the place within her she refused to believe existed? Did he know that her answer might destroy her forever?
The seconds marched on, marked by the measured tick of the clock. With each passing second, his body grew hotter, his nerves growing rigid with barely controlled impatience. She had wanted him. He knew that.
However, as the silence stretched on, he began to doubt his memories. Perhaps she really had not wanted him. Perhaps it had been all one-sided and his desire for her had clouded his judgment, had made him fail to see that she did not return his ardor. What if she had only allowed him such liberties because he was titled, or worse, she feared she had to in order to keep her job. Had it only been desperation that had driven her to his arms?
“Milord,” came a voice from beyond the door. “Your dinner has arrived.”
Relief washed across Jane’s face and he felt himself growing angry with his valet for arriving at such an inopportune moment. The little minx was
not
going to avoid answering his question. It was time for the truth. Never had he wished to know the truth more than he did at this very moment.
“Milord—”
“Enter,” he snapped, turning his back to both his valet and Jane. Christ, his damn hands were shaking—with what—anger, frustration, pain? No, by God, it was not pain.
Shoving aside the unsavory emotion, he told himself over and over until he believed it as the truth, that he didn’t give a fucking damn what her answer was. She
had
desired him. He knew it to be the truth. She could say whatever she liked, but he damn well knew that she had, at the very least, felt physical desire for the man in the carriage. And why he cared, why he needed to hear that avowal in her own voice was beyond him. It was so bloody foreign to him to seek anything other than sex from a woman. But here he was, seeking confirmation from Jane Rankin that she had, at least once, desired him.
The clanging of the cutlery and fine china filled the room as his valet hurriedly laid out their supper. When he finished, he cleared his throat and asked, “Will there be anything else, milord?”
Matthew stared down in disgust at his hands, which were still trembling. “You may leave us.”
“Very good, milord.”
The door clicked shut behind the servant and Matthew turned to find Jane sniffing delicately at the silver dishes atop the table. “Everything smells so delicious,” she murmured in obvious appreciation.
“Did you respond willingly to me?” he demanded, refusing to let her think that he was going to allow her to change their conversation so easily. Her eyes narrowed, and he saw her defiant little chin come up a notch. His gut reacted violently, tightening and twisting, and he realized at last what he was experiencing.
Fear.
Christ, he despised feeling this way, but he could not go on with this evening, nor with their bargain,
if what they had shared that afternoon had been nothing but a sham.
It made no sense to him that he should care if her desire had been true or feigned, he only knew that right now, it mattered greatly to him.
She stood still, not even attempting to reply to his question. He had to force himself not to stalk to her and take her about the shoulders and demand her answer. Being the overbearing man was not the way to deal with Jane Rankin. It was likely to get him a nasty stomp on his instep and not the answers he so desperately needed.
“I believe I have the right to know whether you actually felt desire, or whether I was duped into believing you wanted me,” he said through gritted teeth when she turned her gaze from him.
“Is your pride hurting?” she asked. “I hope it is, for I have lived with such pain since that day you came to take me away.”
He felt his face flush as the image of her standing on the sidewalk resurfaced.
“Do you know how much it hurt to look up at you and realize that you had no clue who I was? You looked at me as if you were seeing right through me, as if I were as insignificant as a bug crawling atop your boot.” He saw her fingers had curled around the back of the chair and were now white with tension. “It hurt because I trusted you, because I had given everything of myself to you, and it apparently meant nothing. It hurt to know that the man who stood before me, the man who uses women and thinks of them as objects for his pleasure, was the same man who earned my trust. The pain of the discovery was more than you will ever know. I have never…I don’t…” Taking a deep breath, she seemed to gather her emotions, steadying them before she focused her gaze once more upon him.
“What is done is done. Perhaps, my lord, we should sit down and eat and forget about discussing things that cannot be taken back or forgotten. It seems a shame to let this dinner grow cold. Your cook has obviously gone to great lengths to prepare a beautiful meal.”
She did not wait for him to pull out her chair, but instead did it herself and sat down with a regal elegance, dismissing him and their conversation. Head held high, she stared straight ahead, her expression serene. But he was not dissuaded. He had heard the uncertain emotion in her voice, the pain at his remembered barbs. He took her words for the truth. She had given herself to him because she had wanted to.
He took his seat at the table, across from her, and contemplated her through the flickering candlelight. “Jane, I—”
“There is no need to say more, my lord,” she murmured between sips of wine.
“My pride….” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I daresay it has taken a very great blow these past weeks. I am not used—”
“To being tricked by
drab little peahens?
” Her gaze collided with his. “I can imagine your ego has been dented considerably. It must be quite something for a man of your reputation and tastes to discover that he has been secretly meeting a drab lady’s companion and not the exotic and mysterious creature he thought she was.”
“That is not it,” he growled as he stabbed his fork into a slice of roasted beef.
“Admit it, you were disgusted when you discovered it was really me you had been meeting. I saw the disappointment in your eyes in Raeburn’s library. I could see inside to the workings of your mind, and you were questioning how you could have mistaken the nurse for me. How you could have allowed yourself to be attracted to such a woman.”
“No, you’re wrong.”
She arched her little winged brow and glared at him. “Am I?”
Hardly able to swallow, he chased the bit of beef down with his wine and contemplated her as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What am I to say, Jane? Either way, I will hurt you. And I have no wish to cause you pain.”
“You have claimed to never care about women and their feelings. Why would you care about mine now? No, please, say the truth, my lord. I want the truth.”
She looked at him with her penetrating, steady gaze and felt himself shrink back from it. Christ, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings; he was a brute when it came to women, yes, but he did not want to hurt Jane, nor destroy her memories of him. Memories he knew he would carry with him for the rest of his days.
“I was taken aback, yes. Not because you are not…pretty,” he said, struggling to find the words. She let out a disgusted huff of breath and vigorously began cutting her meat into minuscule bits.
“Oh, for Christsakes,” he snapped, reaching for her hands and stopping her. With a squeeze of her fingers, he forced her gaze up to his. “Listen to me. I am only going to say this one time, and then the topic is over. Yes, I was disappointed when I discovered it was you. At first it was because of your appearance—the severity of it, the prudishness of you. In my mind I did imagine you looking different.”
Her expression crumbled, but she regained her composure swiftly as she sniffed back the pain. “I’ll wager, in your mind, I didn’t wear spectacles, or possess a freckled face. In fact, I probably wasn’t even a redhead. More likely you imagined a tousled blonde with a flawless complexion.”
“I dreamed of you with many different hair colors and styles.”
“But no glasses?”
“No,” he barked, hating being goaded by her. “I didn’t. Christ, Jane, am I to be punished for my imagination? I saw nothing of you those nights in the hospital. Am I to be berated for imagining the face of the woman whom I had kissed and touched so intimately? Am I not allowed to be disappointed that the warm, passionate woman I held in my arms was really nothing but a cold and indifferent spinster? For that was the real disappointment. It was not the fact that you have red hair that you wear so severely. Nor is it your spectacles and dowdy clothes.” She sputtered, searching for words, but he squeezed her hand again, silencing her. “I was disappointed in
you,
just as you were disappointed in learning that I was really the notorious Wallingford. Is it really any different?”
“Yes,” she snapped, “it is very different! At least I still found you sinfully handsome despite hating you as Wallingford!”
She flushed and pulled her hand out from his and he sat back, surprised, yet irrationally pleased with her outburst. “Your pride was hurt then and now, with my frank admission.”
“I do not need to be found beautiful by any man,” she snapped, and he knew that she was lying. Whether she realized it or not, she was lying to herself. She was also giving him an understanding as to the root of her anger, something he was certain she would be mortified to discover. “I am what I am, my lord, and I would much rather be admired for my brain and my ability to discuss things with a rational, intelligent mind than to have only my beauty be of any value. I do not care if you find me to be a little peahen. I do not care if you think me a colorless spinster, and perhaps I am. But the fact remains that I will not—
can not
—change what I am.”
“Jane—”
“Have you not shamed me enough already with your inquisition? What more do you want from me? I have already
admitted I wanted you for no other reason but desire. Was that not your original question, my lord?”
“How did we arrive at this, Jane? There was no quarrel between us this morning. How did we go from the intimacy of our conversation when we first arrived in this cottage, to the hostility that is now flowing between us?”
She refused to answer him and instead fobbed him off, something she was very good at when the conversation struck a nerve or became to intimate for her to discuss. “Perhaps we might continue eating and find another topic of conversation if you wish to diffuse the heat of the present topic. We were doing rather well when we were talking of things other than ourselves.”
Nodding curtly, he picked up his utensils and began eating, hardly even tasting the food in his mouth for the unsavory taste that already resided there. He did not like leaving their conversation there, with her thinking he thought her plain and unremarkable.
Tossing his napkin onto the table, he shoved his chair back and walked to her, tugging her up from her chair. She gasped and he saw her lips part invitingly. Unable to control the impulse, he parted his lips and brought them down to hers, allowing them to hover, to widen. Her breathing turned harsh and he saw her lips inch closer to his as if she was going to kiss him. Their lips brushed slowly, just barely grazing, before she pulled away.
She shuddered in his arms, and he gripped her tighter, fighting the impulse to crush her to his chest. “Jane, let us start over, begin anew.”
“How? When the past haunts us?”
He captured her chin in his hand. “I do not know how to be intimate, Jane. I only understand sex.”
“And I will not allow you to have sex with me. I won’t be an empty vessel for you to fill and toss out when you’re done.”
“Then we are at an impasse.”
She nodded and reached for her skirts. “Good night, my lord.”
The next morning, Jane awoke from a restless night’s sleep, her hair in disarray and her eyes puffy from lack of sleep.
Damn him!
Why the devil did Wallingford plague her thoughts and dreams? Why could she not get that erotic, charged moment of their near kiss out of her mind, and replace it instead with the hurtful admissions he’d told her.
Flinging the bedcovers back, she walked to the heavily carved wardrobe and began tearing the few dresses she owned from the hangers. She would leave this morning. She wouldn’t give the ogre a second thought, much less the opportunity to know anything more about her. Such an undeserving man! What did she care what he thought of her for leaving without satisfying their bargain? What did truth and honor mean to a man such as Wallingford?
“I…I see you are going home.”
Snapping to attention, Jane straightened her spine and glared at the door. Standing on the threshold, hand still gripping the brass latch, stood Sarah.
“Does my brother know?” she asked softly as her gaze volleyed between the portmanteau that was open on the bed and the empty wardrobe. “If… If I…I have done something, tell me. Don’t leave. M-my brother…”
“Sarah, no, it isn’t like that,” Jane said, feeling anguished at the sight of Sarah’s trembling lips and glistening eyes. She ran to her and helped her limp to the bed. “Good Lord, you shouldn’t be out of bed. How did you… Never mind,” Jane muttered as she helped Sarah onto the bed. “How do you feel?”
“Tired of lying in bed all day. Nobody wants to play with
me,” Sarah mumbled like a petulant child. “Everyone leaves me. I am always alone.”
Falling to her knees, Jane took Sarah’s hands in hers and bent her head so that she could capture Sarah’s gaze with hers. “Sarah, look at me.”
Tear-filled eyes met hers. “You promised to teach me to read.”
“I did,” Jane said, nodding, her heart breaking. “But you’ve been ill and it is much too soon to be out of bed.”
“You’re going to leave and break your promise.”
Jane bit her lip. She could not go back on her word to Sarah. Painful memories of her own childhood came rushing back. The loneliness, the despair. How many times had she been alone as child? How many promises given to her by her mother had been broken? How many times had she seen the retreating back of someone she had desperately needed?
“I am not leaving, Sarah. I was…I was…” Jane looked around her room, at the trunks and the gowns thrown hastily inside, and tried to come up with a suitable excuse.