Читать книгу Sinful - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 9

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?”