Sinful. Charlotte Featherstone

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      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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