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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?”
