Sinful. Charlotte Featherstone
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he called. “Sleep well. And you might do me the favor of reflecting on my offer.”
The door swung shut, and Matthew sensed the doctor staring him down where he stood at the foot of the bed.
“Lord Wallingford,” Inglebright growled, “you’ll be leaving us now, returning to your side of the city.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?” he asked, feeling his heart sink back into the black depths of his chest.
“Tell her what, that you’re a licentious rake who feeds off women and discards them when your amusement fades? Amusement, I have been told, that is rather dark, and decidedly not the sort of entertainment that Jane would find amusing.”
Matthew growled, “Yes, why didn’t you tell her I’m a soulless bastard?”
“Because it would have made you all the more attractive. Now then, my lord, your father has sent a carriage around to fetch you. The night men will make a litter for you—”
“The hell they will. I will walk out of here on my own two feet if it’s the last damn thing I do. And the last thing you’re going to do, Dr. Inglebright, is give me Jane’s direction.”
Chapter Six
“Lord Raeburn to see you, milord.”
Matthew looked up from his easel and over to the paneled door where his aging butler peered at him with rheumy eyes. The man’s fingers, gnarled with arthritis, gripped the edge of the door as he pressed his frail frame against the wood for support. He really was going to have to see to pensioning off the old retainer, and soon by the looks of it.
“You may send him in, Thomas.”
“Very good, milord.”
“I had to come and see for myself, days holed up in bed, and without anyone for company. It must be the end of the world.”
Paintbrush poised in the air, Matthew arched his brow in annoyance as he watched Raeburn, breeze into his studio. “I am well, as you can see. Nothing untoward after my brush with death.”
“I do see. Incredible the way you can reconstitute yourself. Are you certain you’re human and not a vampire?”
Matthew grumbled and motioned to the settee by the window. “Trust me, I would need more than blood to sustain me. Just toss the papers onto the floor. I haven’t the heart to ask Thomas to clean up in here. He and the rest of the staff are working themselves ragged.”
“Slave driver, are you?” Raeburn chuckled as he lowered his tall frame onto the settee. “Working them to the bone?”
“Had my father not decided to cut back my living expenses by nearly twenty-five percent, I would not be forced to run my household on the barest-minimum requirements. Hence, the servants may thank my father. It is his fault they have had to work their fingers to the bone.”
Raeburn grinned and gazed into the hearth. A small fire burned in the grate, dispelling the chill in the air from the rain that had not let up since midmorning. Odd, but Matthew had felt chilled since leaving London College Hospital a week ago. He had not been cold then, when he had Jane pressed against him. He could still feel the warmth of her body as he pressed against her breasts, still tasted her on his tongue, smelled her on his hand. He could hardly paint, so consumed was he by thoughts of her. He had relived that night with Jane over and over, and each time he marveled at how beautiful it had been.
Damn Inglebright for refusing to divulge any information in regard to Jane or where she lived. And damn him for not giving up the idea of pursuing her. Already the day’s letter had been shipped off to the hospital. Another missive for Jane requesting that she come away with him. Anywhere. Just him and her and a place that was private, so he could fuck her senseless and purge her from his body and mind.
“I was worried, you know, when I heard you had been ambushed in the East End. Nasty work, that.”
“You, of all people, know that I have an exceedingly hard head. It would take much more than a few rookery ruffians to do me in.”
“Still, I was worried.”
“No need. I’ll still bear witness to your nuptials, if that is your concern.”
Raeburn sent him a scathing glare. “I’m here because I care for you, damn you, not because I’m concerned I’ll need to find myself a new best man. Devil take it, Wallingford, you know I care.”
Of course he did. Raeburn wore his emotions on his sleeve, unlike himself who buried emotions to the pit of his being. Feelings led to weakness and he never again was going to weaken. Despite that, he did love his friend, and acknowledged the sentiment with his usual hauteur and a deep grunt that Raeburn was able to interpret. Theirs was a long-standing friendship that no longer required words. And Matthew thanked the Fates that he still had such a friend in his life. Raeburn understood, and wisely chose a different tack for his visit.
“You know, if this business of money has got you tied in knots, why not set your cap for an heiress?” Raeburn suggested as he continued to study the flickering flames. “It’s a simple enough option, and it’s all the rage, you know. The nouveau riche are clamoring for titles as illustrious as yours. What railway magnate’s daughter would not swoon for the opportunity to become a countess, not to mention a duchess? You could have your pick of them, you know. Your reputation could easily be swept under the carpet. No one would bat an eye once you made it clear you intended to actually do right by the girl. You could easily become the most sought-after bachelor, with your looks and your estates, and your other—” Raeburn waggled his brow “—sizable attributes.”
“Sod off,” Matthew cursed, swiping his brush along the canvas while he ignored Raeburn’s taunting. ‘I’d rather become a damn eunuch than find myself married to some simpering, weeping girl.”
“Get yourself a feisty American chit, one with a large dowry and a minx of a body. That should change your mind about spending the rest of your life living without your bullocks.”
“Surely to God you have not traveled to Berkeley Square to talk to me of marriage.”
“Well—” Raeburn shrugged as he tossed a pillow aside and stretched his booted feet out on the settee, lounging in negligent repose “—I did come to see you to make certain you were on the mend. Thomas told me you had the fever.”
“I am recovered, as you can see.”
“But still stewing over money.”
“There is very little in my life to occupy my thoughts. Naturally it falls to money to become my fixation.”
“Fucking used to be your fixation.”
“What does your future wife think of your crudeness,” he snapped. “Does she find it as tiresome as I do?”
Raeburn threw his head back and laughed. “I assure you, crudity has its place in the bedchamber. And while we’re talking of the fairer sex, I was introduced to an extraordinarily lovely young lady last night. I thought she might do very well for you. Beautiful face, quite perfect breasts, at least from what I could tell—I don’t really look, you know, as I’m very devoted to Anais. However, I could not help but notice—”
“Stop.” Matthew held out his hand and glared at his friend. “I am not the least bit interested in meeting some young twit who cannot string two words together. Furthermore, I am not interested in virgins. Innocence is highly overrated and more often than not, feigned. Give me the jaded whore any day over a naive virgin. Give me a woman who can indulge her passion without blushes and remorse. If we’re exchanging currency for fucking, I’d rather do the buying instead of being the one sold off. It’s much more palatable to know I can toss a few pound notes on the bed and leave forever, than it is to fuck a wife, knowing she’s purchased your cock just for your title. I’ll not be bound like that—never.”
“Christ, you’re so bloody cynical,” Raeburn