yet to meet one that is an angel.”
But that was not entirely true. He did not think of Jane as he did all the other women who had come and gone in his life. She was not made of the same stamp as the women he had taken to his bed.
“Right, then, since a rational discussion of marriage seems to be out of the question, let us talk of something else.” Raeburn inclined his head to the easel. “What are you painting, now that your masterpiece is completed?”
“Nothing, really.” Matthew looked at the portrait he was just starting. Pale lines lay in contrast against the vanilla-colored canvas. It was the shape of a woman, all soft curves. She was reposed on a lounge, naked, her fingers tangling in her blond hair. She was faceless. Frowning, he realized he had painted Jane without even thinking.
Raeburn cocked his brow and studied him. “You’re in fine fettle this morning. Up a bit too early, or is it you’ve gotten to bed too late?”
Matthew ignored him and proceeded to close the lids on his ink pots.
“Damn me, man, you are not yourself. You’ve become as dull as a vicar’s wife. It is not like you to not have gotten into some sort of illicit scrape with a lord’s wife or infamous actress. Or perhaps you’ve managed to seduce a maid who was taking care of you on your sickbed?”
“No…no scrapes.”
“What of the famous Lady Burroughs? How goes your pursuit of her?”
Christ, he had not thought of her in a week. Not since Jane had entered his life.
“Word is that the young countess is looking for someone to warm her bed. Her husband seems incapable of pleasing her. I’m quite certain, from what I’ve heard from your past paramours, that you are more than up to the challenge of pleasing Lady Burroughs.”
“You’re remarkably well informed in the latest gossip.”
Raeburn shrugged and crossed his legs. “I had not stepped foot in Lord Halifax’s ballroom last night for more than five minutes before I was inundated with gossip and questions.”
“Tell them all to go to hell, that’s what I usually say.”
Raeburn shrugged off his rebuttal. “Has your father come to you yet, about the portrait and auction?”
“No.”
“I wonder what the duke will say when he finds out about it?”
“With any luck, this one might finally kill the old bastard.”
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