Sinful. Charlotte Featherstone

College Hospital. At first, she had been horrified by what she witnessed night after night. The beatings, the diseases, the air of hopelessness. But Jane had grown in strength these past twelve months, learning more about herself and human nature than she ever thought possible. The human soul was an amazing thing; the willpower to survive, humbling. The capacity to love, frightening.

      She, herself, had never loved—not a passionate love. Of course she felt love for Lady Blackwood who had saved her from the streets and given her a life. But that was a different kind of love—a familial one. Sometimes, Jane would watch the other nurses with the male patients, flirting and flaunting themselves. She was no fool; she knew what went on in certain wards. She had been no stranger to the baseness of men. She had seen prostitutes with their clients. She knew of the acts. Knew that sex could be pleasurable. But what she had never been able to understand was how a passionate connection could be forged between two people. A connection that went beyond the few minutes that sex provided.

      Perhaps there was something wrong in her makeup. Some flaw that prevented her from warmth of feeling. It was not that she hadn’t longed for that sentiment, or yearned to discover what sex was all about, it was just that she had never felt moved enough by a man to embark upon the journey that might very well enlighten her about the aspects of pleasure and passion.

      She was old by the standards of the day. Twenty-seven, to be precise. She had been kissed only once, and it had left a lackluster feeling inside her. Of course, being a lady’s companion by day and a nurse by night did not exactly bring about ardent suitors. It didn’t help that most found her shy and plain, two facts that Jane had never bothered to worry over. She could not help the way she was born. She would be lying, of course, if she said she hadn’t questioned why she had not been born with her mother’s beauty. Her mother, despite being born in the stews, had managed to capture the notice of an earl’s son, who decided right then and there that she must be his mistress. That aristocrat had been Jane’s father. Homely though he was, he had been a prize for someone like Lucy Rankin. But their life had taken a horrible spiral downward when Jane was six and her father had married another. Lucy had still been his mistress, but his visits were less and less frequent, and Jane had been forced to watch her mother’s beauty, as well her spirit, decline. When her father had kicked them both onto the street without anything to live on, or a roof over their heads, Jane, at the tender age of seven, had made her first promise to herself. And that was, never be a mistress, and never allow a man to dictate your life or your happiness.

      At twenty-seven, she was proud to say she had upheld that promise, and without any regrets. Still, she would be a liar if she refused to admit to at least herself, that there had been the occasional time, lying in her bed, that she found herself wondering what it would be like to share a bed and her body with a man.

      “How is the consumptive child who arrived tonight?”

      The whispered voice drifted over her shoulder, pulling her out of the unwanted, yet haunting, reminders of her past and the eager yearnings that had recently begun to plague her. Turning, Jane held the lantern aloft, illuminating the intelligent face of Dr. Inglebright, the younger. Dr. Inglebright, the senior, was a crusty old bear, with a wrinkled face and a deep mistrust of the new phenomenon of nurses. Inglebright, the younger, was a man with a kind smile, and gray eyes full of genuine concern—and respect.

      “She sleeps at last, sir. Although her breathing is not so easy.”

      “Give her a quarter dram of laudanum then.”

      “Yes, Doctor,” she murmured, unable to look into his eyes. For the past month, Dr. Inglebright had been looking at her most queerly, and it made her insides turn inside out. Why, she didn’t know. She only knew that her response to the presence of Richard Inglebright had dramatically changed over the course of the year that he had taken her under his wing, teaching her about medicine, and showing her how to care for the ill. Perhaps it was only gratitude. After all, without Richard, she would never have had an opportunity to become a nurse. Mayhap it was friendship. They did talk very easily and freely between themselves.

      “How is Lady Blackwood?” he asked, concern evident in his eyes. “I wanted to stop by this morning, but I found myself engaged in sewing up a young lad after removing his appendix.”

      Richard Inglebright was far more dedicated to the pursuit of healing than his father. If she had any say at all, she would, without batting an eyelash, request the younger Inglebright, despite the fact that his father was very often called to care for the elite of the city. It was episodes such as these, Richard staying on after his shift to care for others, that endeared him to Jane.

      “You must be utterly exhausted,” she said with concern. “You performed four surgeries last night.”

      Inglebright’s eyes flashed. “Your concern warms me,” he murmured in a deep voice that flustered her and made her look away. “No one cares about my needs like you do, Jane.”

      The statement felt far too familiar, and Jane, unsure of herself around men, did the only thing she could—she retreated behind her veil of coolness.

      “As you inquired, Lady Blackwood is very well,” she said, stumbling to get their conversation on a safe course. “That tincture you sent for her has helped immensely with her arthritis.”

      He smiled, making Jane wonder if he was laughing at her. “Good, good,” he mumbled, his gaze traveling over her face and the white apron she used to cover her gown with. “You do credit to her, Jane. I know of few lady’s companions who would deign to become a nurse.”

      “You give me too much credit, sir. You know very well I came to the hospital to work off my, as well as Lady Blackwood’s, mounting debt to your father.”

      His smile softened as he pressed in closer to her. “But you didn’t have to stay once it was repaid.”

      A little frisson of excitement snaked along her spine at his closeness. It was most improper how close they were standing. “I found I liked helping the ill. And what is closer to the truth, I saw it as a means for future employment. We both know that Lady Blackwood will not be with me forever. And where would I go? There is not another Lady Blackwood out there who would overlook my pedigree and bring me into her home to act as companion.”

      “There are many that would overlook your upbringing, Jane.” His smile was like a full kiss on the lips. Jane felt it in every cell of her being.

      “Doc, we’ve got somethin’ fer ye.”

      Irritation flickered in his eyes, and Jane held the lantern higher. The annoyance swiftly passed as he saw two burly night men carrying in the body of what looked to be an unconscious man. A rather large man, Jane thought.

      “’E’s bleedin’, he is. Head’s mashed to bits.”

      “My theatre,” Richard commanded, taking charge. “Jane, wash your hands and assist me.”

      “Yes,” she said, obeying him with a slight curtsy. She ran to the end of the ward where a porcelain sink and a pitcher of clean, soapy water awaited her.

      Pouring the now-tepid water over her hands, she rubbed her palms together, using friction to clean between her fingers and beneath her nails. Richard was fastidious about washing, a fact his father laughed about. But Jane had noticed over the months here that Richard’s patients had less wound infections than those of his father.

      Drying her hands on a clean towel, Jane walked briskly to the wooden doors that swung open. The hem of her black gown was swishing around her legs, the starched white apron itching against her neck, which had started to perspire. It was not fear that made her sweat, but excitement.

      “We have a significant head wound, Jane,” Richard announced as she entered the room where Richard performed his operations. “And perhaps some broken bones.”

      Richard’s hands, covered in blood, searched through the tumble of black hair on the man’s head.

      “’E’s a rich cove, ’e is,” the burliest of the night men said. “Look at ’is clothes and that waistcoat.”

      “Never