Grace, stop it! You’re in enough trouble as it is.
Heavens, she must regain self-control and quickly. The last thing she needed was an infatuation with her fellow captive. She hadn’t thought about a man touching her for pleasure in years. Certainly not since her marriage and the collapse of her girlish fantasies.
She stepped up to stand beside him. The window faced the darkening woods. The day had been clear. Now the first stars shone in the cloudless sky. It could have been a landscape by Claude, if one didn’t know an unscaleable wall circled the trees or two homicidal devils guarded the gate to this perilous Eden.
The silence allowed her to say something she was guiltily aware she should have said earlier. “Thank you, my lord. If you hadn’t come…”
“Don’t think about it.” He focused those uncanny eyes on her. Except that after a day and a half, she noticed their strangeness less and their beauty more.
“I can’t help it.” She’d been frightened and wretched for so long, even before her abduction. But nothing matched the horror that had gripped her when Monks stared into her face and promised rape and death. Compared to that, the mad marquess was a bastion of security. The clinging ghost of today’s panic made her speak more freely than usual. “You were magnificent.”
A bleak smile tilted his generous mouth. “Hardly.”
He swung away from the window. He clearly couldn’t bear standing so close to her. Perhaps her gaudy clothing disgusted him. She hitched at her amber silk gown’s neckline but it remained as provocative as when she’d put it on upstairs. A clashing pink sash cinched it around her waist but she hadn’t been able to fix the loose bodice.
She’d turned the bedroom upside down seeking her widow’s weeds. No black bombazine, but she’d found plenty of gowns to make a cyprian blush. She lacked nothing a whore required for her trade. Slippers dyed to match the tasteless dresses. Drawers full of filmy underwear such as she’d never seen, even in her days at Marlow Hall. A coffer overflowing with cheap jewelry. Boxes of cosmetics.
She’d also found a chest of the marquess’s clothes.
There was something unbearably intimate, almost marital, in having his personal belongings under her hand. As if he could pop in at any time to select tonight’s shirt or neckcloth. She’d quickly slammed the lid down on the neatly folded attire. The idea of him making free of her bedroom wasn’t quite so easy to shut away.
After a long search, this tent of a dress was the best she’d come up with. It threatened to slide off into a slippery pile, leaving her clad in only her shift. She could just imagine how the marquess would turn his well-bred nose up at that.
Why should she care for his approval? They were strangers flung together in an impossible situation. Whether he liked her was irrelevant. Already she spent too much time thinking of him in ways she shouldn’t.
Running the farm, she’d dealt with men from dawn to dusk. Workmen, farmers, tradesmen, merchants. She was used to men. Why was she in such a flutter over this particular one?
She took a deep breath, smoothed her voluminous skirts and turned to find him pouring two glasses of wine. Still keeping his distance, he extended one toward her. “Do you want to tell me again how you came here? I dismissed your earlier explanations as lies cooked up with my uncle’s conniving.”
She stared into his face, automatically noting its pleasing arrangement of planes and angles. This…relationship between them might be simpler if he were less physically compelling. The impact of his appearance was distracting, dangerous, frightening.
His gaze remained intent upon her. “Unless you’d rather not speak of your ordeal.” He gestured her toward the sofa.
“Thank you.” She sat down, watching him take his place on a chair opposite. It was all so civilized, she had to remind herself they weren’t in a London drawing room.
Would he seem so extraordinary if she’d met him out in the world? Through her churning tempest of emotion, a voice insisted she’d notice his quality anywhere.
As she glanced across to where he lounged like a decadent dark-haired angel against the tapestry chair, she felt curiosity but no apprehension. This evening, he looked fearsomely elegant, the complete aristocrat. Even someone as woefully out of touch with fashion as she could see his black superfine coat had cost a fortune. It fit him with the smoothness and ease only the best tailoring gave. The splendor daunted a woman who had lived in poverty for so long. She felt at a distinct disadvantage in her ill-fitting harlot’s costume.
She took a deep breath to quiet her nerves. “My lord, I’m a widow from a farm near Ripon in Yorkshire.”
He still watched her. She should be used to that by now. But a scurry of awareness up her spine told her she was far from indifferent to that unwavering gold stare.
His gaze dipped into her gaping cleavage before he looked away with a tight expression. Dear Lord, he couldn’t think she meant to entice him, could he? No wonder she aroused his disgust.
“Ripon is a long way from Somerset,” he said neutrally. “The other end of the country.”
“I know, but…financial necessity forced me to accept a home with my cousin who is a vicar near Bristol.” Because her pride smarted at admitting her indigence, she went on quickly. “Vere didn’t arrive as arranged. I waited and waited and still he didn’t come. So I went looking for him.”
“And in the process ran into Monks and Filey. You were unlucky.”
Unlucky. Such a paltry word to describe the disaster she’d tumbled into.
“Yes. And stupid.” Looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d accepted their company so easily. “It will sound absurd, but I heard their voices and the sound reminded me of home.” To hide her disintegrating composure, she sipped at her wine.
As the marquess toyed with his glass, light caught the rich red depths of the claret. He’d hardly drunk at all. She’d already noticed his abstemious habits.
He glanced up at her from under his slashing brows. “How long have you been widowed?”
Turning her head, she blinked away tears. “A month.” She paused to strive for composure. “Five weeks on Thursday.”
She looked back swiftly enough to catch the anger that contorted the marquess’s face.
“Sweet Jesus, you’ve hardly had time to mourn your loss before my damned uncle dragged you into this catastrophe.” Burning gold eyes focused on her. Yet she shivered under their heat as though an icy wind howled around her. “When he broached this appalling scheme, I knew he’d moved beyond all restraint. He should be put down like a rabid dog.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said helplessly, sensing the guilt that underlay his outburst.
“Yes, it is,” he said bitterly. “I should have died years ago, when I first fell ill.”
“No.” Why did the idea of his death cut so deeply? “Never say that.”
His eyes sharpened on her. “Do you have children?”
She found herself blushing and stammering as if he’d made an improper suggestion. “No, we didn’t…We never…We couldn’t…” She sucked in a breath as old sorrow rose to choke her. “No.”
She waited for the inquisition. Country folk had no qualms about discussing reproduction, animal or human. She was used to people prying into her barrenness. Not that familiarity made the questions easier.
Lord Sheene merely nodded and rose to disentangle the glass from her deathly grip before she tipped claret over her awful gown. “Mrs. Filey’s dinner grows cold.”
Again he served her. Chicken in brandy cream sauce. Fresh vegetables. A beef and mushroom pie that smelled like heaven when the marquess placed it before her. How unlikely that slimy Filey had a wife capable of creating this feast.
No more unlikely, she supposed, than that prim Grace Paget should be mistaken for a whore.
The reminder erased the brief well-being provided by fine wine and good food. “My lord, I’m the victim of a misunderstanding. Surely your uncle will release me once he realizes I’m a respectable wo
man.”
Not so respectable, a sly voice whispered inside her. Your husband lies dead just five weeks, yet here you slaver over the marquess.
Lord Sheene frowned and laid his knife and fork on his plate. Yet again, she noticed he lacked appetite for the sumptuous fare. “Mrs. Paget, I’m afraid it’s you who misunderstands. After this afternoon, you must realize your circumstances are hopeless.”
Grace set down her own cutlery with much less finesse than the marquess. “Sir, for nine years, people have informed me my circumstances are hopeless. I didn’t believe them and I certainly don’t believe you.”
A humorless smile curled his lips. How would he look if he smiled properly, without restraint, with genuine joy? Her heart gave a strange stutter at the thought.
“That’s very commendable, madam, but I’m afraid reality has finally caught up with you. Hopelessness is the essence of life here.”
“I don’t accept that.”
“You will.”
He sounded so sure. The food she’d eaten congealed into a cold lump in her stomach. With shaking hands she reached for her glass. “There has to be a way out,” she said unsteadily, lifting her wine, then replacing it before she spilled it.
“If there is, I’ve never found it.” Fierce pity lit his eyes.
“Perhaps if I speak to your uncle…”
The grim smile still hovered. “You belong to this secret kingdom now. Once that happens, there’s no escape.”
“But you believe my story, don’t you?” For some reason, his faith in her was vitally important.
He studied the cooling food before him as if seeking the best way to offer a denial. But when he looked up again, his gaze didn’t waver. “Yes, I believe you.”
Grace relaxed slightly. “Thank you.”
“Virtuous woman or not, you cannot leave.” He paused then spoke in a low voice laden with emphasis. “Let me assure you, Mrs. Paget, I swore to my uncle I wouldn’t lay a finger on any woman he found. That’s as true for the grieving widow as it is for the harlot.”
She should be grateful to hear that. But the tangled skein of emotion within her permitted no such uncomplicated reaction.
He frowned at her silence. “You have my word. I know you don’t trust me. There’s no reason you should.”
Actually, she did trust him. Which probably meant she was as mad as he. So far, he’d done nothing but help and protect her. Even when convinced she conspired against him, he hadn’t hurt her.
And he’d saved her from Monks and Filey by lying, even though the lie played right into his uncle’s hands. She already guessed that if the marquess used her body, he somehow ceded victory to the unknown Lord John. There were longstanding tensions and currents here she couldn’t hope to understand. It was clear Lord Sheene and his uncle engaged in a war. Lord John had tossed her over into the marquess’s lines like a grenado primed to explode.
Her hand trembled as she lifted her napkin to her mouth. “I find I am a little tired.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Paget. Sleep well.” He inclined his head and candlelight glanced across the shining black wing of hair. The breath stuck in her throat. He was so beautiful. And so hurt. He made her want to cry.
He rose when she left, as if she were a lady and not his unwilling whore. For that’s what she was, whether he chose to avail himself of her services or not.
Only as Grace lay awake—and alone—in the great bed upstairs did she acknowledge the feeling that burned her like acid. Not fear. Not anger. Not desperation. Although all those emotions seethed endlessly inside her.
When the marquess had sworn he wouldn’t touch her, her principal reaction had been aching disappointment.
Chapter 6
Lord Sheene’s acceptance of Grace’s story should have eased their interactions. That, and his stated intention not to touch her. But after three days, she was near screaming with the tension that thickened the air, a tension that lay strangely separate from her perpetual fear of her jailers. A tension based on how her pulse surged when she saw the marquess, heard the marquess. Heaven help her, even thought about the marquess.
Grace told herself to ignore his lordship the way he ignored her. He made no secret of his lack of interest. No matter how early she rose, he was always gone from the house. Unless she’d known better, she’d think he’d left. If every day didn’t convince her he’d been right to dismiss any chance of escape.
They still met for dinner. But her attempts at conversation led nowhere. What could one speak to a madman about? Even if she was increasingly sure that, for all his reticence, his wits were in perfect working order.
Last night, she’d allowed him to guide the conversation. Silence begat more silence and she went to her bed after speaking only the few words politeness required. Good evening, my lord. Thank you, my lord. Goodnight, my lord.
Yet despite his unhidden reluctance for her company, she itched to be with him. Only in his vicinity did she quiet the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
From her place on the sofa, she surveyed the stuffed bookcases lining the salon. Josiah had been an unsuccessful bookseller before he became an unsuccessful farmer. She knew to the penny what a fortune all this gold-embossed Moroccan leather and creamy paper constituted.
Grace put down the novel she’d hardly glanced at through the afternoon. The marquess must be a committed reader. Books in several languages and on hundreds of topics surrounded her. Unlike other libraries she’d seen, these books had been read, some many times over if creases on the bindings spoke true.
He was a great annotator. She sought out books he’d made notes in, although she was horrified that anyone would scribble over such fine volumes. The comments gave her some clue to his character, clues his continual absence kept to a minimum.
She’d also been through his desk, an unforgivable breach of privacy, but she was too desperate to contain her curiosity. She’d found letters from Lord John Lansdowne, short, curt, discreet, unless one knew what occurred on this enclosed estate.
More interesting had been drafts of articles in English, French, and Latin by someone called Rhodon. She assumed Rhodon was the marquess. Correspondence from editors of learned journals throughout Europe. Admiring notes from fellow scientists. Figures and notations that made little sense to her. Packages of papers forwarded from a London solicitor. Rhodon communicated via intermediaries with his intellectual cronies. She’d even found volumes of what at first she triumphantly decided were diaries. They’d turned out to be meticulously kept records of botanical experiments.
The marquess’s writing was clear and beautiful. Not at all how she imagined the jottings of a madman.
She excused her behavior by saying it was perfectly natural to pry. He was the only other denizen of this well-appointed hell and she was at his mercy.
But she admitted in her heart she was obsessed with the marquess. Did he avoid her because he sensed her unhealthy interest? No virtuous woman should be so physically aware of a man who wasn’t her husband. He was young and beautiful and she’d been trapped for months in a world of decay and death. Her blood warmed at the sight of a strong hand reaching for a wine glass. A hand that didn’t shake, a hand unmarred with the brown stains of old age.
She sighed, impatient with herself. She could pursue evidence in margins like a hunter tracking deer through a thicket. Or she could try and catch her quarry in the open. The sun shone, the day was fresh and she was sick to death of her own edgy company. Perhaps if she spent more time with him, the mad marquess would lose his fascination and become just another man.
Perhaps.
As she rose, she straightened her shoulders the way her brother Philip always had before a fencing lesson. Lessons the young Grace would sneak into the ballroom to watch. The memory of her glittering older brother brought the usual grief. Even though it was two years since she’d learned of his death, she still hardly believed all that shining promise lay in cold earth.
No more sorrow. It was tim
e to act. “En garde, my lord,” she whispered, and left to face her enigmatic opponent.
Grace found the marquess holed up with his roses. He had his back to her and did something abstruse with what looked to her uneducated eyes like a dead stick.
“What do you want?” he growled without glancing up. How did he know she hovered in the brick archway behind him? She wiped her damp palms on the skirts of her garish yellow gown. She’d been busy with needle and thread so at least this dress fitted, even if it was too tight across the bosom. Mrs. Filey had returned the black bombazine but in this warm weather, it itched.
Determined to start as she meant to proceed, she raised her chin. “A charming greeting, my lord.”
He still didn’t turn, but the long muscles of his back tensed under his loose white shirt. “I’m occupied, madam. Perhaps whatever it is can wait until dinner.”
“Yes, it probably could, but I’ll have lost my nerve by then,” she muttered, hoping he wouldn’t hear. But his hearing, like all his other senses from what she could tell, was preternaturally sharp.
“Well, all right, say what…” There was a pause, a sharp crack, then, “Damnation!”
She flushed at his language but didn’t retreat. “You should know by now swearing at me won’t chase me off.”
At last he faced her. As she’d expected, his expression was stiff with well-bred annoyance. At such times, she had no difficulty picturing him as the haughty cynosure of society. “I’ve just wasted three hours’ work.”
“What?” Her attention fell to what he held. The dead stick was now two dead sticks. She raised mortified eyes to his. “I’m so sorry.”
He met her gaze and she wondered what he was thinking. Then his lips twisted in a grimace and he tossed the sticks onto his rubbish pile. “Hell, what does it matter? It isn’t as if I haven’t time to do it again. Time is all I’ve got in this bloody cage.”
The glimpse into his torment sent black shame swirling through her. She bit her lip. What right had she to badger him like a child demanding an adult’s notice? He didn’t owe her anything.
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