Bending her head, she started to leave. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”
He swore again under his breath then took a couple of paces after her. “No, wait.”
His hand circled her arm. He hadn’t touched her since he’d lied about wanting her. Through the thin barrier of yellow silk, his fingers burned like flame.
Shocked, her gaze flew to his. She thought she caught equal astonishment in the golden eyes. Then he masked his expression and his hand dropped away as if he couldn’t bear to prolong the connection. He looked uncomfortable. “Mrs. Paget, forgive me. I’m in a filthy temper. Nothing’s gone right for three days.”
Her flesh tingled from his touch, brief as it had been. She hid the flash of hurt his persistent rejection aroused. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head and managed a rueful smile that she found far too beguiling. “No, I’m sorry. What do you want to talk about?”
Alone in the salon, she’d been sure she was right to accost him. Confronted with his lean strength, she was no longer so confident. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
She sucked in a deep breath then spoke in a rush. “I know you don’t want me here. I don’t want to be here either. Can’t we call a truce?”
He arched his eyebrows in perfect aristocratic hauteur. “I wasn’t aware there was a war.”
She felt her cursed color rising. With her fine, clear skin, she’d always been quick to blush. She thought she’d outgrown the habit. Apparently not, or at least not when she cornered supercilious noblemen.
Having come so far, she couldn’t back out now. She twined her hands together and plowed on. “You’d have to spend time in my company for us to engage in hostilities, my lord.”
Swift comprehension swept his striking features. “You pine for attention.”
She felt like stamping her foot. “No, I pine for something to do. I pine for normal interaction.”
“You’re imprisoned with a lunatic, Mrs. Paget. Normal interaction isn’t on offer.”
Yet again, he used his affliction to keep her at bay. The words lost more of their edge every time he used them. “There are two people in this cage. Doesn’t it make sense to try and be friends?”
His eyes closed. She supposed the prospect of friendship with a humble creature such as herself offended his sensibilities. After all, he was the great marquess and she was a poverty-stricken widow of no particular distinction, whatever grand setting she’d been born into.
“Friends?” he repeated faintly.
She resisted the urge to hit him with one of his flowerpots. “I realize the barriers of rank, my lord, but here we suffer a kind of equality, don’t you think?”
His brows contracted as if he were in pain. “As equal as a madman and a sane woman can be.”
She made a dismissive sound. “I give you leave to doubt my sanity, sir.” She looked around helplessly, searching for inspiration in the neat beds of leafless rose bushes. “I’m used to being busy. On the farm, I did most of the labor as well as nursed my husband. If you don’t want a friend, what about an assistant for your experiments?”
He looked surprised that she’d guessed his occupation. He looked unhappy that she insisted on his company. He looked resigned as if he recognized it was easier to relent. What he didn’t look was pleased to accept her help.
She told herself she didn’t mind. He was obviously inured to solitude. But another prickle of hurt jabbed at her.
As if to confirm his reluctance, he said, “The work’s unexciting. And uncomfortable and dirty for a lady.”
Good Lord, what did he think? That she was made of sugar?
“I assure you running a sheep farm was both unexciting and dirty.” She met his eyes with a challenge. “If I find my delicate temperament overset, I promise I’ll trot back to the house and never bother you again.”
He didn’t exactly smile but some of the tension drained from his expression. He’d looked brittle to the point of shattering when she’d come through the archway. “You’re an obstinate scrap of a female, aren’t you?”
Startling that the tragic marquess had it in him to tease her. But this was the first genuine amity he’d shown, so she let a smile touch her lips. “Not exactly a scrap.”
“No, perhaps not.”
Did she imagine that burnished gaze skimmed where her dress strained across her breasts? Her nipples tightened as if he’d touched them. Pray God, he didn’t notice.
Now, when it was too late, she wondered if demanding his company was wise.
Dear Jesus, she wanted to be friends. Friends. And she looked at him so sweetly, he couldn’t deny her, whatever his common sense screamed.
For three days, her nearness had driven Matthew mad, so mad that he’d feared a relapse. He’d struggled to stay away but nothing banished her from thoughts and dreams. Or stopped her presence permeating his haunts on the estate, places where he’d only known unbearable loneliness. Those lonely vigils seemed like lost paradise now Grace Paget had crashed into his stagnant existence like a boulder into a pond.
He spent as little time with her as he could, blocked her from all intimacy. Yet she was with him as he trudged unhappily around the woods. A single visit from her had shattered the hard-won peace he’d always found among his roses. Worst of all, she’d made the cottage hers in a way eleven years had never made it his.
How had she done it? She kept signs of her occupancy to a minimum. But the moment he crossed the threshold, the heady essence of Grace overwhelmed him.
The essence of Grace kindled desires he could never satisfy.
Every night, he lay awake and restless on that infernal sofa, knowing he only had to climb the stairs to fulfill every longing.
He had no right to climb those stairs. Grace was a virtuous woman imprisoned against her will. He couldn’t use her as his whore.
Grace Paget was permanently beyond his reach.
Rapacious desire gnawed at him. The sight of her, the scent of her, the sound of her—oh, Christ, the touch of her, the effects of that thoughtless clasp on her arm still hurtled through his veins—were worse torture than anything Monks or Filey had ever perpetrated.
He stared wordlessly down at the source of his anguish and his delight. His silent ineptitude probably terrified her. He was, after all, a madman.
Although her manner toward him was remarkably free of fear. Even harping on his insanity didn’t daunt her any more. Perhaps he should have tried harder to convince her he was dangerous. But after years of suffering real madness, he’d be damned before he assumed sham lunacy.
She stared up at him, her large eyes dark and questioning. Her breath emerged in soft huffs between her parted lips. Wanton color flushed those full lips.
He almost groaned. This awareness of every detail of another person was new. He resented it. He fought it. But he couldn’t block it.
“My lord?”
She sounded breathless. It was an effort not to let his attention stray to her bosom again. He’d relinquish his hope of heaven to cup her warmth in his hands.
“You’ll need a hat,” he said abruptly, noticing the sun already added a pink tinge to her pale skin.
She must have realized he’d surrendered because she smiled. His wayward heart gave a great thud of despair as her lips stretched over white teeth and her blue eyes glowed.
He’d only seen her smile once and not at him, but at Wolfram. The memory plagued him, kept him awake on his uncomfortable bed. Christ, how was he going to survive?
“Thank you.” She sounded far too glad to receive this small concession. Clearly, the lack of occupation chafed. She must be used to people and activity. A reminder of the barriers between them. Barriers he could never cross, however his soul wailed with misery in its cold wilderness.
Then the screws tightened further. She extended one slender hand in his direction. He stared down at her in horror.
As he hesitated, a frown shadowed her happiness and she starte
d to withdraw her hand. “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s habit. Whenever I made a bargain with another farmer, we always shook on the deal.”
Ungraciously, he thrust his hand out and clasped hers. The contact lasted a second. The contact lasted a century. Long enough to feel the roughness of calluses. She hadn’t exaggerated her familiarity with physical work. Again, he wondered about this woman with a duchess’s manner and a navvy’s hands.
Now they were friends—he silently damned the word—perhaps he’d find answers. And with every new secret he uncovered, it became more impossible to conceal his own dark secret. That he wanted her with every shred of his being and he had only his fragile honor to protect her.
The marquess really didn’t like her. She should leave him alone. But she was weak and she wanted to be with him. She promised herself she’d be as unobtrusive as possible. Silent helpmeet was a role she’d perfected for Josiah.
Grace lowered her head with familiar meekness and said softly, “I’ll go and put on something more suitable, my lord.”
“You do that.” He turned away as if he’d already dismissed her from his thoughts. Clearly, she was less important than all the vegetable matter around him.
Josiah had often accused her of vanity. If her dead husband could read the pique in her heart now, he’d know he was right. It was dangerous and sinful, but something in her begged the marquess to notice her as a woman, to admire her, to…desire her.
Then what, Grace? You were kidnapped to be his whore. Is that a part you want to play? Are you willing to embrace shame in return for pleasure?
And what makes you think he’ll offer pleasure? You know what men do to women. There’s precious little to entice you.
As she watched the marquess retreat, she admitted she was enticed. Very enticed indeed.
Five days in this place and already she questioned everything she believed about herself. She had to get away before the Grace Paget she’d created so painstakingly over the last nine years crumbled to nothing.
Troubled, she made her way back to the cottage.
“Eh, there you are, lass.”
Her churning thoughts had stopped her noticing Monks in front of the cottage. He wore his usual surly expression. For once, there was no sign of Filey.
“Mr. Monks,” she said warily. She hadn’t spoken to him since that horrible afternoon when he’d threatened to kill her. She took a shaky step back, ready to flee. “What do you want?”
“His lordship asks to see you.”
She frowned. “I’ve just left Lord Sheene.”
Monks gave a grunt of humor. “Not the pretty marquess. Lord John Lansdowne. And if you’ll take a word of advice for nowt, you won’t keep him waiting.”
In spite of the warning, she stared open-mouthed at him. Salvation arrived just when she gave up hope.
Surely when she told Lord John who she was, he’d let her go. She’d be free, free of this luxurious prison, free of danger, free of temptation.
“Well, take me to him.” She was unable to suppress the lilt of relief in her voice.
Monks glanced at her doubtfully but gestured for her to precede him inside. The unknown Lord John’s influence extended even to lending his unpleasant henchmen manners, it seemed. Grace hurried through to the salon where rescue awaited at last.
Chapter 7
“Here be the wench, your lordship,” Monks said with a bow, then left them.
Grace blinked as her eyes adjusted to the gloom after the bright sunshine. The room with its closed curtains was stuffy. For the first time, a fire burned in the grate, although it was a warm day.
A man sat almost unnaturally straight at the table where she and Lord Sheene took their meals. He wore a heavy brown wool coat. How could he bear the oppressive temperature?
She stepped forward and sank into the sweeping court curtsy she’d been taught as a girl. “My lord.”
He didn’t stand. As she rose, she met eyes of gelid gray in a long face. He bore a strong resemblance to his nephew although his features, while handsome, lacked Lord Sheene’s striking beauty.
From the marquess’s description, she’d expected a villain from a fairy story but this could be any well-to-do gentleman of her acquaintance. He was in his middle years with graying dark hair. Surely such a man couldn’t countenance kidnap, rape, and murder. He seemed to embody respectability. His manner expressed disdain, certainly. She was both a woman and his social inferior so that hardly counted as a mark of irredeemable evil.
She cursed the yellow dress that proclaimed her a whore. If only she’d worn the black bombazine. At least its shabby black supported her story.
“You are the doxy Monks and Filey found in Bristol?” His voice was deep and unexpectedly pleasant.
“My lord, I protest the description.” Instinct told her poised control would gain more headway than pathetic groveling. “My name is Grace Paget and I’m a virtuous widow. There’s been a grievous mistake. I throw myself upon your mercy.”
His eyebrows arched with surprise, she supposed at her cultivated accent. “Madam, this lie is absurd. My men said you were drumming up custom on the docks.”
He spoke as if Grace were lower than dung in the gutter. Her fleeting hope contracted into a hard knot of despair. Did she think he’d remedy the error the moment she identified herself? What made her imagine he’d even believe her? What an idiot she was. She’d find no easy salvation here. Lord John had ordered her abduction. Monks and Filey had told her so. Lord Sheene had told her so.
She struggled to keep her voice steady, although with every second, this quietly spoken man frightened her more than his minions ever had.
“I got lost seeking my cousin who had arranged to meet me off the mail coach.” With repetition, the tale became more threadbare than her widow’s weeds. “I beg you to restore me to my family.”
“This concoction could be an attempt to avoid an uncongenial client. Monks informs me you’ve yet to crawl into my nephew’s bed.”
Color rose in her cheeks at Lord John’s casual, contemptuous reference. “Surely if I were the sort of woman who…” She swallowed and tried again. “Surely, a woman off the streets wouldn’t hesitate to do your bidding.”
“Perhaps.” Frowning, he stared into the distance and tapped his fingers on the polished wood of the table.
The pause extended. And extended.
Eventually he focused on her with a disgruntled expression. “If what you say is correct, your presence is problematic. Monks was right to alert me to the difficulties.” He didn’t sound shocked, he sounded annoyed. He pointed to a chair opposite. “Please sit. Mrs. Paget, is it?”
She remained standing. Ignoring the fear prickling the back of her neck, she spoke with all the firmness she could muster. “I shall go and change into the clothes I arrived in. I’ve been missing nearly a week. My family will be concerned about my whereabouts.”
Lord John’s lips stretched in a humorless smile that reminded her sharply of the marquess at his most difficult. “They must continue to be concerned, my dear lady.”
Surely he knew he had no right to hold her as his nephew’s unwilling plaything. For all her poverty, she was a lady, deserving of his respect, his care. It was heinous enough that he’d planned to abduct a woman of easy virtue. To subject a female born to his own class to this treatment was unthinkable.
“I can’t stay here.” Dread and the airless room made her lightheaded. She curled her fingers over the back of the nearest chair for support. “Please let me go.”
He tilted his head to study her. His reptilian eyes slid over her and she fought the urge to shield her breasts.
“Out of the question, Mrs. Paget. You could bring charges of abduction against me.”
Her fingers clenched hard against the chair. “What if I give my word never to mention this house or what you’ve done?”
“Tempting, I’m sure.” She saw he didn’t mean it. “I find myself reluctant to rely on so fragile a prop as a female’s
promise.”
Her voice broke. “I’ll beg on my knees if I have to.”
Aristocratic displeasure crossed his face. “Histrionics will only extend this embarrassing scene.”
Inside her tight chest, her heart thudded the inexorable message that he’d never let her go, no matter how she cried and pleaded. “There must be something I can do. I don’t belong here.”
The disdain on his face hardened into ruthlessness. “Your life outside these gates matters not one whit, madam. Your fate was decided when my servants found you. The only way you’ll leave this estate is in a shroud.”
The gray stare was pitiless and unwavering. How could he threaten her with death and ruin and remain as emotionless as a monolith? In spite of the close atmosphere, she shivered as fear chilled her soul.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. Her heart drummed a frantic rhythm and breathing became a struggle.
“Don’t you?” His voice was calm. When she didn’t say anything, he went on with a hint of impatience. “Monks should have explained. If he failed to clarify your situation, my nephew should have exerted himself to outline your duties.”
Rage swept in and bolstered her faltering courage. “I am aware why I am here, my lord. But you must see I’m no whore.”
The man opposite made a slight moue of distaste. “You must learn to act one then, Mrs. Paget. I brought you here to entertain Lord Sheene. If you fail to gain his approval—as from all reports you have, I hear he goes out of his way to shun you—you are of no use.”
“Then let me go.”
His impatience became more marked. “Do you not listen, you tiresome young woman? Once your usefulness is over, so is your life. If my nephew finds you diverting, you live as his mistress until he wearies of you. If you cannot stomach a madman’s touch, your end comes without delay. I don’t store tools with no function.”
“He’s not mad,” she said in a thin voice, then wondered why, given all the threats she faced, defending the marquess should be her first response.
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