Untouched

by Anna Campbell

  He gave a grim laugh as he led her under the archway and into the woods. Wolfram stood, stretched, and trotted after them. “Greed. As basic and banal as that.”

  After the gothic horrors she’d faced, she’d expected some convoluted history of family enmity. “Greed for what?”

  “Money, of course. When my parents died, Lord John was named guardian. He’s run the Lansdowne interests ever since. For a younger son whose fortune was only respectable, the sudden wealth was dazzling. When I reached my majority, he was set to lose it all.”

  “But you fell ill.” Her fingers tightened on his arm.

  “No, I lost my mind,” he said with sudden harshness. He was tense under her touch. “When I was fourteen, I went mad.”

  “You’re not mad now,” she insisted. “You haven’t suffered an episode in seven years.”

  “Every year, my uncle sends two doctors to examine me. They confirm I’m unfit to govern myself and, more significantly, my inheritance.”

  “Lord John must pay them.”

  The sourness left his expression and he gave a short but genuine laugh. The sound rustled through her like a warm wind. “Mrs. Paget, your cynicism threatens to outstrip mine.”

  She didn’t smile. “Your uncle took little trouble to hide his true nature.”

  He sighed and turned onto a path Grace had followed just after she arrived. When she’d been terrified of the man with the frightening eyes. How long ago that seemed. Yet it was only a few days.

  “While I’m alive and confined, my uncle plays the man of importance.”

  The word alive struck her. “And if you die?”

  “The title goes to my cousin Hector. If he meets his maker, a string of younger brothers line up for the marquessate. My father produced one sickly descendant and Lord John has thrown only girls, four of them. Uncle Charles hatched a brood of six husky boys before he broke his neck in a hunting accident.”

  “And Lord John returns to being merely a younger son.” Her fingers clenched in his sleeve. How could he bear what his uncle did to him? Her belly cramped on a surge of futile rage. “He wants you healthy but under his control? Like an animal in a menagerie? It’s obscene.”

  “Yes, Grace, it’s obscene,” he said in a flat tone.

  “And he thought if he got you a woman…”

  “I’d accept imprisonment.”

  The ruthlessness stole her breath. She stopped and looked searchingly up into Lord Sheene’s face. She’d always found his features compelling, even when she’d been half-unconscious with dread and laudanum.

  Now she saw so much more. Courage that battled for health and competence. Strength to resist his uncle’s machinations. Honor, so when his freedom brought harm to others, he resigned himself to imprisonment.

  “My uncle thinks to use you to control me,” he said quietly.

  At that moment, she realized he was determined never to take her. If he came to her bed, he betrayed his deepest principles. She was safe.

  And her safety meant she was lost.

  What was she to do? Subvert the integrity that sustained him? Or save herself?

  She abhorred the choice she must make.

  He ran his hand through his hair. She fought the urge to reach up and smooth that silky darkness. The need to touch him fermented in her blood but she couldn’t surrender to it. She bent her head so the brim of her hat concealed the lust she knew must shine in her eyes.

  “No more dark talk. Are you interested in plants, Grace?” He seemed to like saying her name. She wondered why. When she looked up, he appeared boyish, diffident. It reminded her he wasn’t so very old. Neither was she, she acknowledged, as wayward excitement fizzed through her veins.

  “I’ve never had the chance to find out.” Growing up, she’d learned a lady’s arts, including floral illustration. Another subject to master before she caught herself a husband. Well, she’d caught herself a husband but not the one she’d been groomed for. Since her marriage, she’d been too busy keeping food in her stomach and a roof over her head to worry about much else.

  “Orchids grow in the wood, if you’d like to see them.”

  His smile for once contained no bitterness. Its sweetness surprised her, enticed her. She found herself agreeing to search for wildflowers. He could ask her to paint the sky or dig for hen’s teeth and she’d say yes.

  Grace left the marquess downstairs before dinner. Foolishly, she wished she had something of her own choosing to wear, like the silks that had crowded her wardrobe at Marlow Hall. For nine years, she’d muffled her feminine vanity. Now she wanted to look beautiful for a man.

  Beautiful for a man….

  Troubled eyes met her reflection in the cheval glass. Her life hung by a thread. The man she wanted was trapped, tormented, and possibly insane. This wasn’t a bucolic flirtation. This was a nightmare of coercion and violence.

  If she ever forgot that, she was doomed.

  She was doomed anyway.

  Her attention fell on the bed behind her and for the first time, she noticed the letter lying on the cover. She turned from the mirror with a shiver and went across to pick it up. There was no name on it but it had to be for her, just as she already knew it had to be from Lord John.

  The seal was an eagle under a crown. That must be the Lansdowne badge. Yet again, the ghost of her brother’s dead hawk worried at her.

  The thick paper crackled as she tore the letter open. There was one word in slashing writing.

  Saturday.

  Lord John felt a need to confirm his threat. He underestimated how convincing he’d been. She’d never doubted he meant every horrible promise.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, crumpling the message into a ball and flinging it to the floor. She smothered a sob and sank down onto the bed, hiding her face in her hands.

  There was no escape.

  She couldn’t do this.

  She had to do this.

  She rose on trembling legs, hating Josiah for leaving her alone and vulnerable, hating Vere for letting her down, hating Lord John for his greed and callousness.

  Above all, she hated herself.

  Tonight, she’d betray the marquess. And force him to betray himself. She was no better than his grasping uncle.

  She was worse. For she recognized how exceptional Lord Sheene was. The long afternoon with its confidences and companionship had only confirmed his extraordinary quality. He was a man who in other circumstances and at another time she might have loved.

  Yet still she meant to ruin him.

  Chapter 10

  Matthew woke instantly, then realized that to wake, he must have slept. In spite of the couch’s incommodious design. In spite of unreliable sleep proving more elusive than ever over recent days. In spite of Grace Paget’s presence in the house torturing him on a rack of endless desire.

  The room was dark. The unusual run of fine weather had ended at sunset and rain spattered against the windows. It had drummed on the roof during an unexpectedly silent dinner. Mrs. Paget—Grace—had been with him all day and her presence had warmed his soul. But she’d remained withdrawn throughout the meal.

  Who could blame her? His story must convince her she’d never escape. Yet he mourned her retreat from brief affinity. For one day, she’d been everything he desired in a companion. Intelligent. Sympathetic. Knowledgeable.

  Beautiful.

  He couldn’t deceive himself that all he wanted was friendship. But friendship, by God, was something. If he could resign himself to captivity, he could resign himself to keeping her at a distance.

  One day. Maybe in a thousand years.

  Never.

  Now Grace hovered in the open doorway.

  He was surprised to see her. And dismayed. The electric darkness whispered of all the things he wanted to do to her. He prayed she stayed where she was. If she came any closer, he didn’t trust himself.

  “What is it, Grace?” he asked in concern, sitting up. “Are you ill?”

  “No.”<
br />
  The almost inaudible syllable didn’t reassure. He stood and reached for his clothes, close to hand since last night. “Let me light a candle,” he said, fumbling for his shirt.

  “No.” This time with more force. He heard her inhale, the sound rasping like a file over his taut nerves.

  “Grace?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said brokenly.

  With a cracked sob, she launched herself in his direction. A warm fragrant bundle of femininity landed hard against him. Automatically, his arms closed around her, his shirt dangling uselessly from one hand.

  She was slender and trembling in his grasp and sweeter even than he’d imagined. While he told himself to let her go, his grip firmed, dragged her closer.

  “What…” he managed to say before she clutched the sides of his head and tugged him down with clumsy force.

  “Forgive me,” she said, the words muffled. Then her lips, hot and taut with purpose, jammed against his.

  The world outside the embrace stopped. His mind ceased to function. His body began to function too well.

  She wore the sheer nightdress. He wore nothing at all. Only a flimsy layer of material separated them. His skin burned where it touched hers and he hardened in immediate response. Her womanly scent filled his head. Her heat filled his arms.

  Before he could stop himself, he tightened his hold so her lush breasts flattened upon his bare chest. His shirt fell disregarded to the floor as his hand shaped the sinuous indentation of her waist.

  She gave a whimpered protest and tore her closed mouth from his. The kiss had been too brief to justify the name. But even such brutal, fleeting contact inflamed his starved senses. He wanted her mouth on him again. He wanted time to discover her taste.

  “Kiss me,” she said unsteadily, her fingers kneading the muscles of his arms.

  Keeping his hands off her was difficult enough when she maintained a decorous distance. Now he found it impossible. Her warmth eddied out to lure him closer until he forgot everything but pleasure.

  He moved his hands to her shoulders, as much to contain his own rioting reactions as to hold her off. What little he’d learned about the shape of her, the curves and dips and valleys of her body, scorched his mind, urged him to discover more. But he wasn’t totally lost to passion, although he wavered on the brink.

  “We can’t do this.” Regret laced each word he wrested from his tight throat.

  Her shuddering inhalation pressed her breasts into his chest. He gritted his teeth and struggled to stop his hands slipping down to weigh and touch and explore.

  “I have to,” she said hoarsely.

  Even in his overexcited state, that response seemed odd. A voice demanding caution screamed at the back of his mind. “God, Grace…”

  She clasped his head in her cool slender hands. “Kiss me.”

  The brief flash of clarity evaporated. Under his hands, she stretched up. For one incendiary moment, her mouth clung to his. The intimacy was astonishing. His unruly cock swelled and lifted. Her lips were so soft, like warm satin. Experimentally, he made a slight sucking movement. A shiver ran through her and the fingers clutching his arms dug into his flesh almost to the bone.

  He stopped. He must be doing this wrong.

  His heart overflowing with self-disgust, he waited for her to recoil from his boorishness. But with a cry, she pitched herself after him as if even that much separation was too much. His hands slid to her back, gathering her closer.

  He rubbed his lips across hers. She opened slightly so he drew in her breath. He inhaled, instinctively parting to taste her moisture. She gave another choked sound. Of distress or pleasure, he couldn’t tell.

  She pushed herself so violently against him that they reeled onto the couch. As her delicious weight landed on top of him, the kiss broke. Her nightdress rode up and one of his hands brushed the curve of her buttock. Her bare buttock.

  The feel of her naked skin nearly shattered him. He surged up in a frenzied search for relief. She surrounded him, all hot flesh and seeking hands. She touched him with hectic, clinging strokes as if afraid he’d disappear.

  Something was wrong. His dreams couldn’t be so mistaken. This wasn’t how he’d imagined their embraces.

  In a thousand secret fantasies, he’d held her close, he’d kissed and caressed her, he’d thrust inside her. She’d been soft and yielding. She’d relished his possession.

  The woman in his arms was stiff with tension and she shook as though in the grip of fever.

  He rose on his elbows to kiss her again, then paused. His misgivings roared. He couldn’t ignore them any longer. He fell back to lie beneath her and his hands dropped to his sides.

  “Grace, why are you here?” he asked sharply, clenching his fists so he didn’t snatch what she offered and let consequences be damned.

  She scattered kisses across his bare chest. Desperate kisses. Just as her hands were desperate. Her fingers hooked into his biceps like talons and she fumbled to bring his arms around her again.

  “Don’t talk,” she gasped. She raised her head and he felt her eyes burn him through the darkness. “Kiss me. Kiss me properly.”

  She plastered herself across him as if force alone kept him with her, as if she expected him to fight her off. She smashed her open mouth against his, hard enough to bruise. He tasted blood and fear. He lifted an unsteady hand to her cheek to calm her wildness.

  Her face was drenched with tears.

  “Jesus!”

  He shoved at her and jerked into a sitting position at the far end of the sofa. She tumbled away with a cry then crawled after him until she straddled his legs. He would have read eagerness in her touch, if not for those betraying tears against his fingers.

  Christ, this turned his sensual visions into distorted nightmare. In those visions, she’d panted with desire, not cried as if her heart broke. He struggled to rein in the lust rampaging through his veins. He wanted her more than life. But not like this. Never like this.

  “Stop,” he grated.

  “I will make you take me,” she said breathlessly. She rested back on her heels so she bumped the arm of the sofa behind her. With ungainly movements so different from her usual fluid grace, she tugged the nightdress over her head and threw it to the floor.

  “Jesus…” he said again on a low hiss and closed his eyes.

  Too late. Even through the darkness, the image of her seared his brain like fire. The glimmer of white flesh, the full high breasts with their darker nipples, the pool of shadow where her legs met.

  “Stop it, Grace,” he said while the devil inside him shrieked to take her, take her.

  Her pale thighs braced his legs as she slid toward him. Her position was excruciatingly suggestive. She paused at a point where if she moved the slightest inch, he’d be inside her. He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt.

  “I have to do this.”

  He heard the despair in her voice. Her shaking hand grazed his erection. Christ, she’d kill him before she finished. Through the fireworks shooting through his head, he heard her shocked inhalation.

  She snatched her hand away. “You want me,” she whispered as if even with unmistakable physical evidence, she still didn’t believe it.

  Matthew’s control shredded. With a roughness he couldn’t help, he thrust her aside so she bounced against the upholstery. He scrambled to his feet.

  “Of course I bloody want you,” he growled. “God, where the hell did you put your damned clothes?”

  He scrabbled for her nightdress but when his hand alighted on a garment, it was his shirt. It would have to do.

  “Here, put this on.” He thrust the garment at her, then grabbed his trousers and tugged them up. Without looking at her—if he looked at her, his fragile resolution would crumble—he stalked to the desk and lit a candle with hands he could barely control.

  Only then did he face her. And wished to God he’d marched out of the room instead. She was in such a state that even so simple a matter as pulling his
shirt over her head took far too long. As the loose folds of linen tumbled over her smooth white flesh, his cock strained painfully against his trousers.

  Her head drooped on her slender neck and her body formed a despairing curve. Untidy tendrils of hair clung to her damp face. One long tress escaped her plait and snaked down to disappear under his shirt. How his hand itched to follow that shining black line. He clenched hard on the desk behind him to block turning the wish into reality.

  The only sounds in the room were her rasping sobs and the patter of rain against the windows. She knelt on the sofa, struggling for breath so his shirt heaved over her breasts. Breasts he now knew were round and white and tipped with small, perfect nipples. Another bolt of desire slammed him and left him shaking.

  “Why did you kiss me, Grace?” he snarled.

  Tears streaked her wan face as she looked up at him. “I want you to take me,” she said flatly.

  “No, you don’t,” he said with an absolute certainty he wished to hell he didn’t feel.

  “If you want me, why don’t you take me?” Her bewilderment cut to his heart.

  Because you don’t want me the way I want you, damn it.

  “You know why. It’s dishonor for you. And for me.”

  “I don’t care about dishonor.” The same toneless voice. New tears flowed down her cheeks. Her throat moved as she swallowed nervously.

  She was frightened.

  His heart contracted in anguished denial. “Grace, I’d never hurt you. There’s no need to fear me.”

  Horror dawned in her eyes and she shook her head vehemently. “I’m not afraid of you.” A blush tinted her cheeks as she looked away. “Or perhaps only a little.”

  Of course he scared her. His desire had been immediate and flagrant. And was still rampant, as a married woman would know, although so far she’d studiously fixed her attention above his waist.

  “Then what is it?” He gripped the desk like a shipwrecked sailor gripped a broken spar in a stormy ocean.

  Her hands twined in her lap with restless distress. “This was wrong. I shouldn’t have come to you. I’m sorry.”

  He couldn’t help himself. Her misery called more strongly than his sense of self-preservation. He shoved himself away from the desk and took the three strides that brought him to the sofa. “Grace, just tell me.”