Untouched (8 page)

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.

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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.”

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“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 woman.”

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

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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 agrenado 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.

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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 calledRhodon. She

assumedRhodon 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

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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