Chapter 2
Damn his uncle. Damn him to hell, Matthew silently cursed.
His heart flooded with despair as he looked down at the girl tied to the table like some blasted pagan offering. Somehow, Lord John had invaded the secret corners of his soul and read the longing there. From that longing, he’d fashioned a woman of moonlight and darkness. A woman who matched every lonely dream
that had ever tormented Matthew.
How the hell had his uncle known?
And if he knew so much, did Matthew have a shred of a chance of defeating him?
The jade’s terrified gaze, dark blue shadowed under a thick fan of black lashes, hadn’t wavered from him. Whatever else she feigned, he’d wager good coin—if he had any—she was genuinely frightened.
He wanted her frightened. Frightened, she’d be off balance. Off balance, she was likely to make mistakes. Too many mistakes, Lord John would discard her.
If Matthew relied on anything, it was his uncle’s eternal ruthlessness.
She swallowed and, against his will, his attention snagged on the movement of that pale slender throat. Then inevitably his focus slid lower. The top of her dress was artfully undone, showing mounded flesh and the white edge of her shift. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides.
Oh, yes, he needed to get rid of her. And quickly.
“You…” Her husky voice faltered. The incongruous air of authority had vanished. “Surely you jest, sir.”
His lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Surely I don’t, madam.”
The smile didn’t reassure her. It wasn’t meant to.
“I assume it will do me no good to scream.” Like so much else about her, the sound of her voice was unexpected. It was low, and soft enough to turn her clipped upper-class accent into music.
“Well, you can try,” he said idly. “I’ve never found it particularly effective. You’ve already gained my attention and Monks and Filey will have orders to grant us privacy. I suspect, if anything, a clamor from you will only reward them with a moment’s gratification.”
“In that case, I won’t scream.” The little color that remained in her face had leached away to pure ivory.
“I commend your wisdom.” He inclined his head slightly as if acknowledging a point in a fencing match.
She was a universe away from what he’d imagined when his uncle first broached this revolting scheme. Lord John had offered to get him a tart to while away his hours. Matthew had pictured a much-used doxy hardened to her profession. However desperate he was—and desperation near seeped from his skin—he’d been sure he could withstand the tired blandishments of a painted harpy.
His arrogant assurance had been misplaced. For, of course, Lord John was a subtle man and had eschewed the obvious.
Instead, his uncle had found…perfection.
God, he couldn’t stay, suspended by the power of pleading cobalt eyes. Almost blindly, he made for the door.
“Wait! Please.” He couldn’t misunderstand her frantic tone. “Don’t leave me here. Untie me at least, I beg of you.”
He swung his head back toward her. “I believe it to my advantage to have you constrained.”
To untie her, he must touch her. The memory of her satiny cheek under his hand still burned like acid, fleeting as the mocking caress had been.
“Please. I…I think I’m going to be sick.”
She dragged in a shuddering breath that made her breasts rise, round and enticing, against the loosened front of her faded black dress. He resented the fact that he noticed.
“Don’t practice your tricks on me,” he snarled.
“No. I mean it,” she said unsteadily.
In truth, the wench’s alabaster complexion showed an alarmingly green tinge. She’d closed her eyes and dark marks beneath them stood out like bruises.