He gave her credit for sticking to her story. “Both the constraint and the drug could be tricks to convince me of your innocence.”
“You still don’t believe me,” she whispered. Then more strongly, “Look at me, Lord Sheene. Do I look like a…a whore?”
“You look more the part today than you did yesterday,” he said frankly.
She went back to plucking unhappily at her dress but it continued to cling like a loose green skin. “I know, but this was the least revealing thing I could find.”
His curiosity roused. The rest of her wardrobe must be provocative indeed. He stifled the ribald images flooding his brain.
Still she fidgeted with her clothing. She certainly gave a realistic show of someone uncomfortable in what she wore. She ended up folding her arms across her bosom again, to his unwilling regret.
“There was a woman. Mrs. Filey, I suppose. She drew me a bath and took my black dress. I assumed she meant to brush it down but she didn’t bring it back. She wouldn’t answer me when I asked her what happened to it. And she wouldn’t return my petticoats.”
“She’s deaf, has been for years,” he said flatly. “I believe Filey clouted her too hard about the head after one of his drinking bouts. I see no reason why she can’t speak but I’ve never heard her do so.”
The girl whitened until he could almost see the veins beneath her skin. “That’s awful.”
“I don’t need to tell you the man is a brute.”
“Then I don’t need to tell you why I need help,” she said with a hint of asperity. She reminded him briefly of the shabby duchess he’d met yesterday with her threadbare gown and her imperious manner. “Will you ask your uncle to let me go?”
This time his laugh held a grim tinge. “Mrs. Paget, my uncle pays no heed to my wishes. I expressed abhorrence of this latest scheme before your arrival.”
“Well, perhaps I could ask him.”
He shrugged and turned away, heading toward his greenhouse. “If you can get a message to him, you’re welcome to try. He’s a man who follows his own notions. His current notion is that I need a woman to share my delightful idyll. You’re unquestionably a woman so I doubt he’ll stir himself to find a replacement.”
“I cannot accept we’re stuck in this impossible situation.”
Yet again, she pursued him. Couldn’t the blasted chit take a hint?
He didn’t pause nor did he look at her. “You will.”
This time he managed to escape by going into the greenhouse and shutting the door firmly after him.
He should have known she wouldn’t leave the matter there.
That afternoon Matthew wandered through the woods with Wolfram. He remained blind to the beauty of dappled sunlight breaking through new leaves. Instead, his mind fixed on his problem.
The woman.
Mrs. Paget.
Grace.
He’d been little more than a boy when he was confined. Even so, his recollection of the world beyond these walls didn’t include whores who spoke in cultured accents and deliberately played down their attractions. She was a beautiful woman but she didn’t use paint and she insisted on that unbecoming hairstyle.
He had a sudden intense urge to see her hair down. It would be long and shining as it tumbled about her naked shoulders. Even the severe braids around her head couldn’t conceal her hair’s luxuriance.
He drew a tight rein on his imagination. She was dangerous enough to his control fully dressed. Or as close to fully dressed as that green gown allowed.
If she wasn’t a common prostitute, what was she? Why would a woman like her agree to this scheme?
Was she indeed a temporarily unengaged actress? It was possible. With destitution as the alternative, the prospect of tupping a madman might be attractive. His uncle mightn’t even have given her so much information.
When Matthew had told her he was insane, her shock had almost convinced him.
If she didn’t know he was mad, why did she think he was held prisoner? She must have known, which meant all her show of dismay and fear was just that—a show.