Untouched

“As you wish.” He bowed as though they’d been introduced at a ball. The elegance of the sarcastic gesture made the breath catch in her throat. “I am Matthew Lansdowne, Marquess of Sheene.”

She frowned. Could she trust what he said? The Marquess of Sheene was one of the richest men in England. What was he doing here, locked away from the world?

His henchmen called him the marquess. The luxury of his surroundings indicated someone with gold to ensure comfort. Perhaps he really was who he claimed to be.

His attention fixed upon her as though she were a botanical specimen. It was unnerving. Or would have been if her nerves didn’t already jangle. “Will you do me a similar favor?”

“What do you mean?”

A shadow of impatience darkened that striking face. “Your nam

e, girl. What is it?”

She spoke without thinking. “Grace Paget, my lord.”

“Grace,” he said musingly, his eyes never leaving her.

She had no illusions about what he saw. A faded woman in shabby clothing who had endured too much sorrow and witnessed too much privation.

Then she wondered why she minded. She didn’t want him to notice her as a man noticed a woman. Her situation was precarious enough.

She waited for some comment on her name, perhaps a remark that it didn’t suit her. The recollection of how she’d been sick in front of him revolted her. She had a sudden sharp memory of his care for her. Surely someone so considerate in such circumstances wouldn’t use her against her will.

But what did she know of men her own age? Josiah had been old and the blood had run sluggishly in his veins. She recognized the virile strength in the marquess’s lean, youthful body. And if he spoke true, he was a great lord, used to getting what he wanted at the snap of his fingers. As if to prove her right, he clicked his fingers to summon the dog who nosed at a pile of last year’s leaves.

This man offered a buffer against Monks and Filey. Her only buffer.

What he’d want in return she didn’t dare contemplate. If his sole purpose was bed sport, he could have had her when she was bound to the table.

She didn’t trust him. But what alternative did she have?

Wondering if she cast her lot with the Devil, she straightened away from the tree and followed him.

Grace trudged behind the marquess until they reached the clearing around the house. During the long walk from the boundaries, her panic faded into a haze of weariness.

The man—Lord Sheene, she supposed—paused at the edge of the trees and waited for her to catch up. The sun sank in the west and gold rays etched his tall figure with brilliance. She blinked. Something about his stance struck her as ineffably sad.

He looked magnificent standing there. And lonelier than anyone she’d ever seen.

The unwelcome perception vanished as Wolfram turned back to sniff at her skirts. A soft exhalation of surprise escaped her.

“He won’t bite.” Lord Sheene’s eyes were intent on her. Clearly, he’d forgotten in his isolation that it was rude to stare.

Her lips flattened in self-derision. Rude to stare? This man could claim use of her body. His eyes were the last things she needed to worry about.

Banishing the disturbing thought, she looked down into the dog’s intelligent yellow gaze. “I like dogs.”

She’d had dogs on the farm. At times, they had seemed the only beings in creation capable of unconditional love. She reached out to let the impressive beast sniff her fingers before she scratched behind his ears. Wolfram’s eyes closed in rapture. It was the first normal reaction she’d received from anything or anyone in this strange prison. She smiled down at the hound.

Whenever she was with the marquess, unsettling currents of awareness swirled around them. Now the soft air shivered with a sharp turbulence that made the fine hairs stand up on her skin.

She whipped her head up in confusion. Lord Sheene glared at her, his gaze fixed on her mouth as if poison dripped from her lips. Her smile faltered and disappeared. She whipped her hand away from Wolfram. What had she done to arouse this savage displeasure?

“You’ve made a conquest, I see,” the marquess said harshly. “Don’t expect everyone here to come to heel at your merest simper.”

Open-mouthed with shock, she watched him stalk off as if he could no longer bear the sight of her. Wolfram immediately pulled away to trail after his master.

Grace stayed behind, dizzy with fear and confusion. The marquess’s mercurial shifts of temperament frightened her, left her floundering and disoriented. Perhaps he truly was mad. He was certainly angry. Was he an ally? Was he a threat? Right now she couldn’t have said.