Untouched

Gradually, her heartbeat slowed. She watched Lord Sheene stride toward the house, then turned to observe her surroundings. An unlikely setting for one of the nation’s greatest noblemen. The large cottage wasn’t imposing. It basked before her, the old red brick glowing in the mellow light. The house looked warm and welcoming. The house looked like home.

And danger thickened with every second.

She’d already realized that in this place, appearance and reality engaged in eternal battle. She must keep her wits about her that she didn’t mistake one for the other and come to destruction.

She shivered. Without Lord Sheene, the trees behind her held an ominous air, for all their beauty. A sudden fancy took her that her abductors ogled her from the thick woods. She dredged up the energy to stumble across the smooth green lawn after the marquess.

Grace looked into the mirror in the charming bedroom that the marquess had indicated was hers. Terrified eyes stared back and she chewed nervously on her lower lip, a childhood habit she’d never broken.

“You’ve survived so far,” she whispered to her reflection. “You will keep surviving.”

If only she believed it.

Swallowing her dread before it strangled her, she picked up one of a heavy set of silver men’s brushes from the dresser and hurriedly rebraided her hair. She’d managed a wash and she’d removed the worst of the dust from her dress but she still looked tired and hungry and poor. And far too frail to fend off lecherous noblemen.

In the glass, she saw Lord Sheene prowl into the room behind her. The fear Grace had struggled to dam flooded back. The large bed in the corner suddenly loomed as the most significant object in the room. She snatched up the brush like a weapon and whirled around.

He gave a bark of contemptuous laughter. “Do you intend to groom me to death?” He turned back to the door. “Monks has brought dinner in. If you’re contemplating murder, you’ll need to keep your strength up.”

How she hated his effortless superiority. Was this just a game to him? Her fear. Her helplessness. Her resistance. Reviving anger flowed hot through her veins, swamping her earlier cowardice.

Nothing and no one in the last years had defeated her. And nor would this ramshackle lunatic.

She raised her chin and gave him a frosty stare. She might be a Paget now but she’d been born a Marlow and a Marlow had every right to look a Lansdowne in the eye. He’d learn she wasn’t a woman to trifle with. She wouldn’t collapse in abject terror because he had the gall to mock her.

“If you’ll lead the way, my lord?” she said coolly.

With deliberate firmness, she replaced the brush on its silver tray laced with ornate engraved Ls. For Lansdowne, she supposed. Although the letter would better stand for lout or lecher or lunatic.

His gaze sharpened on her face as if he tried to solve a puzzle. She braced herself for more derision, but he merely gestured for her to precede him down the narrow staircase.

In the cottage’s main room, the room she’d escaped earlier with such futile hope, candlelight flickered on polished wood and rich fabrics. The table was laid with gleaming china and crystal.

The whole cottage was furnished in the most expensive taste. The only hint of its real purpose—as a madman’s cell—was that horrible bench where she’d been restrained. The rest of the house conjured ideas of a wealthy man’s love nest.

She blushed. Even if this place were a voluptuary’s hideaway, that didn’t mean she must accept the role of voluptuary’s plaything.

He came up behind her. “The food grows cold.”

Her nerves tightened. She was alone with a powerful and unpredictable monster.

Although when she took her place at the table, she thought he looked anything but a monster. He’d troubled to put on a black coat and a neckcloth. Above the snowy folds, his face was intent and thoughtful. And guarded. Those heavy-lidded eyes and strong bones hid secrets.

Was one of those secrets that he’d lost his mind?

No, he freely admitted that, didn’t he?

He slid a filled plate in front of her then returned to the sideboard for his own meal. The elegance of his

movements distracted her and she took a moment to realize she hadn’t seen food like this since she’d run away from her father’s house at sixteen.

When the marquess sat opposite, he must have caught her dazed wonder. Again, she marked how he studied her. She hid a shiver of fear and despite her exhaustion, sat ramrod straight. He must never guess how close to breaking she was.

“Is the fare not to your liking?” he asked.

Her hesitation over the elaborate dinner stemmed from complex reasons which she refused to share with this terrifying stranger. Her chaotic, disastrous past was nobody’s business but her own.

When she didn’t answer, he went on almost conversationally. “Mrs. Filey tempts my appetite which in recent months has been uncertain.”