Untouched

“You won’t help me.” The words emerged as a thread of sound. Something clenched inside her like a cold hard fist. She felt lost in an endless desert.

His inimical gaze flicked across her as if she were eternally beneath his notice. The look was terrifyingly similar to the one his uncle had cast upon her. Then a smile conveyed rejection and triumph in equal measure. “Help you, madam? How may a poor madman help you when he cannot help himself?”

“You have to believe me when I say I don’t conspire with your uncle.”

His response bit at her like a whiplash. “On the contrary, my dear Mrs. Paget, I don’t have to believe anything you say.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” she insisted in helpless despair.

“Truth?” He gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“I beg of you, my lord, help me.”

His expression hardened and his mouth flattened with implacable rejection. “You waste your time with these theatrics. I told you—I’m awake to your deceit.”

Weak, useless tears welled up. She could see that nothing she said would convince him she wasn’t his enemy. All hope was lost. All hope had been lost from when she’d set out to find Vere in Bristol.

She stumbled toward the door. She didn’t have the strength to argue with the man she must seduce. The man who had never liked her, most emphatically didn’t want her, and who now quite obviously loathed her.

He turned his head as she reached him and spoke with a detachment she knew was feigned. “Just tell me one thing, Mrs. Paget—are you my uncle’s lover?”

She stopped as if she collided with an invisible barrier and stared at him aghast. For the first time, she really believed he was out of his mind.

Another woman might have slapped him. But she was too astonished for outrage.

As her shocked silence extended, he straightened away from the wall and brushed past. She didn’t move as she listened to him stride out of the cottage. His rapid steps suggested he couldn’t bear to breathe the same air as she did for another second.

Chapter 8

Matthew stretched out as far as he could—not bloody far enough—on his awkward sofa and listened to Grace pace in the room above. It was late, past midnight. As if to prove him right, the hall clock chimed two. He hadn’t slept. From what he heard upstairs, neither had she.

They hadn’t met since he’d challenged her with being his uncle’s mistress. For the first time, she hadn’t come down to dinner. He wondered if she’d eaten, then chided himself for caring about the artful trull’s well-being. She could sulk up there until Kingdom Come as far as he was concerned.

Burning anger still choked him. Anger with her. And with himself for allowing her to sneak under his barriers. He’d always known she was his uncle’s creature, a superb actress ready to go to any length to convince her unwilling audience of one. God knows she’d even drugged herself to nausea to achieve that last touch of verisimilitude.

Yet she’d gained his cooperation, his friendship, his trust. Or at least she’d been on the verge of gaining those things. If he hadn’t emerged from the courtyard in time to see his uncle drive away, he might have fallen into her warm, fragrant trap.

He’d wanted to kill her then.

He rolled over on the couch, but five nights’ experience told him there was no comfortable position for a man of his height. Savagely, he punched the cushions under his head.

What use lying awake and stewing over her duplicity? He should be inured to treachery. Betrayal had dogged him for the last eleven years. Hers was just one more instance, and scarcely the most significant.

Although that wasn’t how it felt.

A step creaked. What the hell was she doing? Perhaps she wanted a walk, unlikely as the hour was. He’d welcome surcease from her damned endless pacing.

She paused outside the salon. The door squeaked faintly as she pushed it open. Immediately, he lay still, feigning sleep.

His senses were always abnormally sharp around her. He heard the uneven saw of her breath, the rustle of her clothing. Not the rasp of the silks or satins that seemed to constitute her wardrobe. No, this was something softer that whispered as she moved.

She crept inside, then paused in the center of the room. He dared a quick look under his lashes. She wore something pale and filmy so he had no trouble locating her.

She’d never approached him at night. Clearly, Lord John’s visit had incited her to take the initiative. What other purpose could bring her here silent as a ghost? His uncle had ordered her to bed him and like a good little puppet, she danced to the tug of the strings.

The reminder of his uncle stirred his anger. Thank Christ. Otherwise, he’d have leapt to his feet and grabbed her, damn the consequences.

Her scent called to him, tempting him to forget everything except that she was close enough to touch. His hands balled against his sides.