Untouched

He ran his hand through his hair. She fought the urge to reach up and smooth that silky darkness. The need to touch him fermented in her blood but she couldn’t surrender to it. She bent her head so the brim of her hat concealed the lust she knew must shine in her eyes.

“No more dark talk. Are you interested in plants, Grace?” He seemed to like saying her name. She wondered why. When she looked up, he appeared boyish, diffident. It reminded her he wasn’t so very old. Neither was she, she acknowledged, as wayward excitement fizzed through her veins.

“I’ve never had the chance to find out.” Growing up, she’d learned a lady’s arts, including floral illustration. Another subject to master before she caught herself a husband. Well, she’d caught herself a husband but not the one she’d been groomed for. Since her marriage, she’d been too busy keeping food in her stomach and a roof over her head to worry about much else.

“Orchids grow in the wood, if you’d like to see them.”

His smile for once contained no bitterness. Its sweetness surprised her, enticed her. She found herself agreeing to search for wildflowers. He could ask her to paint the sky or dig for hen’s teeth and she’d say yes.

Grace left the marquess downstairs before dinner. Foolishly, she wished she had something of her own choosing to wear, like the silks that had crowded her wardrobe at Marlow Hall. For nine years, she’d muffled her feminine vanity. Now she wanted to look beautiful for a man.

Beautiful for a man….

Troubled eyes met her reflection in the cheval glass. Her life hung by a thread. The man she wanted was trapped, tormented, and possibly insane. This wasn’t a bucolic flirtation. This was a nightmare of coercion and violence.

If she ever forgot that, she was doomed.

She was doomed anyway.

Her attention fell on the bed behind her and for the first time, she noticed the letter lying on the cover. She turned from the mirror with a shiver and went across to pick it up. There was no name on it but it had to be for her, just as she already knew it had to be from Lord John.

The seal was an eagle under a crown. That must be the Lansdowne badge. Yet again, the ghost of her brother’s dead hawk worried at her.

The thick paper crackled as she tore the letter open. There was one word in slashing writing.

Saturday.

Lord John felt a need to confirm his threat. He underestimated how convincing he’d been. She’d never doubted he meant every horrible promise.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, crumpling the message into a ball and flinging it to the floor. She smothered a sob and sank down onto the bed, hiding her face in her hands.

There was no escape.

She couldn’t do this.

She had to do this.

She rose on trembling legs, hating Josiah for leaving her alone and vulnerable, hating Vere for letting her down, hating Lord John for his greed and callousness.

Above all, she hated herself.

Tonight, she’d betray the marquess. And force him to betray himself. She was no better than his grasping uncle.

She was worse. For she recognized how exceptional Lord Sheene was. The long afternoon with its confidences and companionship had only confirmed his extraordinary quality. He was a man who in other circumstances and at another time she might have loved.

Yet still she meant to ruin him.

Chapter 10

Matthew woke instantly, then realized that to wake, he must have slept. In spite of the couch’s incommodious design. In spite of unreliable sleep proving more elusive than ever over recent days. In spite of Grace Paget’s presence in the house torturing him on a rack of endless desire.

The room was dark. The unusual run of fine weather had ended at sunset and rain spattered against the windows. It had drummed on the roof during an unexpectedly silent dinner. Mrs. Paget—Grace—had been with him all day and her presence had warmed his soul. But she’d remained withdrawn throughout the meal.

Who could blame her? His story must convince her she’d never escape. Yet he mourned her retreat from brief affinity. For one day, she’d been everything he desired in a companion. Intelligent. Sympathetic. Knowledgeable.

Beautiful.

He couldn’t deceive himself that all he wanted was friendship. But friendship, by God, was something. If he could resign himself to captivity, he could resign himself to keeping her at a distance.