Untouched

He paused. Perhaps this wasn’t a ruse.

Reluctantly, he strode across to that cursed table where he’d spent so many hideous hours. All the way, he derided himself for a soft-headed fool. This slut was his enemy and in league with all his other enemies.

Even while the litany ran through his mind, he tugged swiftly at the tapes that held her. As soon as she was free, she struggled into a sitting position.

“Sir, I’m afraid I…”

Yes, the ashen skin definitely held a sickly hue. While she lied about so much else, she was definitely ill. He scanned the room and found what he wanted. Fortunately, just an arm’s length away.

“Here.” He shoved a large blue and white bowl into her shaking hands.

She mumbled something that might have been thanks then bent to retch miserably into the dish. Her physical discomfort awoke grudging sympathy, despite what Matthew knew of her. When finally her stomach settled, he sat with his arm around her to keep her from collapsing.

He tried to ignore the warm, womanly feel of her, but it was impossible. She fit against his side as if created to curve into him. His hand automatically conformed to the sinuous shape of her body, so different from the hard masculine angles of his. The deep V of her unbuttoned bodice revealed shadowy glimpses of her breasts. A clever touch, he thought bleakly, trying to distance himself from the urge to see more.

She trembled and laid her head back on his shoulder in a gesture of absolute exhaustion. The braids circling her head were untidy and soft tendrils of hair pleasurably tickled his jaw.

“Rest for a moment,” he murmured into that silky black mass of hair.

Gently, he reached across to disengage the bowl. He set it beside him on the table. She hadn’t brought up very much. He guessed her stomach was empty. Certainly, the body he held so unwillingly was thin to the point of emaciation. She felt fragile, as if the slightest pressure might shatter her.

“It must be the laudanum they gave me last night,” she whispered. “It’s never agreed with me.”

Laudanum? The word, with its hint of compulsion, hovered as a question on the edge of his mind. Then his concentration returned to the woman lying bonelessly in his embrace. He angled himself so he could see the round smoothness of her forehead and the straight, oddly aristocratic nose. She was beautiful. He’d recognized that immediately.

Recognized and railed against it.

The oval face with its exotically slanted cheekbones reminded him of etchings he’d seen of Italian Madonnas. His uncle had been generous in giving him books to make up for the Grand Tour he’d never undertake.

His gaze fastened on where delicate color returned to her lush mouth. Its fullness belied the impression of purity. That mouth made even such a sorry excuse for a man as Matthew dream of sin.

Oh, she was skilled at this game. In a matter of moments, she had him just where she wanted. His uncle had coached her well. Although why a woman with her looks and acting talent should whore herself to a madman remained a puzzle.

If he didn’t know better, her show of vulnerability and hard-won courage against overwhelming fear would take him in. Any theater management would vie for her services. Any predatory nobleman would vie for services of a more intimate nature.

Abruptly, he felt sullied by his pity.

She fumbled in her skirts—for a handkerchief, he supposed. He suppressed another curse and thrust his own in her direction. “Here.”

“Thank you.” She wiped her mouth with a trembling hand.

“Can you sit without help now?” he asked grimly, for once not caring if his genuine emotions emerged without subterfuge. He’d determined to remain cool and uninvolved, but some things were beyond mere mortals. He’d been angry for years, but this cruel charade honed his rage.

“Yes, I think so.” Gingerly, she drew away.

Immediately, he missed her warmth and teasing female scent. She smelled of sunshine and dust and the faintest trace of lavender soap. Another subtle touch. This whore didn’t use heady scents of the Orient to draw a man’s attention. Instead, she smelled fresh and natural and real.

Ironic, given she was nothing but falsehood.

She braced herself by hooking her fingers around the edge of the table. He was close enough to see the tremors that racked her slim frame. With difficulty, he resisted the urge to lend her his hand.

He damned his uncle yet again. And just as fruitlessly.

Even in boyhood, Matthew couldn’t pass a sick or injured animal without trying to help. Lord John must have decided the best way to destroy his nephew was through this weakness. That fatal sympathy for the brave, the hurt, the gentle was meant to be his undoing.

The girl looked at him fully for the first time since he’d released her. The laudanum had shrunk her pupils to black pinpoints, leaving her irises impossibly blue.

Nice touch, Uncle, he thought sourly. Drugging her makes her appear so much more the victim. He had to remember this woman’s frail gallantry was an act.