Untouched (9 page)

young Grace would sneak into the ballroom to watch. The memory of her glittering older brother brought the usual grief.

Even though it was two years since she’d learned of his death, she still hardly believed all that shining promise lay in cold

earth.

No more sorrow. It was time to act. “En garde, my lord,” she whispered, and left to face her enigmatic opponent.

Grace found the marquess holed up with his roses. He had his back to her and did something abstruse with what looked

to her uneducated eyes like a dead stick.

“What do you want?” he growled without glancing up. How did he know she hovered in the brick archway behind him?

She wiped her damp palms on the skirts of her garish yellow gown. She’d been busy with needle and thread so at least

this dress fitted, even if it was too tight across the bosom. Mrs. Filey had returned the black bombazine but in this warm

weather, it itched.

Determined to start as she meant to proceed, she raised her chin. “A charming greeting, my lord.”

He still didn’t turn, but the long muscles of his back tensed under his loose white shirt. “I’m occupied, madam. Perhaps

whatever it is can wait until dinner.”

“Yes, it probably could, but I’ll have lost my nerve by then,” she muttered, hoping he wouldn’t hear. But his hearing, like

all his other senses from what she could tell, was preternaturally sharp.

“Well, all right, say what…” There was a pause, a sharp crack, then, “Damnation!”

She flushed at his language but didn’t retreat. “You should know by now swearing at me won’t chase me off.”

At last he faced her. As she’d expected, his expression was stiff with well-bred annoyance. At such times, she had no

difficulty picturing him as the haughty cynosure of society. “I’ve just wasted three hours’ work.”

“What?” Her attention fell to what he held. The dead stick was now two dead sticks. She raised mortified eyes to his.

“I’m so sorry.”

He met her gaze and she wondered what he was thinking. Then his lips twisted in a grimace and he tossed the sticks onto

his rubbish pile. “Hell, what does it matter? It isn’t as if I haven’t time to do it again. Time is all I’ve got in this bloody

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

cage.”

The glimpse into his torment sent black shame swirling through her. She bit her lip. What right had she to badger him like

a child demanding an adult’s notice? He didn’t owe her anything.

Bending her head, she started to leave. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

He swore again under his breath then took a couple of paces after her. “No, wait.”

His hand circled her arm. He hadn’t touched her since he’d lied about wanting her. Through the thin barrier of yellow

silk, his fingers burned like flame.

Shocked, her gaze flew to his. She thought she caught equal astonishment in the golden eyes. Then he masked his

expression and his hand dropped away as if he couldn’t bear to prolong the connection. He looked uncomfortable. “Mrs.

Paget, forgive me. I’m in a filthy temper. Nothing’s gone right for three days.”

Her flesh tingled from his touch, brief as it had been. She hid the flash of hurt his persistent rejection aroused. “I’m

sorry.”

He shook his head and managed a rueful smile that she found far too beguiling. “No, I’m sorry. What do you want to talk

about?”

Alone in the salon, she’d been sure she was right to accost him. Confronted with his lean strength, she was no longer so

confident. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

She sucked in a deep breath then spoke in a rush. “I know you don’t want me here. I don’t want to be here either. Can’t

we call a truce?”

He arched his eyebrows in perfect aristocratic hauteur. “I wasn’t aware there was a war.”

She felt her cursed color rising. With her fine, clear skin, she’d always been quick to blush. She thought she’d outgrown

the habit. Apparently not, or at least not when she cornered supercilious noblemen.

Having come so far, she couldn’t back out now. She twined her hands together and plowed on. “You’d have to spend time

in my company for us to engage in hostilities, my lord.”

Swift comprehension swept his striking features. “You pine for attention.”

She felt like stamping her foot. “No, I pine for something to do. I pine for normal interaction.”

“You’re imprisoned with a lunatic, Mrs. Paget. Normal interaction isn’t on offer.”

Yet again, he used his affliction to keep her at bay. The words lost more of their edge every time he used them. “There are

two people in this cage. Doesn’t it make sense to try and be friends?”

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

His eyes closed. She supposed the prospect of friendship with a humble creature such as herself offended his sensibilities.

After all, he was the great marquess and she was a poverty-stricken widow of no particular distinction, whatever grand

setting she’d been born into.

“Friends?” he repeated faintly.

She resisted the urge to hit him with one of his flowerpots. “I realize the barriers of rank, my lord, but here we suffer a

kind of equality, don’t you think?”

His brows contracted as if he were in pain. “As equal as a madman and a sane woman can be.”

She made a dismissive sound. “I give you leave to doubt my sanity, sir.” She looked around helplessly, searching for

inspiration in the neat beds of leafless rose bushes. “I’m used to being busy. On the farm, I did most of the labor as well as

nursed my husband. If you don’t want a friend, what about an assistant for your experiments?”

He looked surprised that she’d guessed his occupation. He looked unhappy that she insisted on his company. He looked

resigned as if he recognized it was easier to relent. What he didn’t look was pleased to accept her help.

She told herself she didn’t mind. He was obviously inured to solitude. But another prickle of hurt jabbed at her.

As if to confirm his reluctance, he said, “The work’s unexciting. And uncomfortable and dirty for a lady.”

Good Lord, what did he think? That she was made of sugar?

“I assure you running a sheep farm was both unexciting and dirty.” She met his eyes with a challenge. “If I find my

delicate temperament overset, I promise I’ll trot back to the house and never bother you again.”

He didn’t exactly smile but some of the tension drained from his expression. He’d looked brittle to the point of shattering

when she’d come through the archway. “You’re an obstinate scrap of a female, aren’t you?”

Startling that the tragic marquess had it in him to tease her. But this was the first genuine amity he’d shown, so she let a

smile touch her lips. “Not exactly a scrap.”

“No, perhaps not.”

Did she imagine that burnished gaze skimmed where her dress strained across her breasts? Her nipples tightened as if

he’d touched them. Pray God, he didn’t notice.

Now, when it was too late, she wondered if demanding his company was wise.

Dear Jesus, she wanted to be friends.Friends. And she looked at him so sweetly, he couldn’t deny her, whatever his

common sense screamed.

For three days, her nearness had driven Matthew mad, so mad that he’d feared a relapse. He’d struggled to stay away but

nothing banished her from thoughts and dreams. Or stopped her presence permeating his haunts on the estate, places

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

where he’d only known unbearable loneliness. Those lonely vigils seemed like lost paradise now Grace Paget had crashed

into his stagnant existence like a boulder into a pond.

He spent as little time with her as he could, blocked her from all intimacy. Yet she was with him as he trudged unhappily

around the woods. A single visit from her had shattered the hard-won peace he’d always found among his roses. Worst of

all, she’d made the cottage hers in a way eleven years had never made it his.

How had she done it? She kept signs of her occupancy to a minimum. But the moment he crossed the threshold, the

heady essence of Grace overwhelmed him.

The essence of Grace kindled desires he could never satisfy.

Every night, he lay awake and restless on that infernal sofa, knowing he only had to climb the stairs to fulfill every

longing.

He had no right to climb those stairs. Grace was a virtuous woman imprisoned against her will. He couldn’t use her as his

whore.

Grace Paget was permanently beyond his reach.

Rapacious desire gnawed at him. The sight of her, the scent of her, the sound of her—oh, Christ, the touch of her, the

effects of that thoughtless clasp on her arm still hurtled through his veins—were worse torture than anything Monks or

Filey had ever perpetrated.

He stared wordlessly down at the source of his anguish and his delight. His silent ineptitude probably terrified her. He

was, after all, a madman.

Although her manner toward him was remarkably free of fear. Even harping on his insanity didn’t daunt her any more.

Perhaps he should have tried harder to convince her he was dangerous. But after years of suffering real madness, he’d be

damned before he assumed sham lunacy.

She stared up at him, her large eyes dark and questioning. Her breath emerged in soft huffs between her parted lips.

Wanton color flushed those full lips.

He almost groaned. This awareness of every detail of another person was new. He resented it. He fought it. But he

couldn’t block it.

“My lord?”

She sounded breathless. It was an effort not to let his attention stray to her bosom again. He’d relinquish his hope of

heaven to cup her warmth in his hands.

“You’ll need a hat,” he said abruptly, noticing the sun already added a pink tinge to her pale skin.

She must have realized he’d surrendered because she smiled. His wayward heart gave a great thud of despair as her lips

stretched over white teeth and her blue eyes glowed.

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

He’d only seen her smile once and not at him, but at Wolfram. The memory plagued him, kept him awake on his

uncomfortable bed. Christ, how was he going to survive?

“Thank you.” She sounded far too glad to receive this small concession. Clearly, the lack of occupation chafed. She must

be used to people and activity. A reminder of the barriers between them. Barriers he could never cross, however his soul

wailed with misery in its cold wilderness.

Then the screws tightened further. She extended one slender hand in his direction. He stared down at her in horror.

As he hesitated, a frown shadowed her happiness and she started to withdraw her hand. “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s habit.

Whenever I made a bargain with another farmer, we always shook on the deal.”

Ungraciously, he thrust his hand out and clasped hers. The contact lasted a second. The contact lasted a century. Long

enough to feel the roughness of calluses. She hadn’t exaggerated her familiarity with physical work. Again, he wondered

about this woman with a duchess’s manner and a navvy’s hands.

Now they werefriends —he silently damned the word—perhaps he’d find answers. And with every new secret he

uncovered, it became more impossible to conceal his own dark secret. That he wanted her with every shred of his being

and he had only his fragile honor to protect her.

The marquess really didn’t like her. She should leave him alone. But she was weak and she wanted to be with him. She

promised herself she’d be as unobtrusive as possible. Silent helpmeet was a role she’d perfected for Josiah.

Grace lowered her head with familiar meekness and said softly, “I’ll go and put on something more suitable, my lord.”

“You do that.” He turned away as if he’d already dismissed her from his thoughts. Clearly, she was less important than all

the vegetable matter around him.

Josiah had often accused her of vanity. If her dead husband could read the pique in her heart now, he’d know he was

right. It was dangerous and sinful, but something in her begged the marquess to notice her as a woman, to admire her,

to…desireher.

Then what, Grace? You were kidnapped to be his whore. Is that a part you want to play? Are you willing to embrace

shame in return for pleasure?

And what makes you think he’ll offer pleasure? You know what men do to women. There’s precious little to entice you.

As she watched the marquess retreat, she admitted she was enticed. Very enticed indeed.

Five days in this place and already she questioned everything she believed about herself. She had to get away before the

Grace Paget she’d created so painstakingly over the last nine years crumbled to nothing.

Troubled, she made her way back to the cottage.

“Eh, there you are, lass.”

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Her churning thoughts had stopped her noticing Monks in front of the cottage. He wore his usual surly expression. For

once, there was no sign of Filey.

“Mr. Monks,” she said warily. She hadn’t spoken to him since that horrible afternoon when he’d threatened to kill her.

She took a shaky step back, ready to flee. “What do you want?”

“His lordship asks to see you.”

She frowned. “I’ve just left Lord Sheene.”

Monks gave a grunt of humor. “Not the pretty marquess. Lord John Lansdowne. And if you’ll take a word of advice for