It could have sounded like a spoilt aristocrat’s whining complaint. Except she’d noticed immediately that he was too thin for a man of his height. “Filey’s wife does the cooking?”
“Yes. And the cleaning. She, Filey, and Monks are the extent of my staff.”
Grace had already remarked the scarcity of servants. Surely even a mad marquess merited a larger household.
Another mystery.
The greatest mystery of all arched a supercilious brow. “Eat. You have no reason to fear poison. Monks and Filey brought you here for a purpose. They certainly don’t want you dead before you accomplish it.”
“And what do you want?” she asked bravely, while fear danced a wild tarantella along her veins.
He smiled briefly as if at a private joke. “Keep looking at me like that and I’ll tell you.”
She flushed. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one guilty of staring.
He frightened her with his unwavering gaze and barely veiled resentment. But she couldn’t deny his masculine beauty. She’d been married to an old man for nine years. Despite her dread and anger now, she couldn’t resist drinking in the sheer magnificence of the marquess’s physical presence.
Still blushing, she lowered her eyes and sliced into her bœuf en croûte. Her hunger was stronger even than her fear.
As the rich and familiar flavors filled her mouth, she closed her eyes and fought tears. She refused to start bawling just because her captors gave her a decent meal. That would be too pitiable.
The delicious food brought back so many memories. Memories she’d crushed deep inside through years of deprivation. Memories that now surfaced to make her dangerously vulnerable.
Control yourself, Grace, she told herself sternly, or you’ll be lost. With a shaking hand, she reached for her wine and took a gulp. But even the cool flow of claret down her tense throat reminded her poignantly of her past.
“The gowns didn’t meet with your approval?” the marquess asked idly after a long silence. He raised his wine to his lips and sipped. “Surely you must realize by now that the grieving widow hasn’t disarmed me.”
She ignored the taunting jibe. “What gowns?”
He gestured contemptuously with his heavy crystal glass. “Your costumes for act two. The bedroom coffers overflow with silks and satins.”
“I didn’t look.” Her heart sank under the desolate knowledge that someone had made elaborate preparations for her arrival. And if they’d made such effort to get her here, they’d make doubly sure she didn’t leave.
She drank more wine to bolster her failing nerve. Questions might anger her companion but she had to take the risk. Ignorance rendered her utterly defenseless.
“My lord, where are we?”
He’d combed his thick dark hair away from his face and she had no trouble reading the suspicion that settled on his features. “Madam, what profit is there in continuing this pretense?”
Nothing shook his belief that she worked against him in some plot.
Weren’t madmen always certain the world conspired to achieve their ruin? Apart from his own avowals, it was the first indication that he was indeed insane.
Still she didn’t give up. “What harm to tell me?”
He surveyed her for a disturbing interval while his fingers toyed with the stem of his glass. He had beautiful hands, she noticed inconsequentially. Slender, strong, long-fingered, sensitive.
Would those hands soon be on her skin, hurting her?
He sighed with impatience. “No harm compared to what has already been done,” he growled eventually. “If it amuses you, by all means let’s play this little scene. You are in an isolated corner of Somerset about twenty miles from Wells.”
“How long have you…how long have you lived here?”
The wry smile flickered and died. “How long have I been out of my wits, do you mean?” When she didn’t answer, he went on in a terse voice, “I contracted a brain fever when I was fourteen. I am now five and twenty.”
They were the same age, she realized with astonishment. She couldn’t imagine why that created a bond, but it did.
“So you’ve been a captive for eleven years?”