She took a deep breath, smoothed her voluminous skirts and turned to find him pouring two glasses of wine. Still keeping his distance, he extended one toward her. “Do you want to tell me again how you came here? I dismissed your earlier explanations as lies cooked up with my uncle’s conniving.”
She stared into his face, automatically noting its pleasing arrangement of planes and angles. This…relationship between them might be simpler if he were less physically compelling. The impact of his appearance was distracting, dangerous, frightening.
His gaze remained intent upon her. “Unless you’d rather not speak of your ordeal.” He gestured her toward the sofa.
“Thank you.” She sat down, watching him take his place on a chair opposite. It was all so civilized, she had to remind herself they weren’t in a London drawing room.
Would he seem so extraordinary if she’d met him out in the world? Through her churning tempest of emotion, a voice insisted she’d notice his quality anywhere.
As she glanced across to where he lounged like a decadent dark-haired angel against the tapestry chair, she felt curiosity but no apprehension. This evening, he looked fearsomely elegant, the complete aristocrat. Even someone as woefully out of touch with fashion as she could see his black superfine coat had cost a fortune. It fit him with the smoothness and ease only the best tailoring gave. The splendor daunted a woman who had lived in poverty for so long. She felt at a distinct disadvantage in her ill-fitting harlot’s costume.
She took a deep breath to quiet her nerves. “My lord, I’m a widow from a farm near Ripon in Yorkshire.”
He still watched her. She should be used to that by now. But a scurry of awareness up her spine told her she was far from indifferent to that unwavering gold stare.
His gaze dipped into her gaping cleavage before he looked away with a tight expression. Dear Lord, he couldn’t think she meant to entice him, could he? No wonder she aroused his disgust.
“Ripon is a long way from Somerset,” he said neutrally. “The other end of the country.”
“I know, but…financial necessity forced me to accept a home with my cousin who is a vicar near Bristol.” Because her pride smarted at admitting her indigence, she went on quickly. “Vere didn’t arrive as arranged. I waited and waited and still he didn’t come. So I went looking for him.”
“And in the process ran into Monks and Filey. You were unlucky.”
Unlucky. Such a paltry word to describe the disaster she’d tumbled into.
“Yes. And stupid.” Looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d accepted their company so easily. “It will sound absurd, but I heard their voices and the sound reminded me of home.” To hide her disintegrating composure, she sipped at her wine.
As the marquess toyed with his glass, light caught the rich red depths of the claret. He’d hardly drunk at all. She’d already noticed his abstemious habits.
He glanced up at her from under his slashing brows. “How long have you been widowed?”
Turning her head, she blinked away tears. “A month.” She paused to strive for composure. “Five weeks on Thursday.”
She looked back swiftly enough to catch the anger that contorted the marquess’s face.
“Sweet Jesus, you’ve hardly had time to mourn your loss before my damned uncle dragged you into this catastrophe.” Burning gold eyes focused on her. Yet she shivered under their heat as though an icy wind howled around her. “When he broached this appalling scheme, I knew he’d moved beyond all restraint. He should be put down like a rabid dog.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said helplessly, sensing the guilt that underlay his outburst.
“Yes, it is,” he said bitterly. “I should have died years ago, when I first fell ill.”
“No.” Why did the idea of his death cut so deeply? “Never say that.”
His eyes sharpened on her. “Do you have children?”
She found herself blushing and stammering as if he’d made an improper suggestion. “No, we didn’t…We never…We couldn’t…” She sucked in a breath as old sorrow rose to choke her. “No.”
She waited for the inquisition. Country folk had no qualms about discussing reproduction, animal or human. She was used to people prying into her barrenness. Not that familiarity made the questions easier.
Lord Sheene merely nodded and rose to disentangle the glass from her deathly grip before she tipped claret over her awful gown. “Mrs. Filey’s dinner grows cold.”
Again he served her. Chicken in brandy cream sauce. Fresh vegetables. A beef and mushroom pie that smelled like heaven when the marquess placed it before her. How unlikely that slimy Filey had a wife capable of creating this feast.
No more unlikely, she supposed, than that prim Grace Paget should be mistaken for a whore.
The reminder erased the brief well-being provided by fine wine and good food. “My lord, I’m the victim of a misunderstanding. Surely your uncle will release me once he realizes I’m a respectable wo
man.”