Not so respectable, a sly voice whispered inside her. Your husband lies dead just five weeks, yet here you slaver over the marquess.
Lord Sheene frowned and laid his knife and fork on his plate. Yet again, she noticed he lacked appetite for the sumptuous fare. “Mrs. Paget, I’m afraid it’s you who misunderstands. After this afternoon, you must realize your circumstances are hopeless.”
Grace set down her own cutlery with much less finesse than the marquess. “Sir, for nine years, people have informed me my circumstances are hopeless. I didn’t believe them and I certainly don’t believe you.”
A humorless smile curled his lips. How would he look if he smiled properly, without restraint, with genuine joy? Her heart gave a strange stutter at the thought.
“That’s very commendable, madam, but I’m afraid reality has finally caught up with you. Hopelessness is the essence of life here.”
“I don’t accept that.”
“You will.”
He sounded so sure. The food she’d eaten congealed into a cold lump in her stomach. With shaking hands she reached for her glass. “There has to be a way out,” she said unsteadily, lifting her wine, then replacing it before she spilled it.
“If there is, I’ve never found it.” Fierce pity lit his eyes.
“Perhaps if I speak to your uncle…”
The grim smile still hovered. “You belong to this secret kingdom now. Once that happens, there’s no escape.”
“But you believe my story, don’t you?” For some reason, his faith in her was vitally important.
He studied the cooling food before him as if seeking the best way to offer a denial. But when he looked up again, his gaze didn’t waver. “Yes, I believe you.”
Grace relaxed slightly. “Thank you.”
“Virtuous woman or not, you cannot leave.” He paused then spoke in a low voice laden with emphasis. “Let me assure you, Mrs. Paget, I swore to my uncle I wouldn’t lay a finger on any woman he found. That’s as true for the grieving widow as it is for the harlot.”
She should be grateful to hear that. But the tangled skein of emotion within her permitted no such uncomplicated reaction.
He frowned at her silence. “You have my word. I know you don’t trust me. There’s no reason you should.”
Actually, she did trust him. Which probably meant she was as mad as he. So far, he’d done nothing but help and protect her. Even when convinced she conspired against him, he hadn’t hurt her.
And he’d saved her from Monks and Filey by lying, even though the lie played right into his uncle’s hands. She already guessed that if the marquess used her body, he somehow ceded victory to the unknown Lord John. There were longstanding tensions and currents here she couldn’t hope to understand. It was clear Lord Sheene and his uncle engaged in a war. Lord John had tossed her over into the marquess’s lines like a grenado primed to explode.
Her hand trembled as she lifted her napkin to her mouth. “I find I am a little tired.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Paget. Sleep well.” He inclined his head and candlelight glanced across the shining black wing of hair. The breath stuck in her throat. He was so beautiful. And so hurt. He made her want to cry.
He rose when she left, as if she were a lady and not his unwilling whore. For that’s what she was, whether he chose to avail himself of her services or not.
Only as Grace lay awake—and alone—in the great bed upstairs did she acknowledge the feeling that burned her like acid. Not fear. Not anger. Not desperation. Although all those emotions seethed endlessly inside her.
When the marquess had sworn he wouldn’t touch her, her principal reaction had been aching disappointment.
Chapter 6
Lord Sheene’s acceptance of Grace’s story should have eased their interactions. That, and his stated intention not to touch her. But after three days, she was near screaming with the tension that thickened the air, a tension that lay strangely separate from her perpetual fear of her jailers. A tension based on how her pulse surged when she saw the marquess, heard the marquess. Heaven help her, even thought about the marquess.
Grace told herself to ignore his lordship the way he ignored her. He made no secret of his lack of interest. No matter how early she rose, he was always gone from the house. Unless she’d known better, she’d think he’d left. If every day didn’t convince her he’d been right to dismiss any chance of escape.
They still met for dinner. But her attempts at conversation led nowhere. What could one speak to a madman about? Even if she was increasingly sure that, for all his reticence, his wits were in perfect working order.
Last night, she’d allowed him to guide the conversation. Silence begat more silence and she went to her bed after speaking only the few words politeness required. Good evening, my lord. Thank you, my lord. Goodnight, my lord.
Yet despite his unhidden reluctance for her company, she itched to be with him. Only in his vicinity did she quiet the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.