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.
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 starte
d 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 were friends—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…desire her.
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.”
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.