Untouched

by Anna Campbell

  “Well, now you’ve located me, remove yourself,” Matthew growled. Against his chest, Grace muffled a distressed sound. His arms tightened in silent warning.

  “Aye, your lordship. I reckoned you’d get around to spreading the slut’s legs one day. Was she good, lad? A wild ride? Or cold and tasteless as barley water?”

  Matthew’s eyes sharpened on the man who had tortured and tormented him for eleven years. “I’ll kill you one day, Monks,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice.

  Monks remained unimpressed. “Aye, well, that’s grand and I wish you luck, my lord. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, as my mam would say.”

  “Get out,” Matthew snapped. Grace’s hands curled like claws in the sheet and her breath was a frightened flutter on his bare neck.

  Monks shrugged and turned toward the door. “You’ll want to get back to business, I warrant. Enjoy your sport, lad.”

  “You will grant us privacy, Monks,” Matthew growled.

  The big man paused in the doorway and glanced back with a gloating leer. “Shy, is she? Or is it your lordship who’s a might bashful? Aye, well, if she’s keeping you entertained, there’s nowt else we need to know. Filey and I will get our turn at her when your lordship’s had his fill.”

  This time Grace’s whimper was clearly audible. Matthew didn’t shift his eyes from Monks. “If you harm so much as a hair on this lady’s head, you will pay.”

  The mockery in Monks’s smile became overt. “His first fuck always makes a lad right brave. Brave and stupid.” He bowed his head in a gesture of respect that held no respect whatsoever. “Any road, I wish you a right good day.” He didn’t bother to contain his laughter at the crude witticism as he stumped across the landing and down the steps.

  Matthew struggled to restrain his anger. The urge was strong to smash something. Preferably Monks’s smug face.

  At his side, Grace lay in trembling stillness until the downstairs door slammed behind Monks. Then she scrambled out of bed to stand shaking in the center of the room. She wrapped her arms around herself, hands clenching and unclenching convulsively on her elbows. Her stance lifted her breasts under the green satin. Matthew’s sexual hunger, momentarily submerged in sick anger, returned in a crashing wave.

  “That was…awful.” Her eyes glittered with agitation and she vibrated with tension. “I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can,” he said implacably. He rolled out of the bed and stood close enough to tower over her.

  Her fine dark brows contracted with furious denial and she jerked her chin up until she met his eyes so far above her. “I can’t!”

  She flung herself into restless pacing. The flimsy satin flowed around her slender body, clinging and sliding over thigh and breast and hip with a fascinating liquidity that reminded Matthew of the sea.

  He hadn’t seen the sea in eleven years but he remembered the relentless roll and rush of water. He remembered how he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He certainly couldn’t take his eyes off Grace as she prowled the room like a caged tigress.

  “I will not have that filthy creature salivating over what he thinks you and I do in this bed.” She reached the end of the room and whirled around with such violence that her plait whipped around her head like a lashing tiger’s tail.

  “It doesn’t matter what he thinks as long as he thinks we’re lovers,” Matthew bit out while Grace’s angry humiliation seethed around him like a stormy ocean.

  Such passion she had. How could Monks say she was cold when she invested everything she did with feeling, with heat? Matthew wanted that passion to warm him.

  “I can’t bear it!” She passed so close that her scent teased him. She’d slept in his arms for two nights and now her scent was part of him, like blood or breath. Another turn. Another swish of satin. Another flurry of steps toward him and away and back again.

  He reached out to tug her around to face him. The skin of her arm was smooth and cool under his hand in spite of her quivering rage. “A few insults from a creature like Monks is small price for safety.”

  He was edgy and angry. Monks’s foul insinuations had ripped at him too. Grace’s tempestuous parade around the room only worsened his frustration. He wanted her to devote all that energy to him. If she didn’t calm down, he’d tumble her onto the rumpled sheets and forget his rapidly fraying honor.

  She nodded once and her wary, unhappy eyes sharpened on his face. “I don’t know how you bear living here.”

  “I bear it because I must,” he said grimly. He turned toward a chest and ripped out fresh clothing without paying attention to what he chose. If he stayed within touching distance, he wouldn’t lie when he claimed she was his lover. “I’ll see you at breakfast. We should spend the day together.”

  “For Monks and Filey,” she whispered behind him.

  No, he wanted to say, for me. But he was silent as he left her to her chastity and the sunlit room.

  Grace sat back on her heels away from the now-tidy rose bed and found Lord Sheene watching her. That gold gaze heated her to her marrow.

  All day he’d watched her, at first covertly. As the hours went on, he’d taken less trouble to mask his interest.

  He stood at his workbench potting what looked like another dead stick. He definitely wasn’t concentrating on the task.

  She blushed and looked down to where his attention focused. Her woefully low neckline drooped, revealing the embroidered top of her chemise.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to pull on this particular gown. So far she’d only altered two dresses and Mrs. Filey had removed both for laundering. She raised a hand to tug her décolletage up when something stayed her. Perhaps the hungry intensity of his gaze. Perhaps the barely hidden desolation beneath the sexual interest.

  His uncle had stolen so much from him, even the chance to ogle a pretty girl.

  Well, the only girl he had the chance to ogle was Grace Paget and she couldn’t bring herself to refuse him.

  A decent woman wouldn’t tease a man like this. Josiah would be disgusted with her. But Josiah was gone and she was most definitely alive. And in the grip of a physical enchantment beyond anything she’d imagined possible.

  She wanted Lord Sheene to look at her.

  She let her hand drop to her waist and straightened her spine so her bosom rose high and proud. How she wished there was more of her. Although what there was seemed enough for Lord Sheene. The lines of his face sharpened and a muscle twitched in his cheek. She had no doubt that behind the concealing bench, he hardened. The moisture evaporated from her mouth at the thought.

  “You were talking about extending the franchise,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “Was I?” She vaguely remembered they’d been discussing politics. The marquess, for all his seclusion, was surprisingly well informed, much more than she.

  “Yes.”

  She waited for him to say more. But he was silent while his eyes devoured the curves she paraded like some strumpet hawking her wares in Covent Garden.

  The moment spun on. Her nipples peaked. Her breasts swelled and pushed against her flimsy stays. She knew he noted her arousal. Still she displayed herself.

  He made a jerky movement in her direction. She waited for him to circle the bench, cross the few feet between them, and grab her.

  As he lunged forward, his hand snicked the pot. It toppled and hit the stone flags with a resounding crash.

  “Hell!” he muttered as terracotta smashed around his booted feet.

  Grace leapt up. “I’m sorry,” she said in dismay. These silly games were dangerous enough in the outside world. Here they threatened disaster.

  But it had felt so good when he looked at her, as if he’d die if he stopped.

  “It isn’t your fault.” He dropped to his knees and fished the largest shards out of the scattered dirt. With guilty horror, she saw that his hands shook.

  “Yes, it is,” she said sadly. It wasn’t fair to torment him. Even if tormenting him was so sweet.<
br />
  She knelt to help and they both reached for the same piece. Their fingers met. It was like touching lightning. Her heart gave a great thud and every hair on her skin stood on end. She gasped and made to pull away. He snatched her hand, gripping hard enough to hurt.

  “Grace…” he said in a cracked voice.

  He dragged her forward, almost overbalancing her and cradled her hand against his chest. His heart kicked violently under her palm. Beneath the fine shirt, his skin burned.

  She wanted that heat. She wanted it to envelop her, incinerate her. Only inches separated them. Inches she could bridge with one small tilt of her body. Heavy, liquid desire settled low in her belly.

  Wrenching free, he lurched to his feet. He turned his back, his shoulders heaving as he fought for control.

  She remained on her knees while she waited for her pulse to steady. Very deliberately, she wiped her damp palms on her skirt and took a deep breath.

  Should she give in to what whirled around them? Or leave him to find composure? Was she ready to take that final step? Could she face the inevitable consequences if she did?

  Her heart thundered a mighty yes.

  Still she hesitated. Through nine years of unhappy marriage, she had guarded her reputation like a miser’s treasure. Was she ready to abandon that?

  She bit her lip, studying his tense back, his bent head, those clenched fists pressed so stiffly to his sides.

  She chose the coward’s way.

  “I’ll take Wolfram for a walk,” she said unevenly, rubbing the hand he’d crushed.

  She had to get out of this walled garden before she did something irrevocable. Something virtuous Grace Paget couldn’t countenance. Something that turned her father’s last words to her into an accurate prophecy of her ruin.

  The marquess didn’t answer. Nor did he look at her as she stood up on legs that threatened to fold beneath her.

  “Come, Wolfram.”

  The dog lifted his head from the shade and rose with a stretch. He obediently trotted to her side.

  As she entered the woods, her steps were slow and reluctant and Lord Sheene’s ragged breathing echoed in her ears.

  Grace clicked her fingers to Wolfram to urge him away from a pile of leaves. She’d walked for hours. She knew she should go back to the marquess but she couldn’t bear the tension between them. She just couldn’t bear it. She came to a shuddering halt in the middle of the path and strove for clarity, for strength, for courage.

  All eluded her.

  The huge dog came up and nosed at her hip, clearly wondering why she’d stopped. She pulled gently at his soft ears. “Oh, Wolfram, what am I to do?”

  He must have heard her distress or sensed it in her quivering body because he gave a soft whine and butted her softly with his blunt head. She blinked away tears. She’d moved beyond comfort.

  And she was so tired.

  Tired of fear, tired of fighting her deepest urgings, tired of working out what she should do. She’d wanted Lord Sheene from the first, she recognized. Now controlling her desire was so much more difficult. Now she’d kissed him, held him, touched him.

  Now she knew he wanted her.

  The immediacy of Lord John’s threats had receded with the marquess sharing her bed. As that fear ebbed, fear that she’d succumb to sin flooded in. Desire beat ceaselessly inside her. Nothing silenced it. Not the counsel of prudence. Not the voice of morality. Not even the relentless demands of self-interest.

  Her skin still prickled where he’d held her hand. Her hand! She really was hopelessly infatuated.

  She sank onto a bed of new grass and lay back, closing her eyes. Monks and Filey wouldn’t check the grounds for hours yet. Just for a minute, she’d rest. Before swirling, terrible need stirred again. Before she stepped once more into the turbulent dance of illicit desire.

  Lord Sheene moved in her body, his powerful muscles flexing with each entry and withdrawal. She shifted, lifting her hips so his thrusts went deeper. The friction was delicious, wonderful.

  Not enough.

  She moaned in complaint. He was hot and heavy above her but she wanted more. He said her name softly. She yearned toward the sound.

  He said her name again. She opened her eyes to find him standing at her side, staring down at her.

  A dream, then. All that lovely pleasure had existed only in imagination. Regret bit so sharply, she almost cried out. Guilty heat flooded her face. The fantasy had been so explicit, so uninhibited, so…depraved.

  She blinked, but the dream’s effects were slow to fade. Her breasts ached full and needy for his touch and she was embarrassingly moist between her legs.

  She could smell her own arousal. Could he?

  “Grace?” He looked tense and wary. “It’s late. Come inside before Monks and Filey find you.”

  Still trapped in a fog of longing, she let her eyes feast on the man above her. She was so hot for him, she felt as though she trapped the sun inside her.

  Then she realized the shadows lengthened. She must have slept for hours in the sweet thick grass.

  Dreaming of Lord Sheene’s lovemaking.

  In her dream, she’d been wanton and welcoming. More wanton and welcoming than she’d ever been with Josiah.

  She accepted Lord Sheene’s hand to help her up. But her legs buckled and she staggered against him.

  “Hell and damnation,” he muttered savagely. He grabbed Grace by her upper arms and tugged her into his body. She had a brief, confused impression of strength and heat.

  Then his mouth collided with hers.

  Chapter 13

  Grace’s lips mashed painfully against her teeth. Lord Sheene’s fingers clenched with bruising force around her arms. Where her breasts flattened against his chest, she felt the wild thud of his heart.

  Astonishment held her paralyzed. Then she gave a muffled whimper of discomfort. He must have heard, because abruptly the fierce kiss was over.

  Struggling for breath, she stumbled free. She rubbed her arms as the blood flowed back in a tingling rush. Lord Sheene swung away and stared into the trees. His expression was so desolate, it wrenched her heart.

  “Christ!” he gritted out.

  The self-loathing in the curse made her flinch. Heaven help her, he wasn’t the one who should feel guilty. She’d provoked him with her reckless behavior in the courtyard. Bitter shame ate at her.

  “This is my fault,” she said unsteadily. Her lips still throbbed from his violent ardor.

  He turned tormented gold-flecked eyes on her. Their beauty was stark in a face etched with suffering. “No, it’s damn well not your fault. You can’t hide from what we both know is true. I’ve wanted to touch you from the moment I saw you tied up on that table like some damned heathen sacrifice.”

  She shivered under the searing intensity of his gaze.

  Yes, she knew he wanted her. His desire called to her most secret yearnings. Yearnings she found harder to deny with every hour. Volcanic heat built between them. But any explosion would leave only devastation behind.

  She recognized that. Yet she couldn’t block the thrill that crackled through her as she imagined him kissing her again. Properly this time.

  Oh, Grace, you’re a wicked woman.

  She shivered again. He noticed as he always did. “You’re cold. I’ll take you back to the cottage.” He bowed and presented his arm. They could be in Mayfair instead of trapped inside this luxurious cage. Another shadowy glimpse into the life he should have led. The reminder, as always, filled her with a roiling combination of futile anger and piercing compassion.

  “Grace?” His eyes darkened with familiar self-mistrust. “Or do you prefer your own company?”

  “No.” She placed her hand on his arm and was shocked to feel how he trembled. His veneer of control was wafer-thin.

  For a few fraught moments, they walked in silence. Grace’s lips stung from his attentions, the way they had stung last time he’d kissed her. Regret tightened her throat. Regret for what she d
rove him to, certainly. But even stronger, regret that he withheld the sweetness of his unfettered kiss.

  She knew him well enough to recognize that tenderness formed the bedrock of his soul. Tenderness and strength, although it was the tenderness she longed for most of all. Yet his kisses had been hard, quick, unemotional. Almost cruel.

  Her courage faltered but she couldn’t suppress the curiosity that gnawed at her. “Why did you kiss me like that?”

  He tensed under her hand but didn’t, as she expected, pull free. “I told you why. We needn’t dwell on it. Unless, of course, you find my humiliation diverting.”

  The last taunting remark reminded her of his sarcasm when she first arrived. Then his jarring wit had been a defense against the woman he believed his enemy.

  What did he defend himself against now?

  Her fingers curled against his shirt sleeve, forcing him to stop and face her. “Why were you so rough?”

  He flushed under her searching regard. A muscle flickered in his cheek as he jerked free. “I’ve already apologized. What more do you want? Blood? I’m sure I can oblige.”

  “You know that’s not true,” she said softly.

  His voice was harsh. “You leave me no pride. You must guess you’re the first woman I’ve seen since I was fourteen. You must guess what that means.” He drew in a jagged breath. “Now, for God’s sake, leave me alone.”

  She hardly heard his biting command. Instead, she stood in appalled silence.

  Curse her for a blind, insensitive fool. How could she not have known? He’d fallen ill when little more than a boy. Since then he’d been Lord John’s prisoner. Every day it became more heartbreakingly apparent how much his uncle had stolen from him.

  The marquess watched her, his remarkable eyes filled with despair. “Go on, laugh. I’m twenty-five years old and until I saw you, I’ve never touched a woman in passion.” His expressive mouth twisted in a humorless smile. “My uncle should exhibit me as one of the wonders of the age.”