Untouched Read online

  “I commend your wisdom.” He inclined his head slightly as if acknowledging a point in a fencing match.

  She was a universe away from what he’d imagined when his uncle first broached this revolting scheme. Lord John had offered to get him a tart to while away his hours. Matthew had pictured a much-used doxy hardened to her profession. However desperate he was—and desperation near seeped from his skin—he’d been sure he could withstand the tired blandishments of a painted harpy.

  His arrogant assurance had been misplaced. For, of course, Lord John was a subtle man and had eschewed the obvious.

  Instead, his uncle had found…perfection.

  God, he couldn’t stay, suspended by the power of pleading cobalt eyes. Almost blindly, he made for the door.

  “Wait! Please.” He couldn’t misunderstand her frantic tone. “Don’t leave me here. Untie me at least, I beg of you.”

  He swung his head back toward her. “I believe it to my advantage to have you constrained.”

  To untie her, he must touch her. The memory of her satiny cheek under his hand still burned like acid, fleeting as the mocking caress had been.

  “Please. I…I think I’m going to be sick.”

  She dragged in a shuddering breath that made her breasts rise, round and enticing, against the loosened front of her faded black dress. He resented the fact that he noticed.

  “Don’t practice your tricks on me,” he snarled.

  “No. I mean it,” she said unsteadily.

  In truth, the wench’s alabaster complexion showed an alarmingly green tinge. She’d closed her eyes and dark marks beneath them stood out like bruises.

  He paused. Perhaps this wasn’t a ruse.

  Reluctantly, he strode across to that cursed table where he’d spent so many hideous hours. All the way, he derided himself for a soft-headed fool. This slut was his enemy and in league with all his other enemies.

  Even while the litany ran through his mind, he tugged swiftly at the tapes that held her. As soon as she was free, she struggled into a sitting position.

  “Sir, I’m afraid I…”

  Yes, the ashen skin definitely held a sickly hue. While she lied about so much else, she was definitely ill. He scanned the room and found what he wanted. Fortunately, just an arm’s length away.

  “Here.” He shoved a large blue and white bowl into her shaking hands.

  She mumbled something that might have been thanks then bent to retch miserably into the dish. Her physical discomfort awoke grudging sympathy, despite what Matthew knew of her. When finally her stomach settled, he sat with his arm around her to keep her from collapsing.

  He tried to ignore the warm, womanly feel of her, but it was impossible. She fit against his side as if created to curve into him. His hand automatically conformed to the sinuous shape of her body, so different from the hard masculine angles of his. The deep V of her unbuttoned bodice revealed shadowy glimpses of her breasts. A clever touch, he thought bleakly, trying to distance himself from the urge to see more.

  She trembled and laid her head back on his shoulder in a gesture of absolute exhaustion. The braids circling her head were untidy and soft tendrils of hair pleasurably tickled his jaw.

  “Rest for a moment,” he murmured into that silky black mass of hair.

  Gently, he reached across to disengage the bowl. He set it beside him on the table. She hadn’t brought up very much. He guessed her stomach was empty. Certainly, the body he held so unwillingly was thin to the point of emaciation. She felt fragile, as if the slightest pressure might shatter her.

  “It must be the laudanum they gave me last night,” she whispered. “It’s never agreed with me.”

  Laudanum? The word, with its hint of compulsion, hovered as a question on the edge of his mind. Then his concentration returned to the woman lying bonelessly in his embrace. He angled himself so he could see the round smoothness of her forehead and the straight, oddly aristocratic nose. She was beautiful. He’d recognized that immediately.

  Recognized and railed against it.

  The oval face with its exotically slanted cheekbones reminded him of etchings he’d seen of Italian Madonnas. His uncle had been generous in giving him books to make up for the Grand Tour he’d never undertake.

  His gaze fastened on where delicate color returned to her lush mouth. Its fullness belied the impression of purity. That mouth made even such a sorry excuse for a man as Matthew dream of sin.

  Oh, she was skilled at this game. In a matter of moments, she had him just where she wanted. His uncle had coached her well. Although why a woman with her looks and acting talent should whore herself to a madman remained a puzzle.

  If he didn’t know better, her show of vulnerability and hard-won courage against overwhelming fear would take him in. Any theater management would vie for her services. Any predatory nobleman would vie for services of a more intimate nature.

  Abruptly, he felt sullied by his pity.

  She fumbled in her skirts—for a handkerchief, he supposed. He suppressed another curse and thrust his own in her direction. “Here.”

  “Thank you.” She wiped her mouth with a trembling hand.

  “Can you sit without help now?” he asked grimly, for once not caring if his genuine emotions emerged without subterfuge. He’d determined to remain cool and uninvolved, but some things were beyond mere mortals. He’d been angry for years, but this cruel charade honed his rage.

  “Yes, I think so.” Gingerly, she drew away.

  Immediately, he missed her warmth and teasing female scent. She smelled of sunshine and dust and the faintest trace of lavender soap. Another subtle touch. This whore didn’t use heady scents of the Orient to draw a man’s attention. Instead, she smelled fresh and natural and real.

  Ironic, given she was nothing but falsehood.

  She braced herself by hooking her fingers around the edge of the table. He was close enough to see the tremors that racked her slim frame. With difficulty, he resisted the urge to lend her his hand.

  He damned his uncle yet again. And just as fruitlessly.

  Even in boyhood, Matthew couldn’t pass a sick or injured animal without trying to help. Lord John must have decided the best way to destroy his nephew was through this weakness. That fatal sympathy for the brave, the hurt, the gentle was meant to be his undoing.

  The girl looked at him fully for the first time since he’d released her. The laudanum had shrunk her pupils to black pinpoints, leaving her irises impossibly blue.

  Nice touch, Uncle, he thought sourly. Drugging her makes her appear so much more the victim. He had to remember this woman’s frail gallantry was an act.

  “Forgive me, sir. I have inconvenienced you and embarrassed myself.”

  Still that strange courtly demeanor. The discomfort over her loss of control befitted any fine lady. He could have told her she wasted her time. He knew exactly what she was. His uncle had promised him a tart. A tart she most definitely was.

  He shrugged, unfazed by her nausea. “It is of no importance.”

  What right had he to be squeamish? In his fits, he’d lost control over his bodily functions. Why else should the bowl be kept convenient to the table where they’d strapped him so often? Although, thank God, he hadn’t required that particular treatment for a long time.

  She cast him an uncertain glance under those wickedly luxuriant lashes. “Still, you were kind. Thank you.”

  He had to shatter this damned enthrallment she so effortlessly exercised. Holding her had been too sweet. But then, it was years since he’d either given or received comfort. The insidious pleasure was a purely animal reaction and nothing to do with the actual woman in his arms.

  Or so he tried to tell himself.

  “I am many things, madam,” he said coldly as he stood. “Kind is not one of them.”

  He saw her face change. Briefly, her physical crisis had swamped fear. Fear flooded back as she remembered she was alone with a self-confessed madman. Her trembling fingers rose t
o clutch her loose neckline together.

  What a masterly performance. Why was such an accomplished actress rusticating in darkest Somerset? She should be dazzling a packed house at Drury Lane.

  “I have to get out of here,” she muttered, more to herself than him, he thought. She rose to unsteady feet and backed toward the door. His handkerchief fluttered onto the floor to lie like a lost banner of surrender.

  “There’s nowhere to run,” he said mildly. Oh, she was good, but he was on to her deception. “The estate is walled. Filey and Monks guard the only gate. And I doubt my uncle will release you from your engagement so early in the play’s season.”

  She frowned as if she didn’t understand. Her beautiful eyes were glassy. Her unsteadiness developed a distinct sway. An alarming sway.

  “Christ!” he bit out as she began to crumple.

  He dived across the short distance and caught her before she crashed. Immediately, the heady and jarringly innocent scents of sunshine and soap flooded his senses.

  “Sir, would you kindly restrain your language?” she whispered against his throat. Her breath on his skin set his blood leaping with awareness and it took him a second to realize what she’d said.

  He gave a disbelieving snort of laughter. For God’s sake, she had more important things to worry about than his manners. But his hold was careful as he gathered her up and carried her through to the salon.

  “I insist you put me down,” she said with a woeful lack of force.

  “If I put you down, you’ll only fall at my feet.”

  He waited for an argument but none was forthcoming. She was near the limit of her resources, he saw.

  After this last year, he wasn’t as strong as he had been. But her slight weight posed no difficulty. Again, his attention caught on the signs of deprivation. The outdated dress. The thinness. Even her shoes were worn and cracked.

  He settled her more comfortably and stoically ignored the way her breasts brushed his chest. She might be insubstantial as a wraith. But he’d immediately observed she was without doubt a female wraith.

  He laid her on the sofa near the empty grate, brushing the open book he’d left there to the floor. “Lie back,” he said softly, sliding a red velvet cushion behind her tousled dark head.

  She tried to draw away but weakness defeated her. Her perfect profile stood out in austere clarity against the rich material. His breath hitched in his throat at her beauty.

  “Don’t touch me.” She closed her eyes and a tear slid down her smooth cheek.

  Her terror and unhappiness called so strongly to his compassion that it was an effort to speak with disdain. “You’re safe enough.” Then in a harder voice, because she was his enemy, however lovely and vulnerable she seemed, “You couldn’t fight me off now, even if you wanted to.”

  A startled cobalt glance darted up to his face. He kept his expression implacable as he turned toward the sideboard to pour her a brandy.

  He returned to the couch and extended the small crystal glass. She barely had strength to lift her head. She was shivering and he could hear each ragged breath she took.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered and leaned forward to support her as she drank.

  She flashed him a disapproving look under her lowered dark brows but refrained from censuring him. She took a sip and started to choke.

  He swore again and pulled her up against him so she could catch her breath. How his uncle would preen if he were here. Matthew had sworn he’d never lay a finger on any woman Lord John found. Yet he coddled and cosseted this conniving baggage as if she were an ailing princess. It had taken the wench only minutes to wheedle her way into his arms.

  He had to admire her cleverness, if nothing else.

  Oh, be honest, he derided himself. So far, you admire everything about her apart from the fact that she’s on Lord John’s side and not yours.

  “Drink, damn you,” he growled, snatching the glass which she was about to drop and pressing it to her bloodless lips.

  “After an invitation like that, how can I refuse?” she replied breathlessly, then took a few small sips. “Could I have some water, do you think?”

  He almost smiled as he added sheer bravado to the growing list of things he admired about her. “Whatever madam desires. I exist but to serve.”

  Her drawn features didn’t lighten. He had a sudden burning need to see her smile. Savagely, he stifled the urge.

  What did he care if a whore chose to smile? He had enough trouble when she was on the brink of collapse. He returned the brandy glass to the sideboard and filled another glass from the pitcher of water.

  “Thank you,” she said with that odd politeness.

  He stood and surveyed her as she drank. One of her protectors must have had pretensions to gentility. Or perhaps she was the wayward daughter of a good family. She spoke with the smooth cadences of the wealthy classes and he couldn’t fault her courtesy.

  She leaned back against the sofa. The temptation was raw to take her in his arms again. To comfort and support only, he told himself desperately. Although as he’d held her, he hadn’t missed the supple indent of her waist or the winsome arch of her hip or the firm roundness of her bosom. And her damned evocative scent lingered, luring him closer and closer.

  He gazed down at her with a mixture of helpless wonder and furious denial. He wanted to curse and insult her. He wanted to rage and rant and tear the room up like the madman he was supposed to be.

  Instead, he found himself asking, “Are you hungry?”

  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as if the air itself offered sustenance. The rise and fall of her chest only made him more aware of the beautiful shape of her breasts. They weren’t large but on a woman of her extreme slenderness, they seemed miraculously voluptuous. His fingers curled at his sides as if he already tested the weight and shape of her.

  “Madam, when did you last eat?” he asked more insistently.

  She roused from her uneasy doze. “I had some bread and cheese at breakfast yesterday,” she said dully.

  “I’ll get you something,” he said, more relieved than he wanted to admit at having a valid excuse to escape her presence. That shaming relief was graphic demonstration of how dangerous she was.

  He was a man of unfailing will. Will was all that kept him alive. But half an hour in her company threatened to turn him into her creature. And she hadn’t even started to work her seductive wiles. She’d been too sick.

  God help him when she regained her health. She’d have him on his knees in five minutes flat.

  No, damn her, she wouldn’t win.

  He’d fought his uncle all these years and not given up. No mere scrap of a girl would vanquish him.

  Still, only when he went through to the kitchen did he manage an unconstrained breath. His first unconstrained breath since he’d discovered her.

  “It’s more bread and cheese. There wasn’t much else in the larder.” He angled the laden tray through the door.

  The girl didn’t answer. He supposed she was asleep. She’d looked weary to the point of exhaustion. Quietly, he came round the end of the sofa.

  He wasted his consideration. The sofa was empty.

  He set the tray on the dresser with a thud. So the strumpet had run off. The estate was impossible to escape. He could vouch for that after years of trying to break free.

  Clearly, she’d decided no amount of money compensated for sharing her bed with a lunatic.

  He couldn’t blame her. The assignment had probably sounded promising when his uncle outlined it. He knew how persuasive his guardian could be when he concentrated that magnetic personality on someone he wanted to charm or manipulate. Charm and manipulate, Matthew thought with a bleak laugh. The two were the same to John Lansdowne.

  Well, let her try to run. She’d tire soon enough and come back. Even if she didn’t, it was nothing to him. He’d intended to rid himself of her intrusive presence. He should be glad he’d achieved his goal so easily.

  Gl
ad? He should be bloody well chanting hallelujahs.

  She’d flee to Monks and Filey and they’d take her back to where they’d found her. This distasteful farce would end.

  Except Monks and Filey had gone to a deal of trouble to fetch the trollop. They wouldn’t be pleased to discover she’d changed her mind. When they weren’t pleased, they were inventive in expressing their disappointment. He carried scars from occasions when their inventiveness had exceeded even its usual bounds.

  The girl would be at their mercy.

  The girl was here to spy on him.

  He bent to pick up his book. She’d involved herself in his uncle’s schemes. She deserved whatever happened to her.

  But as he sat and found his place on the page, his mind focused not on the Latin treatise but on large dark blue eyes that silently begged for his help.

  He should abandon her to her fate but she’d be frighteningly defenseless against his uncle’s thugs.

  “Christ,” he grated out, slamming the book shut.

  He had a sudden piercing memory of her disapproval for his uncouth language.

  The chit had courage but courage wouldn’t save her from his jailers. Knowing he was a fool, but unable to stop himself, Matthew surged to his feet and went in search of his unlikely harlot.

  Chapter 3

  Grace buckled over at the waist and struggled for breath. Late afternoon sun shone warm on her bare head while bitter hopelessness sapped her determination. Since her husband Josiah’s illness, despair had become a familiar visitor. But never before had despair dug its icy fingers so deep into her craven soul.

  She’d hardly believed her luck when her unsettling companion had left her alone. Fear had lent a spurious strength when she’d leapt from the sofa and run. Since that euphoric moment, she’d searched doggedly for a way out.

  There was no way out.

  The decorative but hostile marquess took no risk in letting her go. The boundary wall stretched before her as it had stretched since she’d reached it. High, white, and polished to a slippery smoothness that offered no handholds. Even so, she’d tried several times to deny the evidence of her eyes and scale it. Now the harsh truth battered at her that someone worked extremely hard to keep the young man a prisoner.