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Lord John had tossed her over into the marquess’s lines like agrenado 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
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    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.
    From her place on the sofa, she surveyed the stuffed bookcases lining the salon. Josiah had been an unsuccessful
    bookseller before he became an unsuccessful farmer. She knew to the penny what a fortune all this gold-embossed
    Moroccan leather and creamy paper constituted.
    Grace put down the novel she’d hardly glanced at through the afternoon. The marquess must be a committed reader.
    Books in several languages and on hundreds of topics surrounded her. Unlike other libraries she’d seen, these books had
    been read, some many times over if creases on the bindings spoke true.
    He was a great annotator. She sought out books he’d made notes in, although she was horrified that anyone would
    scribble over such fine volumes. The comments gave her some clue to his character, clues his continual absence kept to a
    minimum.
    She’d also been through his desk, an unforgivable breach of privacy, but she was too desperate to contain her curiosity.
    She’d found letters from Lord John Lansdowne, short, curt, discreet, unless one knew what occurred on this enclosed
    estate.
    More interesting had been drafts of articles in English, French, and Latin by someone calledRhodon. She
    assumedRhodon was the marquess. Correspondence from editors of learned journals throughout Europe. Admiring notes
    from fellow scientists. Figures and notations that made little sense to her. Packages of papers forwarded from a London
    solicitor.Rhodon communicated via intermediaries with his intellectual cronies. She’d even found volumes of what at first
    she triumphantly decided were diaries. They’d