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this fanciful tale of abduction. But the widow’s weeds, the panic, the pleading, even the induced sickness, none gull
    me into believing your story. I am wise to your trickery.”
    “You’re mad,” she breathed, as the nightmare closed around her in a blinding fog.
    He shrugged. “Surely my uncle cannot have neglected to inform you of that. What other reason could he offer for my
    confinement?”
    She shook her head in bewilderment. The impossible thing was he looked as sane as any man she’d ever known, even
    while his words made no sense. She focused on the part that was easiest to deny.
    “I’ve never met your uncle.”
    An expression of haughty displeasure crossed his features. “You cling to your lies. No matter. You’ll tire of the
    masquerade.” He turned away. “Come, Wolfram.” Obediently, the hound trotted after him as he strode off.
    Disbelievingly she watched the retreat of that straight back in its loose white shirt.
    “You’re leaving me here?” She cursed the words for emerging as protest rather than demand.
    “Follow me back to the house or stay out here for Monks and Filey to find when they check the grounds,” he said without
    looking at her. His tone was indifferent and his manner was dismissive as he walked off.
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    Her trembling fingers dug into the rough bark behind her. “But you mean to rape me,” she said shakily.
    He paused to send her an unreadable glance over his shoulder. “Perhaps not immediately.”
    She looked into those odd eyes and wondered why she was convinced that at least for now, he posed no physical threat.
    Which was absurd as he admitted he was mad, he’d made no promises, and he clearly harbored misconceptions about
    what sort of woman she was. All she had to weigh against these facts was that he’d been kind when she was ill. And he
    was yet to hurt her.
    “Who are you?” She straightened and lifted her chin.
    Again, that grim smile. “Why, I am the master of this pathetic kingdom, my lady.”
    She swallowed sick nervousness. “Does this master have a name?”
    He faced her fully so the sun gilded his high cheekbones. “Didn’t my uncle tell you?”
    “Indulge me,” she said unsteadily.
    “As you wish.” He bowed as though they’d been introduced at a ball. The elegance of the sarcastic gesture made the
    breath catch in her throat. “I am Matthew Lansdowne, Marquess of Sheene.”
    She frowned. Could she trust what he said? The Marquess of Sheene was one of the richest men in England. What was he
    doing here, locked away from the world?
    His henchmen called him the marquess. The luxury of his surroundings indicated someone with gold to ensure comfort.
    Perhaps he really was who he claimed to be.
    His attention fixed upon her as though she were a botanical specimen. It was unnerving. Or would have been if her
    nerves didn’t already jangle. “Will you do me a similar favor?”
    “What do you mean?”
    A shadow of impatience darkened that striking face. “Your name, girl. What is it?”
    She spoke without thinking. “Grace Paget, my lord.”
    “Grace,” he said musingly, his eyes never leaving her.
    She had no illusions about what he saw. A faded woman in shabby clothing who had endured too much sorrow and
    witnessed too much privation.
    Then she wondered why she minded. She didn’t want him to notice her as a man noticed a woman. Her situation was
    precarious enough.
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    She waited for some comment on her name, perhaps a remark that it didn’t suit her. The recollection of how she’d been
    sick in front of him revolted her. She had a sudden sharp memory of his care for her. Surely someone so considerate in
    such circumstances wouldn’t use her against her will.
    But what did she know of men her