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for all their beauty. A sudden fancy took her
    that her abductors ogled her from the thick woods. She dredged up the energy to stumble across the smooth green lawn
    after the marquess.
    Grace looked into the mirror in the charming bedroom that the marquess had indicated was hers. Terrified eyes stared
    back and she chewed nervously on her lower lip, a childhood habit she’d never broken.
    “You’ve survived so far,” she whispered to her reflection. “You will keep surviving.”
    If only she believed it.
    Swallowing her dread before it strangled her, she picked up one of a heavy set of silver men’s brushes from the dresser
    and hurriedly rebraided her hair. She’d managed a wash and she’d removed the worst of the dust from her dress but she
    still looked tired and hungry and poor. And far too frail to fend off lecherous noblemen.
    In the glass, she saw Lord Sheene prowl into the room behind her. The fear Grace had struggled to dam flooded back.
    The large bed in the corner suddenly loomed as the most significant object in the room. She snatched up the brush like a
    weapon and whirled around.
    He gave a bark of contemptuous laughter. “Do you intend to groom me to death?” He turned back to the door. “Monks
    has brought dinner in. If you’re contemplating murder, you’ll need to keep your strength up.”
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    How she hated his effortless superiority. Was this just a game to him? Her fear. Her helplessness. Her resistance.
    Reviving anger flowed hot through her veins, swamping her earlier cowardice.
    Nothing and no one in the last years had defeated her. And nor would this ramshackle lunatic.
    She raised her chin and gave him a frosty stare. She might be a Paget now but she’d been born a Marlow and a Marlow
    had every right to look a Lansdowne in the eye. He’d learn she wasn’t a woman to trifle with. She wouldn’t collapse in
    abject terror because he had the gall to mock her.
    “If you’ll lead the way, my lord?” she said coolly.
    With deliberate firmness, she replaced the brush on its silver tray laced with ornate engraved Ls. ForLansdowne , she
    supposed. Although the letter would better stand forlout orlecher orlunatic.
    His gaze sharpened on her face as if he tried to solve a puzzle. She braced herself for more derision, but he merely
    gestured for her to precede him down the narrow staircase.
    In the cottage’s main room, the room she’d escaped earlier with such futile hope, candlelight flickered on polished wood
    and rich fabrics. The table was laid with gleaming china and crystal.
    The whole cottage was furnished in the most expensive taste. The only hint of its real purpose—as a madman’s cell—was
    that horrible bench where she’d been restrained. The rest of the house conjured ideas of a wealthy man’s love nest.
    She blushed. Even if this place were a voluptuary’s hideaway, that didn’t mean she must accept the role of voluptuary’s
    plaything.
    He came up behind her. “The food grows cold.”
    Her nerves tightened. She was alone with a powerful and unpredictable monster.
    Although when she took her place at the table, she thought he looked anything but a monster. He’d troubled to put on a
    black coat and a neckcloth. Above the snowy folds, his face was intent and thoughtful. And guarded. Those heavy-lidded
    eyes and strong bones hid secrets.
    Was one of those secrets that he’d lost his mind?
    No, he freely admitted that, didn’t he?
    He slid a filled plate in front of her then returned to the sideboard for his own meal. The elegance of his movements
    distracted her and she took a moment to realize she hadn’t seen food like this since she’d run away from her father’s
    house at sixteen.
    When the marquess sat opposite, he must have caught her dazed wonder. Again, she marked how he studied her. She hid
    a shiver of fear and despite her