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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,
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    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 to 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
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