Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  Into the Bedroom

  She stepped into the masculine environs of dark wood walls and forest green draperies. Though unoccupied, the room breathed Grayson’s familiar scent, a heady mingling of the earthy outdoors and genteel grooming, entirely masculine, vaguely unsettling and undeniably arousing.

  To her right stood a bureau, wide and high, its top littered with Grayson’s personal effects. She couldn’t help running her fingers over a comb and brush, his silver pocket watch. A cravat lay coiled beside his watch. She picked it up, the fine linen leaving traces of dampness across her fingertips.

  ‘‘How odd.’’

  ‘‘Indeed.’’

  At the sound of the rumbling baritone, Nora yelped. Her gaze searched the dusky corners; at first she didn’t see him. But she felt him. Oh, she felt his presence filling the room and surrounding her like a physical embrace.

  He stood in the dressing room doorway, taking shape from the surrounding gloom like an apparition materializing from thin air. A full day’s growth shaded his jaw in baleful reflection of the shadows beneath his eyes. His clothes, a white shirt lying open at the neck and tight breeches tucked into riding boots, seemed to adhere to his body like a second skin. She saw a scratch at the corner of his eye, another across the bridge of his nose.

  Had he been brawling?

  As he returned her stare, his nostrils flared and his stark blue eyes simmered with . . . anger, displeasure . . . desire? Whatever it was both chilled her and lit a smoldering fire inside her . . . and made her want to defy her fears and go to him. Go to him and kiss the scrapes on his face, soothe the wounds in his heart.

  He pushed forward into the room. ‘‘Good afternoon, Lady Lowell. Perhaps you’d care to explain what the blazes you’re doing here.’’

  Praise for Dark Obsession

  ‘‘Allison Chase’s Dark Obsession dishes up a wonderful story in a charming, romantic tradition, complete with a handsome and tortured hero, real conflict, and a touch of mystery! Anyone who loves . . . a well-written historical romance will relish this tale.’’

  —Heather Graham

  ‘‘A compelling and exquisitely written love story that raises such dark questions along the way, you’ve no choice but to keep turning the pages to its stunning conclusion. Allison Chase is a master at touching your heart.’’

  —Jennifer St. Giles, author of Silken Shadows

  ‘‘Intriguing! A beguiling tale. Moody and atmospheric.’’

  —Eve Silver, author of Dark Prince

  ‘‘A haunted hero and a determined heroine create sparks in Dark Obsession. With a nod to Daphne du Maurier, this sexy story weaves together irresistible romance and ghostly warnings that lead to the truth hidden in a wounded heart. Filled with adventure and danger, deception and desire, this is a book you won’t forget.’’

  —Jocelyn Kelley, author of Kindred Spirits

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Lisa Manuel, 2008

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 1-4362-0520-4

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Sara and Erin.

  Remember, kids, when you work

  hard enough, dreams come true!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my editor, Ellen Edwards, and my agent, Evan Marshall, two extraordinary members of the publishing industry who have inspired me to look closer and dig deeper to produce my best work. Your enthusiasm and encouragement are appreciated more than you can know.

  Heartfelt thanks to an incredibly talented group of authors whom I am especially lucky to call friends: Zelda Benjamin, Nancy J. Cohen, Sharon Hartley, Karen Kendall, and Cynthia Thomason. You have all kept me going through times when it might have seemed easier to quit.

  And special thanks and my love to Paul, who has shown me and continues to show me in countless ways what being a real hero is all about.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1830

  Today promised to be a day of singular distinction— indeed, the fiinest day of Honora Thorngoode’s life. In a few short moments she would fiinally step out from behind her parents’ long and admittedly awkward shadows and become her own person, recognized and possibly even admired by those who had discreetly snubbed their noses at those ‘‘upstart Thorngoodes’’ all her life.

  Best of all, she would achieve the one thing she’d craved for as long as she could remember, a thing she dreamed about and rehearsed, alone in her bedchamber, since she was a little girl. Yes, today would be her triumph.

  Upon arriving at the Marshall Street Art Gallery, however, the upsurge of anticipation that had buoyed her while dressing that morning and prevented her from eating so much as a morsel at breakfast ebbed liked the seaward tug of the Thames.

  Two strides in and she sensed an appalling lack of ever
ything she had envisioned for this moment. There should have been exclamations, applause, glasses of champagne. . . .

  The gallery should have teemed with admirers of Signore Alessio di Paolo’s masterpieces. Oh, the ton had arrived en masse, to be sure. Yet the Italian master’s oils proclaimed his genius to empty air, while a veritable throng stood crowded into a lone corner of the gallery, the huddled figures concealing from view the single artwork that had so utterly captured their attention.

  An abrupt and deadening silence blanketed the room as the street door closed behind Nora and her parents. As thick as cheese, that silence, as heads turned and stares fell like tumbling dominoes upon her face.

  Oh yes, something was very wrong indeed.

  As the seconds ticked by, she scanned the faces for a smile, a wink of encouragement. She found none, only an awful gawking that scalded from head to toe.

  Surely her Portrait of a Southwark Madam, the one Alessio had promised to include in the viewing, could not have engendered so much controversy, so much . . . enmity. But even as the thought formed, the horde of judgment across the room stiffened and, seemingly as one, took a decisive shuffle backward, as if to put as much distance as possible between it and her.

  Was her painting as wretched as all that?

  She darted a glance to her right. Her mother’s expression held its usual mingling of self-satisfaction and simpering opportunism. Millicent Thorngoode had never approved of Nora’s connection to Signore Alessio. For years now she had bemoaned Nora’s dabbling in a man’s occupation, as she’d put it, and disdained with wearisome sighs the paint that always found its way beneath Nora’s fingernails. Still, Mama had hoped today might present her daughter in a more fashionable light. Might even, with a bit of luck, entice some eligible young bachelor to offer for her.

  At the moment Nora wasn’t feeling particularly fashionable, nor did a blessed one of those glares seem in the least bit enticed.

  Her father, flanking her left side, perceived it too, or his rough-hewn features would not have realigned so instantly from a moue of indulgent pride to one of icy challenge, as if daring the first insult to fly.

  ‘‘Where on earth is Signore Alessio?’’ Her mother’s query jarred the stillness. A speculative fluster fanned through the crowd.

  Where indeed. Alessio should be here to greet his guests and admirers, and to unveil the painting he had praised as Nora’s first true masterpiece. What manner of ill fortune would have kept him away today of all days?

  She had one choice—only one. Proceed with chin held high across that gallery and learn what everyone else so obviously knew, or at least apparently agreed upon.

  The assemblage parted at her approach, slowly opening a narrow path that lengthened with each step she took. Her parents trailed behind. Ahead, through the spreading crowd, the colors and shapes imprinted on a rectangular canvas began to take form—a form categorically not that of Southwark Madam.

  The madam’s portrait contained no sweeping expanses of crimson, nor did its colors fade into dark, velvety oblivion at the painting’s edges as this one’s did. Within the scarlet tones of this work, strokes of fairest rose blended with smoothest ivory. A sheen of gold added luster to a swath of rich chestnut. . . .

  ‘‘He’s a dead man!’’

  Zachariah Thorngoode’s shout drowned out Nora’s strangled cry, an outpouring of dismay that left her mouth agape. Eyes aching in their sockets, she gawked—like her audience—at a portrait depicting, in mortifying detail, her very self sprawled on satin bed linens, as naked as the day she entered the world.

  Horror bloomed, ran riot within her. The images seared like molten lead that solidified in the pit of her stomach. Good gracious, the thighs were parted, breasts exposed. . . . One hand cupped her private parts. . . . The other arm—long and slender like her very own—stretched behind her head, fingers tangled in locks of hair. . . .

  Within seconds, indignation worked its way past her dumbfounded shock. ‘‘I didn’t. I never. That is not me.’’

  Across the room, a brocade curtain swept open to reveal the stout figure of Signore Alessio. With a tug on his tailcoat he stepped forward. One fine-boned hand extended toward her, a rose balanced on the ends of his long fingers.

  ‘‘Now you see how much I love you,’’ he said in his accented English. His gaze shifted. ‘‘And now you, Signore and Signora Thorngoode, have no choice but to allow me to marry your daughter.’’

  ‘‘Then, by the devil, she’ll be married and widowed in the same instant!’’

  Her father’s pounding footsteps and Alessio’s scampering ones muffled but did not entirely mask the swish and thud of Millicent’s senseless body swaying, then hitting the floor.

  Beyond a doubt this had proved the worst day of Nora Thorngoode’s life.

  ‘‘Marriage.’’

  ‘‘But, Papa—’’

  ‘‘Immediately.’’ Millicent Thorngoode’s high-pitched pronouncement reverberated up the parlor’s walls. The crystal chandelier above their heads tinkled, a sound as brittle as Nora’s taut nerves.

  ‘‘Now, Mama, we mustn’t act rashly.’’

  ‘‘Rashly?’’ Her mother’s hand flew to cup her forehead, as if in preparation of repeating her earlier swoon. ‘‘You’re a fine one to speak of acting rashly. Perhaps you should have considered the notion before posing—’’

  ‘‘It wasn’t me—’’

  ‘‘—nude and shameless for all the world to—’’

  ‘‘I did not pose for that portrait!’’

  At a warning twitch of her father’s eyebrow, she bit down on her tongue and laced her fingers tight, as if that might rein in her galloping anger, her staggering frustration.

  Oh, how could that man have done this to her? Perhaps she shouldn’t have raced after Papa at the gallery; perhaps she should have allowed Alessio to meet his just end for disgracing her. . . .

  Several breaths passed before she trusted herself to speak. ‘‘As I’ve explained countless times, Mama, that portrait came entirely from Alessio’s imagination. I had no part in it. We therefore needn’t speak of marriage—’’

  ‘‘There’s no other way, Nora.’’ Her father scowled. ‘‘Real or imagined, this debacle has struck your reputation an irreparable blow. By Christ, there can be no recovering from it. If only the whoreson hadn’t slipped off to God knows where, he’d be supping with the devil this very moment.’’

  Nora reached across the table and slipped her hand over his, the thick-veined, coarse-haired hand of a commoner. ‘‘Papa, he did slip away, didn’t he? I mean, you haven’t . . .’’

  Her mother’s palm slapped the tabletop. ‘‘Of what are you accusing your father, Honora?’’

  She chewed her lip. Nearly all her life she’d heard whispers about her father’s travels across the world as a young man convicted of thievery; how he’d escaped the Australian penal colony and fought his way back to England via the Americas with the makings of a fortune in his pockets. Once home, he had allowed no one to stand in his way as he forged a veritable golden path from one end of London to the other, or so the rumors had it.

  She had always wondered what, precisely, people meant by his not allowing anyone to stand in his way. . . .

  With a sigh, she stared into her father’s murky blue eyes and answered her mother’s question. ‘‘I am not accusing Papa of anything.’’

  ‘‘Trust me, sweeting.’’ His gravely voice gentled as it once had when he’d soothed her childhood hurts or lulled her to sleep. ‘‘Wherever that scoundrel may be, as God is my witness, he arrived there by his own power, not mine.’’

  Her gaze fell and she nodded.

  ‘‘He’s likely halfway to Florence by now, if he knows what’s good for him.’’ Her mother plucked a pear from the Meissen bowl at the center of the polished walnut table. Juice sprayed as she bit into the fruit; more dribbled onto her chin as she said, ‘‘And you, child, will be married just as soon as your father and I can find a s
uitable groom.’’

  ‘‘A suitable groom?’’ Nora swallowed an ironic chortle. Finding a son-in-law had been her mother’s one and only goal these past five years, since Nora’s eighteenth birthday. She’d virtually scoured the ton from top to bottom and sideways in pursuit of an eligible candidate—not that there hadn’t existed a surfeit of wellborn bucks in the city. There were plenty. Just none that wished to marry Nora.

  The dismal fact had once convinced her, despite Papa’s sincerest assurances to the contrary, that she lacked the physical attributes necessary to attract a man. And it was true that she’d been a rather late bloomer, with the awkwardness of adolescence lingering several years longer than she would have preferred.

  But nowadays her mirror professed the truth, that while perhaps not having achieved extraordinary beauty, time had nonetheless softened a reedy figure, smoothed unruly hair and whitened a freckled complexion. She could only conclude that perhaps it wasn’t any deficiency on her part, but rather Mama’s voracious, often embarrassing efforts—and yes, Papa’s shadowy reputation too—that drove the young men away.

  Perhaps they should have allowed her to marry Alessio. The thought barely concluded before a shudder skipped across her shoulders. As a painting master he’d fulfilled her heart’s desires. But as a husband . . .

  No, she had never felt so much as a twinge of desire in that respect. Not to mention that the brute had proved himself a scoundrel beyond redemption this very afternoon.

  ‘‘Perhaps a trip abroad.’’ She brightened at the notion. ‘‘What a charming adventure Paris would present, and I could study painting with some of the most celebrated—’’

  ‘‘Painting—bah!’’ Tiny pieces of pear accompanied her mother’s outburst. She leaned as though taking aim from across the table; indeed, she pointed her half-bitten pear at Nora. ‘‘You’ll never paint again, young lady, not if I have anything to say about it. Art has utterly ruined you! Great bloody heavens, displayed before all of London like a common—’’