Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  As they neared the threshold he slowed, caught by a familiar sight, one he’d grown so accustomed to over the years he typically paid it scant regard.

  Until now.

  To the left of the French doors, in a carved frame some four feet in length and three in height, hung an oil-color depiction of Blackheath Grange. It had been a gift from his parents to Chad’s many years ago. Now he found himself arrested by images of a summer morning so removed from present circumstances no one at the time could possibly have imagined them. How innocent they were then, how unaware of what would come.

  The scene filled his gaze, then seemed to enlarge, breathing as if alive, stretching paint and canvas nearly to cracking as the view expanded to engulf him, absorb him. Birdsong wafted from swaying trees, a warm breeze ruffled his hair, a child’s voice beckoned from the house. . . .

  Gray.

  Like the whisper he’d heard outside tonight.

  A strangled oath rose in his constricted throat, fighting to push past his lips. He wrestled it back, but only just. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  He opened them to brushstrokes on canvas and nothing more. As paintings were wont to do, this one tilted a bit to one side. He raised a hand to move it back in place, a task complicated by his shaking fingertips.

  Miss Thorngoode swept to his side and grasped his hand. ‘‘This way, Sir Grayson, if you please.’’

  Her warm touch anchored him firmly in the here and now while her impatience forced him into motion. He gladly abandoned the unsettling memories of his country home in favor of Chad’s elegant terrace, where nothing irregular, much less calamitous, had ever occurred.

  Wine and too little sleep. Last night he’d tossed his way through countless restive dreams. Fatigue never mixed well with spirits. He must have consumed too much during supper, though he hadn’t thought so at the time. And there’d been that brandy earlier. Good thing they had skipped the port.

  He expected Mrs. Thorngoode to follow them as they stepped outside, but the woman merely took up a position beside the threshold, hands folded at her waist, her sharp profile silhouetted by the lights behind her. He felt an odd sense of betrayal, as if she had been supposed to safeguard him but had shirked her responsibilities.

  Not that he needed safeguarding from her daughter. He supposed he could handle Honora Thorngoode well enough, Painted Paramour or no. But what irked him, what tossed him so off kilter that he was hearing things and imagining paintings leaping out at him, was the loss of control over his life.

  Because of the desperate straits he’d found himself in, he must now jump at every word spoken by these Thorngoodes and pretend he enjoyed it.

  He dragged in a breath of night air and suppressed the rising anger—the futile, irrational, selfish anger he couldn’t help feeling despite his every effort not to. If only Tom hadn’t lost everything. If only he’d had better sense.

  If only he were still alive.

  With another tug, Miss Thorngoode propelled him beneath the sheltering overhang of a spacious walnut tree. He couldn’t help but notice how small and smooth her hand felt against his. What a comfortable fit it made. How the pressure of her fingers conveyed qualities both ingenuous and seductive, and had him simmering with curiosity as to the purpose of their sojourn.

  Branches dripping with greenery blotted out the moon and effectively concealed them from her mother’s view. Apprehension tingled down his back, as so often happened in shrouded, shadowy places. But no, that was absurd. His peculiar visitations had surely been conjured from within, manifested by his grieving conscience.

  A cool breeze stirred Miss Thorngoode’s curls and sighed through the filmy layers of her evening gown. She released his hand and faced him.

  ‘‘I wish to speak of this marriage we’re about to enter into. It will benefit you in a singular way, will it not, Sir Grayson?’’

  Before he could reply, she revealed the rhetorical nature of her question by plowing doggedly on. ‘‘My dowry, not to mention the benefit of my father’s business acumen, will allow you to restore the Clarington fortunes for your nephew.’’

  ‘‘I can’t deny that it will, Miss Thorngoode.’’

  She gave a brisk nod that sent a loose tendril of fine, glossy hair floating in her face. Were they not acting out the pretense of two well-bred young people about to embark upon a respectable life together, and were he still the man he once was, he might have reached out and tucked that tendril behind her ear.

  From there he’d have allowed his fingertips to trail over the warmth of her nape, make contact with the tender skin of her neck, smoothing, caressing, fondling ever so gently, all the while drawing her to him. It was a game he’d enjoyed countless times with countless willing vixens. Such a long time ago . . .

  ‘‘Let us be frank, Sir Grayson. For me there is no such obvious benefit. In fact, I’ve yet to ascertain what advantage, if any, this marriage will render me.’’

  She went on, but he heard only the prickliness of her voice. Good God, was he fated to marry a younger version of her mother and endure such harping the rest of his days?

  His eyes narrowed, pinching her image between his lashes. ‘‘Excuse me, Miss Thorngoode, but there is the small matter of your reputation—’’

  Her jaw dropped for the briefest instant. ‘‘The matter of my reputation, sir, is the result of incorrect assumptions formed upon a contemptible hoax.’’

  ‘‘Ah. I see.’’

  Her eyes sparked venom; then she blinked. ‘‘Believe what you will. I’ve agreed to marry you to please Papa, but I refuse to live in any man’s shadow. I will not be shut away or give up my painting or—’’

  ‘‘As I’ve already said, if you wish to paint—’’

  ‘‘I do not need your permission for that, sir, thank you ever so much. What I would appreciate, the thing I am trying to negotiate if you’d let me slip a word in edgewise is—’’

  ‘‘A negotiation—good. Here is something I can appreciate, Miss Thorngoode.’’ Finally he recognized something of her father in her. And as he’d done with her father, perhaps they might shake hands in agreement before each went their own way, emotionally speaking, that is.

  Of course, there would have to be the further pretense of the happily married couple. It had been part of his bargain with Zachariah. They must be seen together at the usual round of plays, symphonies and social events, all necessary to quell the gossip.

  Then again, as Chad had so astutely pointed out, bedding this lusty morsel did not present a dismal prospect. He deserved some small compensation for his efforts, did he not? His eyes fell to her small though decidedly well-rounded bosom, snugly accentuated by the eager embrace of her shoulder-baring bodice.

  When he’d first agreed to marry her, he had intended for them to live essentially separate lives. Once he fulfilled his role in raising the Painted Paramour from her fallen state, they would settle into happily divergent activities. He had planned to concentrate fully on his nephew’s welfare. His dear wife, he’d told himself, might do whatever it was that pleased her.

  Now that he’d met her, seen her, he wasn’t as certain about that strategy.

  ‘‘Pray, name this negotiation you speak of, Miss Thorngoode. If it is within my power to grant—’’

  ‘‘Yes, yes.’’ A breath of impatience sent that loose tendril dancing about her impishly upturned nose. ‘‘Indeed it is quite simple, sir. I should like access to your Cornwall estate.’’

  Wariness prickled his spine. ‘‘Blackheath Grange?’’

  ‘‘The very same. Particularly in the summer months, perhaps early autumn as well.’’

  ‘‘I am afraid the favor isn’t mine to grant.’’ His words were clipped, curt. ‘‘I merely manage the finances and upkeep. The Grange belongs to my nephew.’’

  She dismissed this with a careless shrug. ‘‘It is in your keeping for now, is it not? I wish to establish a summer retreat for fellow artists—’’

  ‘‘My nephew lives there
,’’ he ground out between jaws gone suddenly taut. He wondered—and for the first time cared—what she might have heard about him. Was she deliberately baiting him, using the one thing in his life still worth something—Jonny—for the sport of raising a reaction? ‘‘He does not take well to strangers.’’

  ‘‘Most children don’t.’’ Her voice rose on a note of vexation. ‘‘But that shall pass soon enough and he’ll undoubtedly benefit from the company of so many artistic individuals.’’

  His shoulders tightened; a sudden pain lanced his neck. ‘‘Indeed he will not, Miss Thorngoode, due to the fact that not one of them shall ever set foot on the property. And neither shall you.’’

  ‘‘Why not?’’

  ‘‘Why not? Why not?’’ He suddenly wanted to grab her by the shoulders and give her a hearty shake to force some sense into her. No wonder she’d gotten herself into such a muck-mire; the poor woman simply couldn’t ascertain the obvious.

  ‘‘My dear Miss Thorngoode, if you and your artist cronies wish to hold riotous orgies all summer long, that is your concern. But I will not have you corrupting the mind of an innocent child.’’

  Silence shivered between them. Her eyes opened wide, storm tossed, darkly shining. A bloodstained tide swept her indignant features. He felt a moment’s uncertainty. . . .

  ‘‘How dare you?’’ Her hand shot out, but before it swiped his face he caught her wrist. She yanked and tugged while expletives worthy of the saltiest old jack-tar flew at him.

  ‘‘Odd, but I don’t hear a denial in this otherwise colorful dissertation,’’ he said. Her other hand came up; he gripped it too. ‘‘Do you deny it?’’

  ‘‘Deny what? On which charge am I summoned to plead?’’

  ‘‘How many are there? Signore Alessio, Bryce Waterston . . . how many others have there been?’’

  ‘‘You’re insufferable.’’

  ‘‘That isn’t an answer.’’

  ‘‘You don’t deserve an answer.’’ She tried to pull free as a shocking round of adjectives described his person.

  Enough. He tugged back and without warning her weight fell against his chest. With a step backward for balance, he grasped her shoulders, fully intending to give her that well-earned shake, but something else, something entirely unplanned, occurred.

  Clutching her tightly, he raised her to her toes, causing her breasts to rub along his coat front and bringing her lips on a level with his. He attributed the next moments wholly to gravity and the mysterious forces of electromagnetism, for surely he never would have kissed her otherwise.

  But there it was, there they were, lips pressing, moist and searing, while rivers of heat poured through him straight down to his toes, thoroughly flooding his loins along the way.

  Miss Thorngoode fought him for the briefest instant, then shuddered and melted against him. He released her shoulders and wrapped his arms around her. Like twin serpents her arms coiled round his neck, lifting her sweet, soft breasts high against his chest. Her fingers twisted in his hair.

  Ah, he might have enjoyed the kiss, the heat, the taste of Miss Thorngoode for the next hour or so, and decency be damned, but it was pain and not propriety as her teeth closed on his bottom lip that sent his head jerking backward.

  He thrust her to arm’s length, her sudden release of his hair inflicting further pain. ‘‘Why the devil did you do that?’’

  ‘‘Why do you think?’’ Her fingers kneaded her mouth as if it throbbed in pain—as his presently did.

  ‘‘Don’t act the innocent with me, my sweet Honora.’’ He too raised a hand to his mouth, then held it up to inspect for blood. There was none. ‘‘I might have given you the benefit of the doubt, but I’ve had my eye on you all evening. A contemptible hoax, my foot. I saw how you warmed to the subject of art during supper—your passion, you called it, speaking of inner feelings and overwhelming sensations. As if I didn’t know what that meant.’’

  ‘‘I was engaged in an interesting conversation about a topic that inspires me. Where is the crime in that?’’

  ‘‘If you weren’t flirting with Lord Albert, then . . . I don’t know what.’’

  ‘‘Flirting? With Lord Albert? Are you demented?’’

  Yes, well, maybe she hadn’t exactly been flirting with Albert, per se, but she’d certainly courted seduction with someone at that table.

  Chad? The notion sent a knifing pain to his temple, a bitter taste to his mouth. For an insane moment he loathed his friend’s patrician good looks.

  Her lips parted in a smirk both wry and accusing. ‘‘And what of you and Lady Belinda?’’

  ‘‘What about me and Belinda?’’

  ‘‘Please.’’

  ‘‘Belinda is practically my sister, and don’t change the subject. You’re no shrinking violet. You’re downright combustible, and no use denying it.’’ He attempted to raise her chin in his palm but she shrugged away.

  Then she tipped her face up to meet his gaze dead on. Her smile was shrewd, too filled with cunning for his liking. ‘‘Are you saying it matters to you?’’

  ‘‘What matters?’’

  ‘‘Me. What I do.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be absurd.’’

  A knowing lift of her brows made him want to yank hair—his, hers, it wouldn’t have mattered. He knew only that she was dangling him just this side of lunacy.

  Good God, did he care what she did? The notion galled him, especially in light of that look on her face. Undoubtedly she’d use the knowledge against him, and he’d be as ruined as poor Signore Alessio. Or worse, should her father become involved.

  He took a determined step back. ‘‘Do not flatter yourself, my dear. You may shag every garret rat in London and you’ll not inconvenience me, so long as you stay away from my nephew.’’

  She hissed a breath. Her obstinate expression dissolved into the last thing he expected—sheer unhappiness.

  His conscience shoved at his anger, his self-righteousness and his damned perplexity, which admittedly did nothing but flourish in this woman’s presence.

  ‘‘I see.’’ With a calm belied only by her flared nostrils, she raised her hems and started away, stepping out from the walnut’s canopy.

  It was her utter lack of wrath—wrath he deserved no matter her past sins—that made him regret the past several moments. Whatever wrongs she may have committed, who was he, indeed, to judge?

  ‘‘Miss Thorngoode, wait. I . . . I apologize.’’

  She paused and half turned toward him. Moonlight poured across her features, illuminating a spot of moisture yet to dry on her bottom lip. Silver dollops swam in her eyes. She looked so frightfully young— young and despondent and undeserving of the blow he’d knocked her.

  His appalling words reverberated through him and made him queasy. He wished she’d say something. Insult him. Take another swing. She merely lifted her shoulders, white and ethereal in the moonlight, and swept into the house.

  He let go a breath. Had he misread her so entirely? Or was this sudden capitulation—this demureness after giving as good as she got—merely another strategy in her game of seduction? If so, her tactics threatened to succeed.

  Not that she’d left him in his former rigid discomfort; no, his guilt over his utter boorishness precluded that. He wasn’t hard. But, ah, God, he wanted to be. He yearned to feel her warm and feisty in his arms again. Wanted it in a way he hadn’t wanted anything in a long time, since before . . . everything happened.

  What did that mean? How had this woman, this ruined chit of a girl, managed to affect him so profoundly in so short a time? What was it about her that drove him to distraction? He’d already broken his word to her father, for he’d both harassed and abused her—albeit unintentionally—despite his promise not to. He wondered if Thorngoode would use a weapon or his bare hands to flay him.

  Had it been her or her mention of Blackheath Grange that worked him into such a state? And was his refusal to allow her use of the manor truly about Jonny? Or
about his own fears of returning to that dismal place and facing the past. Unable—unwilling— to seek the answer, he shook the questions away.

  He paused to master his breathing before returning to the house. Before facing his fiancée again. Heaven help him, if the Painted Paramour was to be his wife, he had damned well better determine how to be her husband.

  Chapter 4

  The voices came at her as if from across a snow-smothered valley. I will echoed twice, fiirst in a subdued rumble, his, then higher and softer, hers. Different yet equally uncertain. Unsteady. Both, one might even say, apologetic.

  While the blood pounded in her ears in counter-rhythm to the flailing of her heart, her knees wobbled beneath a crashing conviction that she shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be doing this.

  But the vows had been spoken. It did not matter whether the words were sincere, or that they had seemed to come from some source beyond herself. Indeed, perhaps they had.

  Last night she’d slept fitfully, tossing, turning, slapping her pillows. Eventually she had dozed, dreaming of a fair-haired woman standing by her bed. In her dream Nora had sat up, frightened and trembling, clutching the bedclothes to her chin. What do you want? she’d demanded. The woman smiled, and for some inexplicable reason Nora’s fears dissolved.

  You needn’t be afraid. Marry him. He’ll never hurt you.

  ‘‘Who are you?’’ But the woman had vanished, and Nora had awakened to find herself sitting up in bed, the linens balled in her fists.

  Now she had given her consent, made her pledge, because some nameless woman in a dream—a figment of her own wistful hopes—had said she should.

  ‘‘I pronounce you man and wife. . . .’’

  She belonged to him now, for better or worse, for always.

  Her veil came away from her face, swept back between Grayson Lowell’s long, straight fingers. For an instant Nora marveled at the difference between those hands and her father’s, once worn to bleeding on a regular basis in the effort to survive.