The notion forced a raw lump into her throat. She desperately wanted the child to like her.
With barely a sound the boy appeared in the parlor doorway, hands crammed in his trouser pockets, head and eyes turned toward the floor.
‘‘Jonny. Come in, lad.’’
It was the moment Grayson had longed for and dreaded. He sat near the windows in one of the overstuffed chairs at the chess table, hoping against hope he might entice Jonathan to sit opposite. Jonny used to enjoy chess, had become rather good at it for a youngster.
Rain slapped the window beside his chair, and as Grayson waited and searched for something friendly to say, Jonny too stood waiting, apparently intending not to say anything at all. That was how it had been since Thomas died. Grayson groping for the right words, and Jonny avoiding words at all cost.
He drew a breath that tasted of disappointment. ‘‘It’s good to see you, Jonny. Please come in.’’
Small shoulders bunched within a brown tweed suit coat. The boy wore matching trousers meticulously tucked into polished riding boots. His shirt collar ringed his neck tightly, secured by the crisp bow of the linen cravat Mrs. Dorn had probably fashioned for him. He was a little man, the very image of his father at that age.
A pain pressed Grayson’s breastbone. No child—at least no boy at his country home—should ever be so flawlessly neat. Nary a hair on his dark head curled out of place. Whatever happened to that cowlick his nurse used to bemoan?
Grayson stood, intending to go to the boy, slip an arm around his shoulders and draw him to the settee. With several paces still between them, Jonny flinched and pulled back. His gaze darted to Grayson’s face, his blue eyes large and swimming in gleaming pools of white. Fear and remorse and an urgent desire to make everything different flickered in those eyes, and for a heart-stopping instant, Grayson saw Thomas. . . . Thomas on that last day, uttering the truth of how deeply the estate had sunk into financial ruin. Tom had been so damned sorry, but all Grayson had felt, all he could convey to his brother, was rage. . . .
Jonny’s lashes fell. Grayson stood a few feet away, arms dangling at his sides, heart racing, breath suspended in a pair of icy lungs. Outside, a gusting breeze carried faint rumbles of thunder.
What should he do? What could he say?
‘‘Do forgive me for being late, gentlemen. Why, good afternoon, sir. You must be Jonathan.’’ Sweeping across the threshold, Nora circled the boy and faced him. Ruffling his hair, she stooped to smile into his face.
‘‘Or am I to call you Lord Clarington?’’ She chuck-led lightly, smiled gaily. ‘‘I am your new aunt, Nora, and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.’’
The sound of her voice filled Grayson with relief. She would be the buffer between them, providing neutral terrain where each might tread, however carefully.
At the same time, seeing her natural amiability with the child made him feel like a failure, a coward. And indeed he was, afraid to look his own nephew too closely in the eye for fear of seeing the brother he’d wronged.
And for fear of perceiving Jonny’s loathing, his accusations. He had been just outside the library door that last day, listening while his uncle and father argued. . . .
Damn you for this, Tom. How could you have been so stupid?
Yes, you must wish I’d never been born. . . .
But Nora was here now, brave Nora who wasn’t afraid of anything, not even a boy who refused to speak.
She knew Jonny wouldn’t. Grayson had told her that much when they set out from London. She hadn’t reacted with the slightest surprise. But then, Jonny’s silence was no secret.
The Earl of Clarington was pushed. His young son hasn’t uttered a word since. . . .
With a shudder Grayson dismissed the old gossip and moved closer to his nephew and Nora. Ignoring the boy’s rigid posture, he reached for her hand.
‘‘You look lovely,’’ he told her. A gross understatement, yet he’d meant it with all his being. In her frock of sunny muslin she was a dazzling flower after months of drab winter. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.
She flashed him a look of earnest appreciation, as if she truly doubted her ability to make a man fore-swear his chosen vices in favor of a single moment at her side. Then she was chattering to Jonny again, leading him with a hand on his shoulder to the settee near the bay window. Rain poured in rivulets down the glass, making a streaky watercolor of the brick terrace outside with its iron furniture and ivy-draped trellises.
Nora perched on the settee and with pretty motions settled her skirts around her. Jonny remained standing, hovering at her side and looking uncertain, a little lost. Overwhelmed, perhaps, by this beautiful aunt who seemed inordinately delighted with everything.
There was a clattering in the hallway. Mrs. Dorn wheeled in a cart of tea and refreshments.
Grayson scanned an assortment of cold meats and breads, fruit preserves and tarts. Mrs. Dorn had included a bowl of clotted cream and another filled with pure white sugar. The silver teapot sent out jets of pearly steam.
‘‘Well, now, doesn’t this look delicious.’’ Nora set out the cups and saucers. She lifted the teapot and began pouring. ‘‘I must confess I’m famished after our journey. Why, we haven’t eaten since early this morning, all the way back in Devon.’’ She glanced up at Grayson, her cheeks blushing scarlet with the uneasy memory they shared of the previous night.
‘‘Have you ever been to Devon?’’ she asked, turning her face to Jonny as she finished filling the last teacup and set it on the sofa table.
He lifted his blue eyes—huge and bright as an autumn morning—to Mrs. Dorn, who was just then plumping the cushion on the chair Grayson had vacated. The child looked as if he desperately wanted her to intervene on his behalf. The housekeeper considered a moment, then gave a quick nod.
‘‘So you have.’’ Nora spooned sugar into her teacup. ‘‘It’s breathtaking country, though not quite as dramatic as Cornwall.’’ She patted the cushion beside her. ‘‘Won’t you sit down?’’
He didn’t move. A beat of silence became two, then stretched uncomfortably. Grayson felt an urge to yank the hair from his own head. ‘‘Jonny,’’ he said, then stopped, shocked by the sternness in his voice. He hadn’t meant to be harsh. He’d merely wanted to help coax the boy onto the sofa.
Instead, Grayson sat in a chair opposite Nora and lifted his teacup, hoping that seeing him thusly occupied might encourage Jonny to relax his guard. ‘‘I’m counting on a game of chess later. What do you say, Jonny? Wipe your Uncle Grayson’s pieces clean off the board like you used to?’’
Silence.
Please answer, he willed the boy. Please say anything,even if it’s to curse me. . . .
‘‘I play winner,’’ Nora declared. She hefted her chin when he flashed her a glance. ‘‘I’m a passing fair strategist, I’ll have you know.’’
‘‘That shouldn’t surprise me in the least,’’ he said with a laugh and a surge of warmth. How did she do it, show him these glimpses of happiness when everything around him seemed steeped in melancholy?
She raised a hand in Jonny’s direction. ‘‘Your uncle told me a secret about you.’’
He experienced a twinge of panic—what secret was she about to divulge? That they had discussed his ponderous silence? How would the boy react to that?
‘‘I understand you’re especially fond of sweets,’’ she said, and Grayson’s pulse settled. Not that he’d told her any such thing, but now that he thought about it he knew it to be true. How had she guessed?
‘‘I shall confess to you I am equally guilty of indulging in that particular vice.’’ Grasping a pair of silver tongs, she plucked a tart from the tray and placed it on a plate. ‘‘As if this weren’t sweet enough, shall I sprinkle some sugar on it for you?’’
After a moment’s hesitation and another look at Mrs. Dorn, who was now adjusting the mantel clock, the child eased onto the sofa beside Nora.
Did he nod?
Grayson couldn’t be sure, but Nora smiled like a coconspirator and sprinkled a spoonful of glistening crystals onto the plum tart. She handed the plate to Jonny.
He twisted round again to where Mrs. Dorn had moved to straighten the lace arm covers on the wing chair.
Grayson had had about enough. It was as if Jonny feared so much as blinking without permission from the housekeeper. ‘‘That will be all, thank you, Mrs. Dorn.’’ He glanced pointedly at her in the event his tone hadn’t sufficiently conveyed the dismissal.
She and Jonny exchanged one last enigmatic look before she retreated from the room.
After watching her disappear into the hall, Jonny bit off a corner of his tart. Nora watched him and smiled.
‘‘Something else your uncle told me was that you’re quite a skilled rider. Living mostly in London all my life, I’ve never had a horse of my own, but my grandfather kept a Shetland pony for me to ride whenever I visited. Is yours a Shetland?’’
Silence, marked by quiet chewing. But just as Grayson despaired of Nora receiving an answer, Jonny shook his head. He shoved more tart into his mouth, sprinkling crumbs onto the sofa. He stiffened with a look of alarm.
‘‘Oh, never mind.’’ Nora flicked the crumbs onto the rug at their feet. ‘‘No, I don’t suppose you would have a Shetland, as grown up as you are. Your uncle Grayson tells me you turned ten last March, but were you to inform me you were twelve I’d thoroughly believe you.’’
Jonny only chewed and stared back.
‘‘His horse is a Welsh cob,’’ Grayson said.
‘‘Oh, such an elegant breed. Shall I guess his name, then?’’ Nora tilted her head and considered. ‘‘I called mine Scotty, because the Shetland Islands are in Scotland, but such a name wouldn’t do for a Welsh horse. So let me see. . . . Llewelyn?’’
To Grayson’s amazement, Johnny immediately shook his head. Not verbal, but an answer all the same.
‘‘Urien?’’
‘‘Puck,’’ Grayson supplied, knowing they could go on guessing all day without Jonny offering up the answer.
‘‘Oh!’’ Nora’s hands came together with a clap. ‘‘Are you a fan of Robin Goodfellow’s?’’
‘‘One of Jonny’s favorite characters.’’
Her eyes never left the boy’s face, for all it was Grayson speaking for him. ‘‘Mine too. I adore how he confounds both mortals and fairies alike.’’ She slipped an arm around his shoulders. ‘‘I do hope you’ll show me Puck when the rain stops. Tomorrow, when my things arrive, I’ll show you something I enjoy very much. Tell me, Jonny, do you like to draw?’’
A slight shrug comprised his answer.
‘‘I have boxes full of sketching pencils, paints and brushes of all shapes and sizes. If it’s all right with your uncle, we shall set up in a sunny room and paint pictures together. Would you like that?’’
An eager nod, followed by what could almost have been termed a smile, brought a pang to Grayson’s chest.
‘‘Gray?’’ Nora looked to him for approval.
‘‘By all means. Any room you like.’’
Chapter 11
Nora started at the brittle click that broke the silence of her bedchamber. She had been drifting into the hazy beginnings of a dream, lulled there by the soothing singsong of a woman’s voice. Now her eyes sprang open, straining to see into the unfamiliar shadows.
At the edge of the curtained window she detected a shimmer, a flicker of movement. She bolted upright.
‘‘Who’s there?’’ But she saw nothing more, only the shadows tossed against the curtains by the swaying trees outside.
Still, her heart throbbed in her throat. What woke her? Her mysterious lady? Had yet another visitation been interrupted by Nora’s sudden awakening?
The creak of an opening door and a footstep sent her thoughts scattering. Her back hit the headboard as she whisked the coverlet to her chin. The sudden glow of a candle sent blinding shoots of light into her eyes. She shut them, then heard a voice—this time decidedly masculine.
‘‘It’s only me.’’
When she opened her eyes, Gray was shutting the dressing room door behind him. The shadow of his robed figure filled the wall beside him, hulking like a sleek wolf tensed to pounce. Shivering, she instinctively arched her neck, apprehensive of his touch, yearning for it too.
He stalked closer, the light of his candle undulating across his features. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, didn’t trust her voice not to reveal her unease. Yes, she wanted him, but . . .
Not that he had hurt her at the inn. Not that he hadn’t introduced her to new sensations, intense and exhilarating.
Or so it might have been, if not for what she had sensed rippling beneath his passion. Anger. A need to strike. Oh, not at her, but at something she had yet to understand, something he seemed unwilling or unable to share. Just as when he hit that Waterston fellow at the museum.
In silence he reached the bed and set the candle on the end table. As if in a dream she watched him, a moving shadow gilded gold where the candlelight touched him. He was watching her too, his eyes hooded and unreadable, deeper shadows within the dusky planes of his face. She felt his gaze like a weight upon her, heated and pressing. Desire slithered like a serpent through her, hissing and fierce, but lithe and graceful as well.
He yanked loose the sash of his robe and shrugged his arms free. As the brocade garment thudded to the floor, she received a full view of his naked body. Her pulse leaping, her gaze traced the masculine lines of muscle and sinew down to where they seemed to originate, to that inevitable place of heat and hardness and passion.
She bit back a gasp. Yes, he apparently wanted her, lusted for her. Her insides simmered with anticipation.
His long fingers grasped the bedclothes and slowly peeled them back. The coverlet slipped from her shaky fingers, exposing her sheer shift from the waist up. Her nipples contracted in the cool kiss of night air, in the expectation of his kisses upon them.
She trembled, feeling vulnerable, undressed. Breathless. He slid in beside her, his naked body spreading heat through the linens and through her. Desire coiled inside her. The hand she reached out to welcome him trembled slightly.
He caught it fast, enfolding it in his much larger one. ‘‘Is it all right that I’m here?’’
‘‘Of course it’s all right.’’ How surprisingly steady her voice sounded; how easily those words came. Because they were, for better or worse, the truth. ‘‘I’d rather hoped you would.’’
He brought her hand to his mouth and spoke against her fingers. ‘‘I wasn’t sure. Not after . . .’’
The inn. Yes. They were of the same mind, then, and he perhaps as confused as she by what had happened there. ‘‘You needn’t ever doubt,’’ she said. ‘‘If I wish to be alone I shall tell you.’’
‘‘Yes. Promise me that, my Nora. Don’t ever be afraid to send me away if it is your will to do so.’’
He kissed her knuckles, a long, lingering kiss that strayed beyond tenderness to encroach on the borders of something desperate, some tortured thought she wished to heaven he’d share. His lips were tight against her fingers; their tension traveled through her.
Then he released her, only to reach his arms around her as he lay down. His hands submerged in her hair, catching the long tresses and tangling them across their faces.
‘‘How sweet you are. . . . So sweet . . .’’ With both hands he turned her face to his and gently kissed her brow and nose and cheeks. He wrapped his arms around her and rolled with her across the mattress, settling atop her. He swept the hair from her face, whisking it across the pillow. ‘‘We could be happy— so incredibly happy.’’
Before she could ponder his despairing tone, his face dipped. His lips hovered close, imparting their warmth, making her hunger for their taste. Like a magnet they drew her toward him, until she craned her neck and, trembling, strained upward.
With a growl he pressed his mouth to hers, the kiss ravenous and greedy.
Painful. One kiss became many, consuming her breath while his body pinned her, helpless, to the mattress. Dark desire welled and swirled, swallowing her thoughts and sending her drifting on hot, aching sensation.
In the intensity of his passion she felt herself slipping away, lost in a wilderness of maleness and heat, becoming more and more an extension of him . . . and of that desperate bleakness inside him. It was too much, too uncontrolled.
‘‘Gray . . .’’ Her hands closed over his shoulders and pushed. His lips broke away.
He rose on his elbows above her, panting, blinking as if to clear his head of a pounding ache. His features gleamed with perspiration. She too gasped for breath, and questioned him with a frown.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘I didn’t mean to be so . . .’’
‘‘Enthusiastic?’’
He nodded, smiled guiltily, then rolled onto his back. The rush of cool air through her nightgown came as something of a shock and raised goose bumps. Beside her, Gray crossed slightly trembling arms behind his head and released a shaky breath.
In the silent gloom she shivered, struggling to separate fear from desire, desire from keen disappointment. She had wanted him—wanted him terribly much. The echo of it vibrated inside her still. She’d merely wanted him to slow down, give her own passion time to match his. Now the sudden lack of him left her feeling hollow and abandoned. Confused.
He reached for her hand, bringing her palm to his mouth for a kiss. ‘‘Welcome to Blackheath Grange.’’
She let go a laugh, a single taut note. ‘‘That was quite a reception, sir.’’
‘‘Again, I’m sorry. You must be exhausted.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ she replied, knowing her level of energy had nothing to do with the past several minutes. That he would pretend otherwise made her feel wronged and cheated.
‘‘Good night, then,’’ he said. He closed his eyes, leaving her very much alone though she lay at his side.
Several times that night she awoke to the jostling of the bed beneath her. Gray’s limbs twitched and spasmed against the mattress while low moans sputtered in his throat. Each time, she would stroke his arm or smooth his brow, rousing him faintly to redirect the nature of his dreams.
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