And that look Grayson had initially glimpsed in Ridley’s eyes? Fear. Fear of the man whispered to have robbed the people of their beloved earl, who had brought a curse upon them.
He spoke past the painful clenching of his throat. ‘‘Thank you. And don’t forget to come see me. Bring the children. Cook always has a stash of sweets on hand.’’
Yes, he could offer sweets. He could fix their farms and occasionally deign to soak his boots while helping them haul fish. Perhaps, in time, he might overcome their suspicions and earn a measure of their trust. But would he ever have their love, as Tom surely had?
He moved on, turning Constantine’s head toward home. He hadn’t managed to outrun his demons, and all he felt now was unutterably weary. Everything he’d known as a boy was gone—the prosperous estate with its thriving farms, the proud family admired and respected by the local folk. He was all that was left—he and Jonny—and despite Zachariah’s money, he greatly feared for the future of the Lowell family.
Back at the house, he passed Constantine’s reins into the hands of a capable groom and quietly let himself into the house. Mrs. Dorn’s voice stopped him in his tracks as he was about to enter the morning room.
‘‘Master Grayson, a word, if you please. The matter is urgent.’’
Chapter 12
Grayson sorely needed a cup of coffee; the hotter the better. Then he wished only to steal up to his chamber, change his clothes and see if he couldn’t fiind a moment’s peace. Or, rather, find a moment to make peace with himself—and his memories of Tom.
It was not to be, not yet. The housekeeper’s brisk footsteps echoed along the corridor in his direction, raising the dull thudding in his head to an earnest ache.
‘‘Can this not wait, Mrs. Dorn?’’
‘‘No, sir, it’s about . . . well . . .’’
It wasn’t like Mrs. Dorn to hesitate when she had something to say. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘‘Do speak freely, Mrs. Dorn.’’
‘‘It’s about Lady Lowell.’’ Her lips pursed to a tight ball. ‘‘Or what she’s doing, specifically.’’
‘‘And what would that be?’’
‘‘Destroying the house, sir.’’
Taken aback, he gazed up and down the corridor. ‘‘Doesn’t appear to be crumbling about our ears at present. Could you be more precise?’’
The housekeeper’s eyebrows converged above her nose. ‘‘It’s Lady Pricilla’s bedroom.’’
‘‘My aunt’s old room? What of it?’’
‘‘She—Lady Lowell, that is—has completely disassembled it. The bed’s been taken apart and brought up to the attic for storage. Much of the furniture as well.’’
‘‘I hardly think Aunt Pricilla will mind, considering she hasn’t occupied that room since her marriage some twenty-odd years ago.’’ Wanting that coffee rather much and hoping it had stayed warm this long in the urn, he pushed at the door and started into the morning room.
‘‘Yes, but the paneling, sir.’’ Mrs. Dorn stayed him with a crablike grip on his shoulder, a gesture that had once held the power to render him immobile. ‘‘She—Lady Lowell—has hammered hooks into it. Hooks!’’
‘‘Whatever for?’’
‘‘To hang artwork, or so she said. Can you imagine? Into those lovely beveled squares of maple paneling? Why, I remember when your grandmother had it installed. Such an expert eye for decorating, Lady Clarington had, may she rest in peace. . . .’’ A dreamy look misted her eyes, then cleared just as quickly. ‘‘Sir, Lady Lowell’s actions are more than destructive. They are positively irreverent.’’
He released a breath. ‘‘Mrs. Dorn, I can assure you my grandmother is beyond caring about the paneling, as is dear Aunt Pricilla. It all belongs to Jonathan now, and I sincerely doubt he gives a fig one way or the other. If it’s ruined, we shall have it replaced. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’’
Giving up on the idea of coffee and opting instead for some much-needed rest, he brushed past the housekeeper.
‘‘Master Grayson,’’ she said to his back, ‘‘I must point out that your brother would never have allowed . . .’’
His jolting pulse sent blinding pain through his eyes, and he did something he’d always believed should never be done with servants. He raised his voice. ‘‘I am not my brother and there’s an end to it, Mrs. Dorn.’’
He immediately regretted it, but simply couldn’t find the energy to stop and apologize. After an initial gasp, her continued grumbling about ruined treasures and not knowing what to expect next accompanied him to the end of the corridor, where he stepped through a door into the main portion of the house. No, he could not escape his demons today, or his many failings.
Yet as he headed up the stairs, he was taken aback to feel a sudden smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Hooks in the paneling indeed.
‘‘Oh, dear. Perhaps I was a bit hasty.’’
Nora regarded her new studio and admitted that perhaps Mrs. Dorn had a valid point minutes ago when she’d stormed in, glowered at the clothesline stretching along one entire wall, delivered a tirade concerning the preservation of Blackheath Grange and stormed out.
What would Grayson have to say about it? Though her more pressing concern at present was where he had gone this morning, so early that none of the servants had seen him leave. Gibbs had reported his horse gone from the stables, and under ordinary circumstances Nora would have been content with the knowledge that Gray had simply set off on morning rounds of the estate.
But any hopes she’d entertained about normal circumstances had been dashed last night. Grayson’s troubles ran soul deep, and she was beginning to despair of ever helping him overcome them.
She sighed, taking in all she and Jonny had accomplished that morning. Despite her worries, she couldn’t help a surge of pride. Perhaps, after all, she could do something to help ease Grayson’s burdens.
Strung along the clothesline Mrs. Dorn had so bemoaned were half a dozen pastels and watercolors she and the boy had worked on together: pictures of flowers, birds, different angles of the house, and a drawing of Jonny’s Welsh cob, Puck.
She had spent the morning explaining and teaching. He had listened in his usual silence, but she could see his mind working, his imagination soaring. After a time his muteness no longer seemed unnatural. Nora did the talking and encouraging, while Jonny expressed his enthusiasm in the eager way he chose colors and spread them across paper. She had been delighted with his natural and rather impressive grasp of perspective. His artwork showed budding talent and no mistake.
‘‘Bother the paneling.’’ She plunked her hands on her hips. ‘‘Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?’’
Seated on a pillow on the floor and hunched over his latest work, young Jonny was just then adding a bit of charcoal shading to his rendering of the manor’s central wing. He glanced up at the object of Nora’s fretting and shrugged.
‘‘Yes, precisely as I thought.’’ Approaching footsteps, however, brought a smattering of doubt. She nipped her lower lip. ‘‘I do hope your uncle Grayson isn’t vexed with me.’’
‘‘Vexed? Why on earth should I be?’’
He appeared in the doorway, leaning on the jamb and treating her to one of his rare but arresting grins. He was dressed for riding in a white linen shirt tucked into buff breeches that caressed every line of muscle in his thighs. His black broadcloth coat was tossed over one shoulder, held there by a forefinger hooked into its collar.
‘‘Grayson . . . g-good morning,’’ she stammered on a surge of elation at seeing him so relaxed and in apparent good spirits. He stepped from the hall shadows into the brighter room, and she saw the truth behind his smile. ‘‘Good heavens, Gray, are you all right?’’
She went to him, hands closing over his shoulders. She peered into his face, searching his taut features, the pinched look about his mouth. He looked . . . wounded, beaten, though she could find no bruises beyond the ashen ghosts hovering beneath his eyes
and the gaunt hollows sharpening his cheeks. ‘‘Has something happened? Did you take a fall from your horse?’’
‘‘Certainly not.’’ He leaned in and kissed her, whispered a throaty ‘‘Good morning’’ that, despite her alarm, poured through her like warm spiced wine. His skin smelled of the sea, crisp and briny, and a coating of salt glazed his boots.
‘‘You’ve been to the shore.’’
He nodded with a slight frown and made a survey of the room. ‘‘You’ve certainly been busy while I was gone. One would never guess a boorish cad disturbed your sleep last night.’’
Memories of their interrupted passion streaked through her. She flicked a self-conscious glance at the boy, fast at work on his picture and paying them no heed. ‘‘I . . . no, you didn’t . . . not at all.’’
His crooked smile acknowledged her white lie. His gaze caressed her, then swung to trace the artwork along the wall. ‘‘I hear there’s been a bit of mischief afoot this morning.’’
‘‘Oh. I suppose you’ve been speaking to Mrs. Dorn.’’ Suddenly she saw the studio through his eyes—the strewn papers, the open paints, the heaped cloths, the paintbrushes soaking in jars of water. Not to mention those controversial hooks she’d banged into the wall. ‘‘I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped—’’
‘‘Never mind Mrs. Dorn.’’ He tossed his coat onto the one settee remaining in the room. ‘‘She wouldn’t understand, would she, my darling? She’ll never understand you as I do.’’
The husky timbre of his voice stroked her nerve endings, igniting tense flares of desire. The look they exchanged bolstered her suspicion that this discussion wasn’t limited to her artistic endeavors. That Grayson’s mind—and hers—were on ventures of another sort entirely.
‘‘No, I don’t suppose she would.’’
But did he understand her? Could he see her willingness to accept him as he was—with his faults, his past and whatever mistakes he might have made? He need not change for her. He need only allow her to come closer and share, truly share, his life. Her throat squeezed around a sense of failure. Surely she’d been trying to convey just that to him since their wedding night. And just as surely she had failed to reach him.
He had continued his perusal of the room, and now issued a low whistle between his teeth. ‘‘I’d say Aunt Pricilla’s bedroom has undergone a significant transformation since last I saw it.’’
‘‘We have made a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. We’ll tidy up as soon we’re finished.’’
‘‘Nonsense. This is your studio and you may leave it as untidy as you wish. I like it. The place fairly pulses with inspiration. With your passion for art.’’ Again his voice dipped with a rumbling innuendo that melted her limbs like wax set to flame. His arm went around her, pulling her to him for another kiss, slower than the first, hungry and searching, seeming to implore something urgent from deep inside her. Something she ached to return, if only she knew how.
He released her with a lingering look, his hand sliding the length of her arm, ending with a little squeeze of her fingers that conveyed a reluctance to let her go. Then he moved away to lean over his nephew, still sitting on the floor, drawing. ‘‘Jonny, won’t you show me what you’ve made?’’
The swish of the child’s charcoal across the paper hissed loudly in the stillness.
Nora reached for a rag and wiped a mottled sampling of chalk dust from her fingertips. She came up behind Grayson and rubbed a clean edge of the rag where her fingers had left colorful smudges on the shoulders of his white shirt; she succeeded only in smearing them more. ‘‘Jonny and I have dabbled with pastels, watercolors, and we did a bit of sketching.’’
‘‘All in one morning?’’
‘‘He was very eager. And an avid learner.’’
He grazed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘‘There is nothing quite as gratifying as an avid learner, is there, my love?’’
Was he referring to their wedding night, and all he’d taught her then? His half-closed lids and pensive expression suggested he was, and heated tendrils unfurled inside her.
But with a quick glance down at the boy, she gestured to a watercolor near the end of the row. ‘‘That one is the view of the paddock and stables from the corner window. His skill with perspective is quite remarkable.’’
‘‘Indeed. Jonny, this is extraordinary. I’d no idea you were so talented.’’ He leaned again over the boy’s shoulder. ‘‘And this is the front of the house you’re drawing, isn’t it? I can hardly believe it, but you’ve captured far more than just the building. Somehow this picture speaks of the Grange’s history, the secrets and the intrigue. There’s a mood about it. . . .’’
As Grayson went on, Nora experienced a renewed burst of hope. He seemed genuinely pleased with his nephew’s work, sincere in his admiration. Perhaps Jonny—and art—would provide a common ground where it didn’t matter that they’d married for the sake of convenience, that they knew so little about each other, or that, except for a simmering physical attraction, most days they seemed hardly compatible at all.
‘‘Yes, it’s in the colors he chose.’’ She gazed with pride at Jonny’s work. ‘‘See how the clouds, the slate roof and the walls seem to blend into one another? We discussed how color can be very atmospheric.’’
Grayson’s head snapped up. ‘‘You and Jonny discussed?’’
‘‘Well . . . I discussed.’’ She tipped an apologetic nod, realizing she must learn to choose her words more carefully when it came to the child. ‘‘He listened and made good use of my advice. As you can see.’’
‘‘I certainly can.’’ Their gazes met, locked, heated by several degrees. His nostrils flared, and she could all but feel his desire curling like steam around her. But he didn’t reach for her, didn’t take her hand or lean in to kiss her again.
Abruptly he turned away and put several paces between them. ‘‘May I see what’s on the easel?’’
‘‘No!’’
He ground to a halt, hand freezing inches from the cloth that concealed the painting beneath. With an amused lift of his brows, he regarded her over his shoulder. ‘‘Nothing scandalous hiding under here, I trust?’’
It wasn’t his obvious reference to her nude portrait that sent flames to her face, but rather the fact that his curiosity showed no signs of abating. He continued around to the front of the canvas, prompting Nora to heft her skirts and hurry after him.
‘‘It’s nothing. Just a little project I started a few weeks ago.’’
‘‘I’d love to see it.’’
‘‘I’d rather you didn’t. It isn’t finished.’’ She stood behind him, willing him away and hoping he wouldn’t insist on unveiling the portrait she’d begun soon after they’d met.
It hadn’t been the most flattering likeness at first, for she had allowed her anger and frustrations about the marriage to color her work. She’d since begun alterations—a lightening of the shadows here, a warming of color there—but she was far from satisfied with the results.
He reached behind him with both hands and grasped hers. With a tug he pulled her arms around his waist. She leaned readily against him, her breasts pressing against his back in a way that made her wish they were alone.
He raised one of her hands to his mouth, nuzzling her fingers. ‘‘Show me,’’ he whispered.
She breathed a sigh that ruffled the hair across his collar. ‘‘Oh, if you insist.’’
She stepped from behind him, grasped the edge of the cloth and tugged. ‘‘Voilà. But remember, it is a work in progress, so don’t judge too harshly and don’t say I didn’t warn you.’’
He stepped forward—and went utterly still.
‘‘I don’t think it’s a terrible likeness, do you?’’ He didn’t answer, wasn’t listening. He just stood there glaring, a sheen of sweat glossing his brow and upper lip.
‘‘Gray?’’ Prickles of unease raised the hairs at her nape. ‘‘It isn’t that bad, is it? If you don’t like it I could—�
�’
‘‘Good God.’’ The whispered words seemed to shudder outward from some fissure deep inside him. The astonishment gripping his features hardened to something approaching horror. His mouth opened, forming a strangled sound that made no sense to her, that turned her blood to ice.
"Thomas."
Chapter 13
"Gray, I don’t understand."
Nora reached for him, but the look of utter revulsion on his face made her drop her hands. Amid a rising perplexity, she searched the details of the painting. What did he see that she didn’t?
‘‘I told you I began it some weeks ago. I don’t suppose it’s very good—the tone is all wrong, but . . . Gray, why do you look like that?’’
‘‘Is this your bloody bad idea of a joke?’’
‘‘I don’t know what you mean. . . .’’
‘‘Good God, not from you.’’ His voice, thus far little more than a murmur, strengthened like gathering thunder, producing a current that ran beneath her skin. ‘‘I’d never have suspected this of you.’’
She stole a glance at Jonny, who tilted his head to study them from his place on the floor. ‘‘Please don’t be angry.’’
‘‘Angry?’’ His hands clamped her shoulders. He dragged her to him and pressed his face close until his labored breath lashed hot across her cheek. ‘‘And to think I’d begun to care . . . to trust . . . to . . .’’
His fingers tightened, lifted her to her toes. In the position he held her, her breasts strained against her bodice. Her skin prickled beneath his scrutiny, devoid now of all tenderness, all affection.
His grip bit into her with a savage edge that frightened her. In the feral glint of his eyes, in his blanched and barren features, she saw a man surely slipping from sanity. A man she no longer knew in the slightest.
‘‘Burn it.’’ He abruptly released her, sending her staggering backward until her shoulder hit the edge of the portrait.
Hints of doubt and remorse flickered beneath the anger blazing in his eyes. He pivoted and strode from the room.
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