Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  ‘‘Is it Jonny? Is he all right?’’ Nora was already halfway to the door, her own concerns fading beneath burgeoning alarm.

  ‘‘No, ma’am. Nothing to worry about. Lord Clarington is still at his books in the schoolroom. It’s about his new canvas. He’s painted something rather curious.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ She stopped and turned back to Grayson.

  ‘‘Go,’’ he said. ‘‘He needs you.’’

  As do you, she thought as she followed Kat up the stairs.

  Grayson stood alone in the conservatory, ears pricked, senses alert, the hair on his nape bristling. Nora and Jonny were outside on the garden terrace, and Chad would be joining them shortly. In twenty minutes, Mrs. Dorn would serve an informal supper here at the wrought-iron garden table, a treat for Jonny on the special occasion of Chad’s arrival.

  Minutes earlier, he had tried asking Nora about what she had discovered upon entering her studio with Kat, but Jonny had been close by, and in a hushed tone she had promised to enlighten him later. Then she and the boy had taken one of the baskets used to collect clippings, and gone out to the terrace.

  Now an odd sound had him staring down the dusky aisles between the potted plants and trees. Though the rain had stopped, steely clouds darkened the skies to an early twilight. Intermittent winds raised the creaking complaint of the oak trees beyond the terrace, and sent leaves and twigs tumbling through the air to stick to the conservatory’s glass walls.

  Inside all was quiet and still, or should have been. Grayson’s nerves hummed with tension. Without moving he shifted his gaze once more to the terrace door.

  It was shut tight, but as they had done moments ago, the potted dwarf maple trees beyond the bourbon roses stirred. Rustled. A hissing sifted through their leaves.

  Grayson’s heart thumped, sending the blood to rush in his ears and pound at his temples. He took a step, then another. Stopped to listen . . .

  ‘‘Gray.’’

  His lungs emptied; a murky haze swam before his eyes. Blinking, he gasped for breath and forced his feet to move. He held out his hands, feeling his way past the hothouse foliage. ‘‘Where are you? Show yourself, damn it.’’

  ‘‘Here, Gray. Here.’’

  The words filtered into his brain through the roaring in his ears, yet were they words, truly, or merely wisps of the breeze forcing its way past gaps in the casements?

  He stood beside the roses now, straining his eyes. Not a breath stirred through the dwarf maples, yet as he stood waiting, a sharp, citrus scent drifted around him, so strong it could not have come from the potted orange and lemon trees on the opposite side of the conservatory.

  ‘‘Charlotte? It’s you, isn’t it? I know you blame me for Tom. I blame myself. I’m so damned sorry. I never meant—’’

  ‘‘Jonathan.’’

  Grayson’s heart went still. ‘‘What about Jonathan?’’

  ‘‘Must save him.’’

  ‘‘I’m trying. I swear to you, everything I’m doing now is for him.’’

  ‘‘No. Save him . . . danger . . .’’ The whisper thinned, dissipated, but even as it did, the note of urgency, of bleak desperation, shimmied through the air to buffet him with physical force.

  He bolted forward, standing now in the midst of the shoulder-high maple trees. ‘‘What danger? Me? Is that what you’re afraid of? That I’m a danger to your son? Charlotte, wait. Please. Don’t leave yet.’’

  The citrus scent—the fragrance she had always worn in life—dulled to a vague tang. Then it too dispersed on the air. Grayson gripped the nearest branch, fisting his hand painfully around the bark as if to hold his sister-in-law’s spirit a moment longer. ‘‘I swear to you on my life that I’d never hurt Jonny.’’

  ‘‘Gray?’’

  He jolted at the sound of his name, spoken in a masculine voice and filled with puzzlement. Pivoting, he beheld his friend’s figure silhouetted in the conservatory’s wide archway. Quickly he put space between himself and the maple trees.

  ‘‘Were you talking to someone?’’ Chad directed a glance around the conservatory. His booted footsteps raised an echo from the flagstone floor as Grayson’s heartbeat pounded down to its natural rhythm.

  ‘‘I was . . . calling to Nora and Jonny. They’re outside.’’ He wondered how long the other man had been standing there, how much he’d heard. And whether his attempt to act naturally could fool his old friend. He forced a chuckle. ‘‘I don’t suppose they heard me through the glass.’’

  ‘‘You sounded upset.’’ Chad reached him and stopped. His brow creased as he studied Grayson’s features. ‘‘You look upset as well.’’

  ‘‘It’s nothing.’’ Grayson put a hand on Chad’s shoulder, then dropped it to his side when he realized his fingers were trembling. ‘‘Come, let’s sit.’’ He led the way to the garden table. ‘‘I merely thought it time they came in. It’s growing chilly, and . . . with this wind, falling limbs could be a danger.’’

  As he took a seat opposite Grayson, Chad nodded, though doubt hovered in his expression. ‘‘What the devil are they doing outside in this weather?’’

  Grayson shrugged. ‘‘Something about finding flowers worthy of being painted.’’

  ‘‘Humph. I always say if one can’t be racing headlong across the countryside, one might as well be indoors.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I’m quite familiar with how you enjoy risking life and limb . . . and those of your friends and those of your horse. . . .’’

  He’d meant to make a joke of it, but his earlier irritation with Chad returned. This time, however, it wasn’t about horses or taking foolish risks. Charlotte’s fears for her son—good God, enough to raise her spirit from the grave—drove home his need to find answers. He should have spent all of today searching for those answers, but Chad’s surprise arrival had distracted him from his task. Even now, he couldn’t decide if his friend would prove a help or a hindrance.

  In the days following Tom’s death, Chad had been here, helping sift through Tom’s effects and the estate records, poring over the unpaid bills and guiding Grayson in all the necessary financial decisions. Grayson’s state of mind at the time had been less than dependable, but he should have been more involved in untangling the mess the estate had become—and uncovering the truth of Tom’s death. Without meaning to, Chad may well have shielded Grayson from pertinent details, ones that might have determined a far different future for him.

  And for Jonny and Nora.

  ‘‘You were itching to jump that stream and you know it.’’ Chad’s flippant words roused him from his musings and scraped his anger raw.

  ‘‘I itched to do many things today,’’ he snapped, ‘‘but that most assuredly wasn’t on top of my list.’’ He shoved back his chair, the metal legs screeching on the stone floor. Once on his feet he turned his back on his friend. What he suddenly itched for now was to grasp the nearest potted palm and hurl it over sideways.

  He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, then the sounds of Chad gaining his feet. A heavy pause ensued, fraught with tension. Chad cleared his throat and said quietly, ‘‘You are upset, and perhaps I know the reason why. I believe I am intruding here. I’m sorry. I shall make my excuses to Nora after supper and be on my way. Sooner, if you wish.’’

  Grayson released a breath, and with it his burst of temper. He raked his fingers through his hair and turned to face his oldest and closest friend. ‘‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me just then. Don’t leave.’’

  Chad stood studying him, his expression etched with concern. The terrace door opened. A gusty breeze whooshed through the oak saplings and dwarf maples, wispy palms and budding citrus trees. Grayson’s back went rigid, his skin cold, but the only presence to seize the room was Jonny’s. The boy bounded in and without the least hesitation hurled himself into Chad’s open arms.

  ‘‘Egad, it’s good to see you, boy. Good heavens, you’ve grown nearly as tall as I am and twice as handsome.’’ He he
ld the child at arm’s length and continued with forced jollity and an overly bright smile. ‘‘With you about, Jonny, a crusty old bachelor like me won’t stand a chance with the ladies.’’

  Nora entered from the terrace at a more sedate pace, a basket hooked over her arm. She stopped to force the door closed against the protesting winds. Seeing that her slender figure was no match, Grayson joined her in leaning his weight against the door, closing it with a thud and a click of the latch. The delicate trees inside stopped swaying, and an unnatural calm gripped the conservatory.

  Desire, stark and startling, shivered through him. With strands of hair whipped free around softly flushed cheeks and her lamb’s wool shawl blown half off her shoulders, she looked wind tossed and rumpled, as sensual as the flowers in her basket. The scents of rain and blossoms clung to her, emanating from the warmth of her skin. He found he could not step away from her, indeed, could barely remember the many reasons why he should.

  If he could only believe he hadn’t sent Tom from that cliff, he might be free to love her. God knew, the temptation to do so sometimes proved more than he could withstand. Earlier, in the drawing room, how easily he might have taken her in his arms. Had she sensed his yearnings? Had she heard it in his voice, felt the lust stalking through his body as he’d leaned over her? Had she detected the tremors of restraint shaking his frame? No, of course not. He’d merely frightened her—again.

  Seemingly far away, he heard Chad talking to Jonny, but as if transfixed by a spell cast by the blustering weather beyond the glass, neither he nor Nora moved. He met a gaze brimming with questions and regret, and with longing too. Did she see the same in him?

  Only when Jonny trotted over and relieved Nora of her basket did the spell release its grip. With an awkward nod she moved away, and he followed her to the others, thinking how normal this all might seem to the casual observer, the four of them safe and dry and sharing a few simple moments before supper. A little family, happily at home together.

  It was a dream so painfully sweet, he might almost have accepted a devil’s bargain to make it true.

  When they reached the table, Jonny turned to her, an improvised spray of primrose and pansy clutched in his hand. His eyes large and solemn, he held it out to her.

  ‘‘For me?’’

  He answered with a nod and a thrust of the little bouquet, a gesture so simple and sincere it made Grayson’s throat constrict.

  ‘‘Oh, you dearest boy. Thank you.’’ She gathered the flowers and held them to her face. ‘‘These are my very favorites. How did you know?’’

  That earned her a fragile smile. She put her arms around the boy and squeezed, holding on until he began to squirm.

  Gray tousled Jonny’s hair, wishing he could bring smiles to Nora’s face as easily, and almost envying Jonny’s secure place in her heart. But like him, Jonny was trapped within a past so tragic, so desolate, he needed more than love to free him. He needed the truth. He needed the strength to forgive his elders.

  He needed a miracle.

  Chapter 19

  "I have something to show you," Nora told Grayson immediately following supper, once Chad had engaged Jonny at the parlor chessboard.

  Her expression discouraged questions until they reached the relative privacy of the stairs. Until then, he felt content to merely walk with her, close at her side, where he could easily imagine slipping an arm about her slender waist, a gesture so carefree that, again, he might nearly have traded his soul to make it real.

  She took him to her studio, explaining along the way about how she and her maid had devised a spacious canvas for Jonny, intended to encourage him to express anything and everything on his mind.

  ‘‘A brilliant idea,’’ he said as she opened the studio door. ‘‘I wish I’d thought of it long ago, when he first stopped speaking.’’

  ‘‘Why would you have? Drawing and painting are second nature to me. They are what make me a rather quirky character, in Mama’s opinion.’’

  ‘‘She is correct, if by quirky she means beautiful, brilliant and entirely original.’’

  The light of a nearby wall sconce caressed her glowing cheeks. Her lashes fluttered downward to shield her thoughts. She sidestepped away, took the candle from its holder and brushed by him into the studio.

  He felt like an ass. He hadn’t meant to flirt, not by any means. No, theirs was not a relationship amenable to such trifles as flirting. It never had been, not weeks ago when circumstances had first forced them together, and certainly not now, with their present lives shaped by such misfortune.

  As he watched her use the candle to light two lamps inside, it saddened him that he’d never had the chance to flirt with her, or court her as a beautiful young woman deserved to be courted.

  ‘‘Come in,’’ she called to him with a note of mild impatience. A bed linen lay spread at her feet, and as he moved to her side, he saw the bright designs that covered the first yard or so of fabric.

  ‘‘Look at how many of these yellow circles he’s drawn,’’ she said with a sweep of her hand. ‘‘Have you any idea what they could mean?’’

  Grayson crouched and traced a finger around one of the dozen or so disks painted among Jonny’s other illustrations. ‘‘Suns, perhaps?’’

  ‘‘Yes, that occurred to me too.’’ She knelt beside him, so close he imagined he could feel the heat of her shoulder against his own. ‘‘But see how he’s drawn half circles within each one. Instinct tells me there’s something important about that, a deeper meaning than a mere copying of everyday sights.’’

  ‘‘An artist’s instinct?’’

  ‘‘I suppose you might call it that. . . .’’ Her chin angled over her shoulder, her gaze traveling to her shrouded easel, where his portrait lay hidden. The memory sent a shiver across his shoulders. Her gaze darted back to him. ‘‘I’m afraid I’m not terribly confident in my instincts lately, so perhaps I’m mistaken about Jonny’s designs.’’

  ‘‘I am. Confident in you, that is.’’ His hand closed around hers. It felt so small and warm against his palm, so delicate. Some possessive instinct stirred to life inside him. But if he had learned anything about her in recent days, it was that she was by no means delicate, no flower to be preserved and protected. He pressed her hand to his lips, turned it over, nuzzled her palm. Need mounted inside him, painful, making breathing difficult.

  He held her open palm against his cheek. ‘‘While I’ve been fighting my demons, you’ve been making a difference in Jonny’s life. And mine. I think if it weren’t for you, I might have . . .’’

  She drew her face close to his. ‘‘Might have what?’’

  ‘‘Given up. Given in.’’ His head sank between his shoulders. ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  Her free hand cupped his jaw and gently but firmly forced him to look at her. ‘‘Do you still want me gone?’’

  For an instant her features blurred behind a blinding wave of panic. Want her gone? Good God, no. Her light touch, now a soft caress across his face, had the ability to anchor him to this world, to life. He’d be entirely adrift without her.

  But what of her? Surely her world had been more tranquil, more rewarding, with her paints and brushes and artist society, than her life here at Blackheath Grange, than anything he could offer her.

  She must have sensed his inner battle, for she came swiftly to her feet, hands on hips, eyes glittering down at him. ‘‘Never mind what you think I should do,’’ she said severely. ‘‘You must decide what you want me to do. No more lying to me or to yourself.’’

  ‘‘Nora, wait.’’

  She was already at the door. Without turning she said, ‘‘I’m going to see Jonny off to bed. Should you decide you have anything to say to me . . . you may seek me out afterward.’’

  Would he? His body clenched around an aching desire to be with her, hold her, love her. Could he trust himself not to hurt her? Frighten her? Could he restrain his demons long enough, at least, for one night’s bliss in her arm
s?

  Or would he instead prowl the house, sleepless for hours, and then finally rouse his groom to have his horse saddled? Could another reckless ride across the darkened, storm-drenched moors banish this particular demon—the one that refused to see the sense in letting Nora go?

  Only by severing his ties to her could he ensure her future happiness, a future free of his past and of the ghosts that haunted him because of it. The part that loved her knew that to be true. Grimly he looked down at Jonny’s yellow circles and acknowledged that the worst part of him, the hardened, selfish part that had caused so much sorrow—Tom’s downfall and death, Jonny’s silenced spirit—still couldn’t manage to see past its own needs.

  And, dear God, he needed Nora. So the question was, Did he need her more than he loved her?

  Nora tucked Jonny in, bid him good night and returned downstairs. If Grayson decided he wanted to see her, the logical place for him to find her was in her bedchamber. But she had no intention of making matters easy, nor of waiting like a docile wife to attract her husband’s notice. No, if he wanted her, if he had anything worthwhile to say to her, he would have to come find her—in the very room he claimed to abhor.

  No more shrinking from things that couldn’t be changed. If their marriage was to have a ghost of a chance at succeeding, they must each be willing to brave anything and everything—together.

  But as she opened the library door, she discovered the room already occupied.

  Standing at a bookcase in a circle of lamplight, the Earl of Wycliffe whirled when the door creaked, his expression registering surprise. An open book sat cradled in one hand, its pages gently fanning. Several books spanned the desktop. Three or four lay at his feet.

  ‘‘Nora!’’ Flashing his easy grin, he pressed his free hand to his heart. ‘‘You startled me. I’d thought you’d retired. Don’t tell me you’re another night owl like that husband of yours.’’

  ‘‘No. In fact . . .’’ She moved into the room. ‘‘Sometimes I wonder if Gray sleeps at all.’’