He became more animated as he spoke, his gaze darting around the room as if seeing Edgecombe not as it was, but as it would someday be. ‘‘I’m going make this estate profitable. I thought perhaps I’d approach your uncle about utilizing our lands together and expanding his herds, both the cattle and the sheep. Perhaps do more breeding. And with the profits from that I could invest in some of Penhollow’s fishing ventures, and then perhaps . . .’’
His enthusiasm became infectious. She swung about to face him and grasped both of his hands. ‘‘Your plans sound wonderful, but . . . rather complicated. Are you certain you can accomplish it all on your own?’’
She hadn’t even tried to mask her meaning, and now her smile faded as she waited, breathless, for his reply.
His expression turned solemn. ‘‘No, Sophie, I’m quite certain I can’t. That is something I wished to speak to you about. . . .’’
Her heart fluttered. ‘‘Yes?’’
He didn’t answer, and she realized his gaze had suddenly wandered beyond her shoulder into the adjoining game room. His eyes widened, and the color drained from his face. One of his hands slipped from hers and rose in an unsteady gesture. ‘‘The library door. It wasn’t open a moment ago.’’
She spun around. The library door indeed stood open, and the shadow of a man fell across the threshold. ‘‘Lord Wycliffe.’’
‘‘Father?’’
‘‘Yes, Chad, it is.’’ Sophie reached an arm around his waist. ‘‘I know now that it was your father I saw that first day I came to Edgecombe, when I believed I saw you looking out from the library window. Your father brought me back to Edgecombe yesterday. He said you needed me.’’
‘‘He was right.’’ Gaze pinned on the doorway, he put an arm around her shoulders and walked with her through the rooms until they came to the library threshold. ‘‘My God.’’
The interior appeared as it had to Sophie the first time she ventured to Edgecombe—filled with furniture and books, and illuminated by the light of a deep bay window. Within the recess the wavering figure of a man hovered, his face nearly as familiar as the one beside her, but older, etched with fine lines—Chad in twenty years.
She felt a catch in Chad’s chest as his breath hitched. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He stared, eyes burning with emotion.
A sudden smile dissolved the years from Lord Wycliffe’s face until he might have been Chad’s brother. You’ve done well.
Sophie felt the tremor that passed through Chad. ‘‘Thank you, Father.’’
Be happy now.
Chad’s throat convulsed; he gave a nod. ‘‘I’ll try.’’
Love her.
‘‘By God, I do.’’ He pressed a fervent kiss to Sophie’s hair.
Marry her. Laughter undulated through the words, fanning the air and sending a warm current across Sophie’s face. Chad felt it too, for he raised the tips of his fingers to his cheek before grasping her chin with the same hand and turning her to face him.
‘‘That would be entirely up to her,’’ he said. ‘‘She has a mind of her own, Father, a strong one, and she has proven to be a woman of singular stubbornness when she wants to be.’’
‘‘I beg your pardon?’’ Through feigned indignation, she couldn’t help grinning. But her heart stood still, waiting.
Hands closing over her shoulders, he leaned closer, filling her view with his broad shoulders, strong neck and handsome features, and bringing his musky scent to tantalize her senses. ‘‘Are you willing to take the biggest risk of all, Sophie? Can you love a rogue? Love him as he loves you—completely and without a single doubt?’’
A laugh escaped her as a tear spilled over. ‘‘I’m afraid I’ve loved that rogue for some time now. Because, you see, to me you’ve always been a hero.’’
He kissed her soundly. Then, laughter dancing in his eyes and on his lips, he looked toward the window. ‘‘Do you hear that, Father? This angel thinks I’m a hero.’’
His smile waned. Where Lord Wycliffe had stood in the curve of the bay window, flush and empty casements reflected the sky outside. The furnishings and books had vanished, leaving a vacant room around them.
Without relinquishing his hold on Sophie, Chad took a stride forward, then stopped short. ‘‘Father?’’
Sophie pressed tight to his side. ‘‘It’s all right. He knows all will be well now. Like little Ellie Rose he can rest in peace. They both have you to thank for that.’’
With a growl that startled her, he grabbed her and crushed her to his chest, then froze. His features went taut with pain.
Sophie pulled back. ‘‘Your shoulder.’’
‘‘It’s nothing.’’
‘‘You’ve made it bleed again.’’
He glanced down at the trickle of blood on his shirt and winced. ‘‘Yes. I’m afraid it might need further attention. A lifetime’s worth. What do you say?’’
‘‘You’re in luck.’’ Her heart brimming, she nipped his lips, once, twice. ‘‘It so happens that I’ve a lifetime to give.’’
More carefully he put his arms around her. As his kisses ignited a blaze at her core, she knew with the entirety of her being that no matter what the future might hold, he would always love her, would always be there to protect and support her.
A hero could do no less.
If you enjoyed
Dark Temptation,
don’t miss
Dark Obsession
A NOVEL OF BLACKHEATH MOOR
by Allison Chase
They wed in haste—Nora Thorngoode to save her ruined reputation, and Grayson Lowell to rescue his estate from foreclosure for unpaid debts. Each resents the necessity to exchange vows that will bind them for all time, and yet from the first, passion flames between them . . . quickly engulfing them in a sensual obsession.
Turn the page for an excerpt from the book, which begins just as Nora and Gray exchange wedding vows. . . .
The voices came at her as if from across a snow-smothered valley. I will echoed twice, first 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.
Vastly different from her own hands too. Sturdier, stronger. Hers were small and delicate but often paint stained, the nails and cuticles suffering from contact with powders and oils. And yet with her frail female hands she created, sifted life’s singular moments through her fingers and set them to canvas. At least, she did so as best she could and with an open heart.
Could Sir Grayson make a similar claim? Had he ever created anythi
ng with those fine gentleman’s hands?
His face came into focus and filled her vision, became the whole of her world while masculine scents settled over her. Lifting her veil did little to brighten the prospect before her, for the dusty church forbade entrance to all but the slenderest fingers of sunlight. Even close up her new husband seemed drawn from a midnight landscape, his startling blue eyes the only brilliance in his shuttered expression.
His lips were cool and smooth, just moist enough to leave a trace of dew across her own. She resisted the urge to flick her tongue across the spot while the rector concluded the ceremony. Resisted but could not quell the temptation to compare this kiss with the other one they’d shared.
She had bitten him. The memory nearly raised a grin. He’d deserved it, cad that he’d been. Though she must admit it hadn’t been so much the kiss but the insults flanking it that had provoked her temper.
But . . . she’d made a shocking discovery that night, a little secret he must never learn. It lived inside her, a quivery predicament with the power to trip her heart, hitch her breath, send her better sense for a tumble.
The organist struck up the exit march, discordant notes that blared through the building and rattled inside her. With a hand at her elbow, Sir Grayson, her husband, turned her about and nudged her toward the back of the church.
What a sad affair their wedding was. Between her and Sir Grayson they’d mustered all of a handful of guests—the Earl of Wycliffe, the Stockwells, the odd assortment of elderly aunts and uncles, all of whom appeared just the tiniest bit confused.
Mama had insisted on the church, at the same time bluntly refusing to allow any of Nora’s artist friends to attend. Somehow she saw Nora’s downfall as their fault, even though not one of them had been involved in Alessio’s deceit. Mama needed someone to blame, and in Alessio’s absence her anger settled on anyone even remotely connected to the art world.
At the open doors of the vestibule, the morning sun hit Nora full in the face. She blinked and wished Sir Grayson would release her elbow. Did he believe her incapable of remaining upright on her own? A new, gleaming black phaeton pulled by a pair of matching bays—a gift from her parents—awaited them on the windy street. They ducked beneath a shower of rose petals and well-wishes and made their way to the vehicle’s open door.
‘‘After you, my dear.’’ Again he nudged her elbow as if she were unable or unwilling to proceed on her own.
Feeling cross, she gathered her skirts and climbed inside, then experienced a heated sense of panic when he clambered in after her, filling the empty space with a bulk of shoulders, arms and legs.
The door closed, sealing them in dusky solitude, she and this stranger. He was all muscle and rambling limbs, with no particular regard for her own need for space. His knee tapped hers as the coach rocked forward. His coat sleeve brushed her bare forearm while his shoulder knocked solidly against hers. Even as she attempted to negotiate an inch or two between them, that little secret whispered to her pulse points, murmured its quivering message to the deepest places inside her.
Her fingertips traveled to her lips, pressing ever so gently. . . .
‘‘Thank heavens that’s over.’’
Snapped from her musings, she scowled up at him. ‘‘Can you never refrain from insulting me?’’
He regarded her blankly. Then his eyebrows gathered. ‘‘I did no such thing. You can’t mean you enjoyed that?’’
Her breath caught. Had he read her mind, somehow guessed . . . But then she realized which ‘‘that’’ he meant. The ceremony, not the kiss. A laugh of relief escaped her as she relaxed against the squabs. ‘‘Goodness no. It was torture.’’
‘‘Deuced right.’’ He paused. ‘‘Wait. You’re not insulting me now, are you?’’
Her gaze traced the strong lines of his face and she wished, for the briefest instant, that those vows they’d repeated hadn’t rung with such hypocrisy. She merely faced forward again and shrugged.
‘‘I suppose I’d deserve it.’’
She smoothed the layers of her lace and satin skirts. ‘‘Indeed you would.’’
From the corner of her eye she saw him studying her. She couldn’t be certain, but she believed she detected the beginnings of a smile. With a tremor of anticipation she wondered what he was thinking, what he might be planning. As she’d learned at Wycliffe House, Grayson Lowell was nothing if not unpredictable.
When she braved a glance, however, the smile had vanished.
‘‘I wish to apologize for my behavior that night at Chad’s,’’ he said, uncannily following her thoughts again. ‘‘I don’t usually say or do those kinds of things.’’
‘‘Oh?’’ She pulled the lace mitts from her hands and tossed them into her lap. The ring he’d placed on her finger only minutes before glimmered with indifference. ‘‘So you save that privilege specifically for me?’’
‘‘Not exactly.’’ He released a breath. ‘‘I was angry but not at you. None of this is your fault.’’
‘‘Meaning?’’
‘‘I had to marry. If not you, then someone else.’’
‘‘Someone with a generous dowry.’’
He nodded.
‘‘I suppose your options were limited.’’
Another nod, accompanied by a shrug.
She glanced at his profile, itself a fascinating world of jutting angles and rough planes, as inhospitable as any barren landscape. Several days ago she had begun a painting of him from memory. Now she realized she could never hope to capture a spirit as volatile as Grayson Lowell’s.
She sighed. She had been his last resort, just as he had been hers. No one else would accept either of them. No wonder he was angry. She was angry too. But did he have to say it? Rub it in? Wouldn’t a gentleman at least preserve the illusion of this day, make a gift of it rather than handing her an empty plate of reality and bidding her chew it well?
‘‘Supposing you could have it without me, then? The money, I mean. What would you give in return?’’
He shifted to peer down at her, one arm sliding across the squabs above her shoulders so that if she leaned her head back, it would rest in the crook of his elbow. He drew closer, searching her face until she pulled back. And then there she was, caught between his arm and his piercing regard. ‘‘Explain.’’
‘‘I—I’ll insist Papa give you full control over my dowry, in exchange for my being able to spend my time as and where I wish.’’ Her breath trembled despite her effort to appear calm. ‘‘I had one hope for this marriage. One. And you dashed it that night at your friend’s house.’’
‘‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’’
‘‘Your Cornwall estate.’’
‘‘Ah, that again.’’ A hard look entered his eyes, like a wall that could not be scaled. ‘‘Blackheath Grange.’’
‘‘Yes. I’d hoped . . . you see . . . I’ve been to Cornwall. The light there is extraordinary, the scenery unmatched. I’d give anything . . . But you refused to allow it. Still, surely there must be another of your nephew’s estates where I might bring fellow artists in the summer months. . . .’’
She stopped, biting down and swallowing a sudden and mortifying urge to cry. How could this man understand how important this was to her?
An artists’ retreat. For women only, of course. A place to study and experiment unhindered by society’s eye, or by the disapproval of parents and husbands who considered a woman’s constitution too delicate, too corruptible for any but the most trifling exploration of the art world. To have such freedom . . . oh, it would constitute a boon of immeasurable worth.
‘‘It isn’t possible.’’ The words were decisive, his expression implacable.
‘‘But why not . . . ?’’
‘‘Because there aren’t any others. Estates, that is.’’ His voice grated; his jaw turned stony. ‘‘Surely your father explained. Two have already been sold off. A third is being leased in the hope of saving it from the auction block.
Blackheath is all that’s left and . . .’’
‘‘And you won’t allow us to corrupt the mind of a child.’’ Oh, blast him for passing judgment. He didn’t know her, didn’t know her colleagues, yet he was determined to believe the worst. Did that mean she too should fall prey to rumor and condemn him whether innocent or no?
He’ll never hurt you. . . .
He grasped her chin. ‘‘You must understand. Jonathan is the best of what is left of the Clarington name. He embodies our future—the whole of it. I won’t take chances with his welfare. I will not risk him. Not for anyone. Therefore I must be certain—’’
Tears pricking the backs of her eyes, she shoved his hand away. ‘‘If you believe I could ever harm a child in any way . . . then there is nothing more to discuss.’’
‘‘Perhaps not,’’ he replied softly. His hand engulfed her shoulder, his fingers clamping with an insistence that startled her. ‘‘Perhaps I simply don’t like the terms of your bargain, Lady Lowell.’’
The term jarred her, for she’d not heard it spoken aloud before, nor had she once considered that it belonged to her. As her mind thrashed in confusion, he grasped her other shoulder and held her firmly against the squabs, then leaned in and set his mouth to hers.
The only points of contact between them were his hands on her shoulders and his open lips on hers, yet his touch kindled a fiery presence between her legs. Her thighs burned, turned to heated butter. Her bones dissolved and her breasts strained painfully against her bodice, seeking something unnameable, heretofore unthinkable.
As if he understood their mute cries for attention, his hands slid from her shoulders and covered her breasts, thumbs finding her nipples through all that satin, lace and linen. He rubbed them in rough, urgent circles that had her moaning into his mouth, squirming beneath him, had her pressing for more even as he deepened the kiss and explored the entirety of her mouth with his tongue.
Nothing existed beyond those kisses, beyond the desire that left her scorching, throbbing. And greatly fearing he had discovered her secret and planned to use it to his advantage.
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