Dark Obsession (12 page)

He awoke to the silver prod of moonlight spearing through the western windows.

They hadn’t drawn the curtains. They hadn’t done a lot of things. Such as that discussion he’d been determined to have with her. He had intended making demands, insisting upon a certain standard of behavior, the proper decorum for a wife of the House of Clarington.

Thank heavens he hadn’t gotten any of that hypocritical claptrap out of his mouth. Recent memories, warm and softly blurred from sleep, flowed through his body.

He reached for her . . . and found her gone. The shock of the empty bed beside him awakened him fully. He sat up. The mattress still held the imprint of her body. The bedclothes were rumpled but no longer warm. They’d been turned down and shoved aside.

Even as he scanned the room, hoping to find her, his heart rattled a panicked tune. A hundred thoughts, mostly recriminating, ran through his brain. What had he said wrong, done wrong? Had the euphoria with which he’d drifted to sleep been an illusion? Had Nora, appalled and resentful, waited stiffly beside him for her chance to flee?

He was on his feet, searching for his trousers. Her nightgown was nowhere in sight. He discovered his shirt half kicked beneath the bed. He dragged it over his head and loped to the door.

In the upper gallery he groaned a huge sigh of relief. Nora, emerging from shadow, came into view at the top of the staircase. Balancing a cup and saucer in one hand and holding her nightgown free of her feet with the other, she started toward him. His relief, vast and palpable, drummed through him.

He held out his arms to her. ‘‘You shouldn’t traipse through the house in the dark. Better yet, you should have woken me. I’d have gone with you.’’

‘‘I didn’t wish to wake you.’’ With her satin robe billowing softly behind her, she floated into his embrace, careful not to jostle her teacup. ‘‘And anyway, one of the servants made me tea and walked me to the foot of the stairs. Didn’t you hear her bid me good night?’’

‘‘No.’’ He glanced down the staircase but saw no candle glow receding from the hall below. ‘‘Who was awake at this hour?’’

‘‘Funny, she never spoke her name, and I didn’t think to ask.’’ She stepped away, carefully balancing her cup and saucer as she made her way back into the bedroom.

Lightly he stepped over the threshold behind her, gripped with an unsettling sensation as he watched her circle the bed and set her tea on the bedside table. He came to a halt, disoriented and swathed in gooseflesh. In the silver cast of moonlight, she appeared ghostlike, a shimmering apparition drifting through the room.

His breath turned icy in his lungs. Then shook his head and dismissed the very thought of ghosts. Or at least refused to pay it heed. He crossed the room and slid into bed beside her. This was his wife, his lovely, passionate yet virtuous wife. Flesh and blood. She was his future.

The past was dead.

Or so he fervently wished to believe.

It was then the whisper arose inside him.
You don’t deserve her. You deserve the Honora from rumor, not this ingenuous, unsullied young Nora.

The undeniable truth squeezed his throat. Reaching for her with both arms, he gathered her to his side and kissed her brow, her hair. She let out a murmur. Her breath tickled his chin and she smiled at him as she draped an arm around his waist. ‘‘She was quite beautiful. Should I be jealous?’’

Baffled, he blinked. ‘‘Of whom?’’

‘‘Your servant, of course. The woman I met in the kitchen.’’

A wary alertness seized him. ‘‘Who was this person? Describe her.’’

‘‘She’s tall and blond. And quite charming. She had the loveliest accent. Irish, I believe. I’m not positive of that, but it was neither London nor Kentish. Quite musical.’’ She braced her forearms on his chest and lifted herself to gaze down at him. ‘‘She’s obviously someone long in your employ. She seemed to know rather much about you.’’

A chill swept his shoulders. ‘‘Such as?’’

‘‘She gave me advice . . . on how to handle you.’’ Her brows knitted at the memory. Then she grinned, obviously remembering her mother’s slip of the tongue and the conversation that followed afterward.

‘‘What exactly did she say?’’ He couldn’t help asking, though the better part of him didn’t wish to know.

‘‘She told me you needed looking after.’’

‘‘Indeed? Did she elaborate?’’

‘‘No, nothing specific. But . . .’’

‘‘But what?’’

‘‘Now I think of it, she seemed familiar. I can’t place where I’ve met her before. . . .’’

Her uncertainty echoed through him. His mind leapt to the unexplainable occurrences since his brother’s death: that day on the cliffs, the disembodied whispers, the appearance of his pocket watch in the study, the sensation that Charlotte had been in that room with him. He felt a sudden urge to rush below stairs and find this woman, just to reassure himself she was flesh and blood.

Nora’s arms went around him. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder, and suddenly it seemed easy to dismiss all of it as no more than the fatigue and imaginings of a man under too great a strain.

He seized upon an explanation. ‘‘Franny.’’

‘‘I beg your pardon?’’

‘‘The cook’s assistant. She has blond hair and sometimes works late. And the accent you heard—Franny hails from Cornwall.’’

She gave a nod, an agreement shadowed by a faint crease above her nose. ‘‘Yes, it was probably her, then.’’

What other conclusion could there be? The house was locked secure each night. No one could have stolen in, and even if someone had, what sort of intruder made tea for the occupants before robbing them?

He thought of asking Franny herself, but how would it look for the master of the house to inquire of a servant about his wife’s nocturnal wanderings, especially in light of the rumors that already existed? Before long half the servants in London would be gossiping. And Nora had endured gossip enough for a lifetime.

‘‘Next time you raid the kitchen at midnight, sweet-heart, wake me and bring me with you.’’ He tightened his arms around her, and vowed to keep her safe.

‘‘What the devil is all this? I haven’t placed any orders recently. Certainly none to warrant this tower of crates.’’

‘‘From Thorngoode Continental, sir.’’

At the top of the stairs, Nora heard the name of her father’s shipping company, followed by Grayson’s grumbled reply.

Oh, not now,
she thought with a sinking stomach. Please, don’t let some difficulty or misunderstanding arise between Grayson and her parents. Not today.

She’d awakened in his arms earlier. He had already been awake, not wishing to disturb her, he’d said, but waiting for her. Then he’d kissed her and covered her with his body, sinking deeply into her and filling her with his warmth. Unlike last night, this had been leisurely, tinged with an enticing languor. But no less consuming. No less glorious.

Could something beyond money and reputation be brewing in this forced marriage of theirs?

Below, the unfamiliar voice said, ‘‘Shall I haul it all away then, sir?’’

‘‘No. No, I’ll sign for it.’’

She hurried down, intending to ward off trouble if she could. She saw Grayson handing the deliveryman a bill of lading and a coin. He looked tired, his features drawn and his eyes framed by shadows.

They’d gotten precious little sleep last night, after all.

He cocked his head at her as she reached the bottom step. ‘‘And what might you know of all this?’’

All this
signified a good dozen crates of various sizes, each stamped with her father’s emblem and company initials. ‘‘I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest. Let’s open one.’’

‘‘No need. I can tell you what’s inside.’’ Her father strolled into the hall from the drawing room. ‘‘Art supplies and paintings, my girl. Yours.’’

Her hand flew to the base of her throat. ‘‘My paintings!’’

‘‘Yes, and brushes and canvas, all your powders and those foul-smelling jars of oil.’’

‘‘Oh, Papa.’’ She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. He responded with gentle pats at her back, his nose poking her hair as he kissed her. ‘‘Thank you, Papa. You’re such a darling. But . . .’’

She released him, her eyes narrowing. ‘‘I thought Mama had it all tossed in the trash bin.’’

‘‘I did.’’ Her mother walked out from the drawing room. Standing beside her husband, she slipped her hand around the crook of his elbow. Her mouth tilted in disapproval, but she said nothing more.

‘‘I had it all collected back out and stored at the wharf.’’ Papa pursed his lips, stole a glance at his wife and breathed a long-suffering sigh. ‘‘Didn’t see the point of your having to buy all new. And the paintings . . . could never replace those.’’ He made a sweep of his hand, encompassing the boxes crowding the hall. ‘‘Talent the likes of yours must not go wasted. No, indeed.’’

Mama gave a snort.

Nora blinked away tears. Her paintings and supplies . . . it was all too good to be true. Everything beginning with the moment Grayson took her in his arms and kissed her last night had been too perfect to be true.

She turned to him, standing patiently by, if looking a little bemused. He had told her more than once she might continue painting if she wished. Would seeing all this clutter in his home change his mind?

‘‘Where shall we put it?’’ she asked.

He gave a shrug. ‘‘That’s for you to decide. I suppose you’ll have to traipse through the house and decide which room lends the best light.’’

As they all filed into the morning room for breakfast, a thread of unease wound through her happiness. Traipse . . . Last night Grayson had warned her against traipsing about the house alone in the dark. But she hadn’t been alone, had she?

The blonde—Nora
had
met her before. She remembered now. The woman in the kitchen last night had been the same as in her dream the night before her wedding. The one who had reassured her about marrying Grayson.

But how could that be?

Could she have fallen asleep at the kitchen table and dreamed the woman again? Still been dreaming when she believed the woman walked her to the stairs?

Grayson said she must have been Franny, who worked in the kitchen. Nora had met Franny upon her arrival here for the wedding breakfast yesterday. The maid bore no resemblance to her elusive companion.

Besides, she hadn’t mentioned to Grayson the last bit of advice the blonde had imparted last night—a suggestion she doubted a kitchen servant would ever think to make.

"That was wonderful of Papa, wasn’t it?" Nora murmured. Yet even as the traveling coach listed over a bump in the road, her thoughts veered to a far different matter.

Beside her, Grayson nodded his agreement. ‘‘Nice to see he has a tender side, though my guess is only you can bring it out.’’

‘‘Mama can too,’’ she replied absently. Storefront after storefront darted past her window; she felt half inclined to signal their driver to stop at any one of them.

What did she expect to find at the National Gallery? Insight into her husband’s character? Something that might reconcile her initial impression of a brooding creature of darkness with the gentle, loving man capable of awakening her deepest passions? What could that possibly have to do with Grayson’s taste in art?

Then again, she was following the advice of a complete stranger . . . or someone envisioned in a dream. Yes, surely it had been a dream. Lifelike, lingering, but a figment of her imagination all the same. No other explanation made sense.

‘‘This outing is a capital idea.’’ His observation startled her out of her reverie. ‘‘Glad you suggested it.’’

‘‘I almost didn’t. I thought perhaps the National Gallery would be the last place you’d wish us to be seen, after what happened with Alessio’s portrait.’’

But that was only half the truth. The other half involved her failing to tell Gray everything her mysterious lady had said last night, and that made her feel rather like a liar. Certainly she was bringing him along under false pretenses. But wouldn’t he think her rather dotty to be listening to a dream?

He was shaking his head and smiling at her. ‘‘Alessio and his antics are behind us now, my darling. You are an artist. It only makes sense we’d wish to spend an afternoon viewing the exhibition.’’

Reaching an arm around her, he pulled her closer to his side, then tipped her chin to view her face beneath her bonnet brim. ‘‘For the life of me, I don’t understand why you hedged so about it earlier and why I practically had to pry it out of you.’’

‘‘Yes, well, I haven’t been here all season, and I’ve been longing to study the Rubens works again, but I feared you wouldn’t approve.’’ She sighed and allowed the pitching coach to nudge her more firmly against him. ‘‘It’s art that landed me in such a quagmire, isn’t it?’’

‘‘Are you inferring that being married to me constitutes a quagmire?’’

She couldn’t help laughing as his expression wobbled between indignant and tragic. ‘‘I confess I thought exactly that. Until last night, that is.’’

‘‘Ah. So I do have my charms, under certain circumstances at least.’’

Her misgivings retreated to a distant corner of her mind as she found herself tipped precariously back in his arms, her mouth ravaged by his lips. When a button on her carriage jacket sprang open and his warm hand slid inside her bodice, her better sense reluctantly reared its intrusive head.

"Gray, no ..."

‘‘Ah, but the way you say no sounds suspiciously similar to a yes.’’ Before she knew it, he’d loosened her bodice. One of the laces that held her gown to her corset popped free.

‘‘How on earth did you do that?’’

‘‘I’ve a multitude of tricks up my sleeve.’’ His hand burrowed beneath her shift and slid across her breast, raising exquisite friction against her beaded nipple.