Dark Obsession (16 page)

‘‘Thank you,’’ she said. ‘‘I do hope you’ll be good enough to show me about later.’’

‘‘As you wish, madam.’’ Her voice, like the lowest string of a violin slightly out of tune, set Nora’s nerves further on edge. ‘‘Of course we had precious little warning of your arrival, and—’’

‘‘I’m sure we’ll find everything satisfactory,’’ Grayson interrupted. ‘‘Come, Nora.’’

He placed her hand gingerly—as if it might break— in the crook of his arm and escorted her up the front steps. Over his shoulder he asked, ‘‘Where is my nephew?’’

‘‘Down at the stables.’’ Mrs. Dorn clambered up the steps after them, walking briskly behind as they entered the main hall. ‘‘Where he’s been spending most of his time.’’

Grayson stopped in a shaft of multicolored light sifting from a stained-glass window above the front door. Yet his face was as pallid as moonlight as he turned and asked, ‘‘Has he . . . ?’’

The housekeeper exchanged a glance with Gibbs, who had followed them inside. Mrs. Dorn shook her head. ‘‘Not a word, sir.’’

Grayson nodded with an air of resignation. Nora’s nape tingled. She’d once heard her own servants at home whispering about young Jonathan Lowell.
The earl’s son saw it all. He hasn’t uttered a word since. They say he’ll have none of his uncle Grayson.

‘‘Her ladyship and I will freshen up,’’ he told the housekeeper, ‘‘and then I’d like to see him.’’

‘‘There’s a fire already lit in the library.’’

‘‘No.’’ Both Mrs. Dorn and Nora flinched at his tone. Even Gibbs, on his way down a corridor to parts unknown, paused in his stride. Grayson made a visible effort to gather his composure. ‘‘We won’t be using the library.’’

‘‘Not use the library? Not at all?’’ Nora’s blurted question echoed like a raven’s cry against the high, carved ceiling. The library at home had always been her favorite room in the house, where she spent nearly all her time when she wasn’t painting.

Grayson’s mouth settled into a grim line. ‘‘You’re free to use the library if you wish, of course. But it happens to be a room I abhor. Mrs. Dorn, we’ll see Jonny in the parlor.’’

Though Nora’s curiosity bounded, his shuttered expression forbade questioning him further. For the time being, at any rate.

But as soon as she could, she intended to visit that library, and discover what had succeeded in penetrating Grayson’s calm facade when all day she could not.

Grayson could hear her voice sifting through the wall. No distinct words, merely a welling of sound like distant bells or a rushing brook—high, clear, melodious. Oddly compelling. The sort of sound one instinctively followed straight to its source. He moved closer to the door, one only he knew existed, an innocent-looking panel of wall, which, for those who knew its secret, slid open to allow access into Nora’s room. Grayson leaned and pressed his ear to the panel.

Again, Nora’s lovely voice penetrated the wall, followed by Mrs. Dorn’s stern reply. He thought he heard something about the adjoining dressing rooms. Silence fell. He stood with ears pricked, hand splayed upon the secret door, waiting to hear Nora one more time before heading back to his own room.

When it came, he heard not the words so much as the hesitancy, the tentative quality of her response. A sense of misgiving he could not explain fell over him.

Then all at once he was gripped with a sense of the wrongness of what he was doing, the shame of having skulked to this spot where he stood spying on his wife. As if he could not approach her openly, speak with her honestly or touch her intimately without risking— what? The truth coming out? His world falling apart? Her regard transforming to loathing?

He backed away, moving as quickly as he dared without raising a telltale clamor. He should seal this passageway—seal it and forget it ever existed. Because despite the oath running through his head—that he would not betray his wife’s trust by using it again— he knew he would. Knew he would not be able to prevent himself.

The housekeeper opened the door upon a brightly appointed room, festooned with an array of feminine details that contrasted sharply with the glowering skies and dripping trees outside the window. Crossing the threshold, Nora took in the paneled squares of flowered wallpaper that matched both the curtains and the canopy of the four-poster, the tufted chairs upholstered in berry and cream-striped moire, the large wardrobe painted in soft hues of gold and mossy green. Stepping farther into the room, her feet were cushioned by the luxurious weave of a Persian rug.

Yet for all its appeal, the room somehow exuded a sense of loneliness . . . of faltering hope, as if awaiting the return of a mistress who would never come. Though the room was spotless, Nora nonetheless sensed the cheerlessness of gathering cobwebs and gloomy neglect.

But she would not appear ungrateful. Moving about, she fingered the fine curtains, smoothed a hand along the counterpane, opened and closed a drawer in the delicately carved dressing table.

‘‘It’s charming. Utterly lovely.’’ She turned an appreciative smile upon the housekeeper, then acknowledged the futility of the gesture. Not one iota of austerity eased from the woman’s features. Nora sighed. ‘‘I do thank you for your trouble, Mrs. Dorn.’’

‘‘No trouble, madam. The master’s orders, after all. Though had he sent notice earlier than yesterday, I might have had time to properly air the curtains and rug."

‘‘Never mind. It’s perfect as it is.’’

The woman nodded in her curt way, then briskly crossed the room. She threw open a door and gestured with a clawlike hand. ‘‘The dressing room, madam, connects with Master Grayson’s.’’

The disclosure sent a little tremor through her, one she hoped Mrs. Dorn didn’t notice.

Nora peered into the open dressing room. Would she and Grayson make frequent use of this portal between their chambers? After last night . . . she shivered, unable to deny a breath of misgiving concerning Grayson’s less-than-gentle lovemaking.

Then again, part of her had welcomed it, quivered now to think of it. As if it were a dare, a heady risk, a heart-stopping ride. Or rather like intending to paint a delicate bouquet of flowers but somehow mixing deeper, darker hues—blood crimson, glowing russet, velvety plum—then choosing her boldest brushes to capture images infinitely more sensual.

A flame curled inside her. Would he steal in tonight? His behavior today made her doubt it very much. But if he did, which lover would he be? Tender, solicitous and patient—the lover of her wedding night? Or demanding, hungry? Angry.

She suddenly became aware of Mrs. Dorn waiting silently on the dressing room threshold, her arm still extended, her face grimly expectant. She was a looming figure in black and gray, thin and colorless, almost . . . bloodless.

‘‘Ah yes . . . very good.’’ Nora cleared her throat and willed her hands to cease fidgeting with her skirts. ‘‘I’m sure I’ll be most comfortable here, Mrs. Dorn. Thank you.’’

Declining the woman’s offer to help her change her clothes, she couldn’t help heaving a sigh once the housekeeper left. Her maid from home and the rest of the luggage should arrive tomorrow, but she decided she would rather make do on her own than suffer Mrs. Dorn’s taciturn company a moment longer than she must.

She spent an inordinate amount of time in selecting a fresh frock and tidying her hair, fussing far more than usual over her appearance.

For Grayson? No. In fact, she realized with a start, she barely gave her apparel a second thought when it came to her husband. At first she hadn’t particularly cared what he thought of her. More recently it simply hadn’t seemed necessary—he admired her in any attire.

Or, as was the case today, he simply didn’t notice.

No, her efforts now were all for his nephew. Silly of her, really, for what boy ever noticed or cared what ladies wore? Still, she very badly wished to make a good impression. The right impression. Both her brother and sister had died many years ago from illness; thus Jonathan Lowell presented her one and only chance to ever be an aunt.

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. . . .

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.

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?’’