Dark Obsession (19 page)

Grayson retrieved Constantine from the edge of the dunes, where the horse had wandered to graze on tough, wiry marram grass. Before climbing into the saddle, he extended his hand to Ridley. The man hesitated, then shook it and murmured his thanks.

‘‘Sorry about those boots,’’ he added.

‘‘Forget it.’’

But Dan Ridley’s shadowed expression said he would not forget it, that Grayson’s ruined boots would weigh heavily on his conscience, as would, perhaps, his interference here on the beach. Perhaps he’d overstepped the bounds of familiarity, crossed a line he should not, as a nobleman, have crossed. Perhaps in lightening his own burden of guilt concerning the state of affairs in and around Blackheath Grange, he’d instead burdened this man with a sense of debt he could not hope to repay.

Wondering what Tom would have done here today, Grayson swung up into the saddle. ‘‘Good day to you, Mr. Ridley. Give my best to Mrs. Ridley.’’ With nothing more to say, he clucked Constantine to a walk.

‘‘Sir Grayson.’’

He swung the horse about and waited while Dan Ridley strode through the sand.

‘‘My condolences to you, Sir Grayson. He was a good man, your brother. Generous to a fault. Always carried little treats for the children, and when anybody took sick he’d send down a good, hardy broth and made sure the doctor come. He’s sorely missed round these parts, sir, and won’t be forgotten anytime soon, as sure as the day is long. Just wanted you to know that, sir.’’

There it was, then, the reason a man like Dan Ridley could treat Grayson with a measure of cordiality, even respect. It was for Tom, in deference to his memory. The people here had loved him, still loved him, just as he had loved this place. Tom hadn’t needed to cross the invisible barrier between nobleman and commoner to win their affections. All his life, Grayson had been the smart one, the handsome one, the charmed one. But despite his shortcomings, Tom had been loved.

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.’’

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.’’