Dark Obsession (21 page)

‘‘There you are, dear heart.’’ Nora tucked the coverlet beneath Jonathan’s chin and leaned to kiss his forehead, hoping he wouldn’t feel the trembling that hadn’t subsided since her encounter at the stables with Grayson.

Her wrists still bore the faint imprint of his madness. His . . . derangement. She couldn’t call it anything else. He’d seen something in her portrait that simply wasn’t there. Had reacted irrationally to something altogether imagined. He’d confessed . . .

Suppressing a shudder, she cupped Jonny’s cheek in her palm. As much as she might wish herself away from this troubled house, this turbulent marriage, she was at least glad she was here for the boy. Someone had to keep him safe, and if not her, who?

Mrs. Dorn? The housekeeper held an oppressive influence over Jonny, one Nora could neither explain nor dismiss.

She kissed him one last time. ‘‘Good night and sleep well.’’

He responded with a look of such open affection her heart squeezed. It was a look that said he needed her, counted on her not to let him down. She patted his shoulder through the bedclothes, then rose and crossed the room.

‘‘Under no circumstances are you to leave him alone,’’ she whispered to Kat, who had arrived along with her belongings from home that morning.

A maid some five years in the Thorngoode’s employ, the buxom, dark-eyed Kat wasn’t always known for the strictest morals, nor did she typically take pains to hide the evidence of her dalliances from anyone but Nora’s mother. Still, her lusty appetites aside, Kat was honest. In her work she’d never been anything but efficient and conscientious. And through the years she had kept a secret or two for Nora, earning Nora’s trust.

‘‘Lock the door behind me and do not open it till morning.’’

‘‘Yes, ma’am.’’

She found a measure of confidence in the young woman’s steady look. More assurance, certainly, than she felt in Mrs. Dorn’s overbearing guardianship of the child.

She blew Jonny a kiss. ‘‘Sleep well, dearest.’’

With solemn eyes he blew one back.

Mrs. Dorn met her in the corridor as though she’d been lurking. Her stern features drawn tighter than usual, she blocked Nora’s path. ‘‘Lord Clarington is accustomed to sleeping alone, madam. Why lock him in with a stranger?’’

‘‘Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Dorn. Kat is wonderful with children. I’m sure Jonny will take to her quite readily.’’

‘‘I’m afraid I can’t agree. His lordship is a retiring child. I think it advisable—’’

‘‘I am Jonny’s guardian, Mrs. Dorn, and I shall do as I think best.’’

‘‘Master Grayson is Lord Clarington’s guardian.’’

‘‘And I am
Sir
Grayson’s wife.’’ The words burned her throat and raised a queasy sensation in her stomach. Had she pledged her life to a madman?

But her assertion did have the desired effect of rendering the housekeeper speechless. Nora brushed by, making her escape. ‘‘Good night then, Mrs. Dorn.’’

She retreated to her bedchamber and with unsteady fingers locked the door. Held her breath as she tested the knob to make certain it was secure. Turned to regard the door to the adjoined dressing rooms.

Fear sent an icy wave through her. There was no key in that lock. But of course there wasn’t—why on earth would a wife need to lock out her husband?

With the answer knocking a frigid rhythm in her heart, she dragged the chair away from the dressing table and wedged it as tightly as she could beneath the knob. She gave the door a tug. Grayson would pay her no visits tonight.

Would she lock herself in every night? Deny her husband that which he had every right to demand? A ribbon of heat curled round her belly, squeezed her thighs. His fierce lovemaking had set her aflame. But it had frightened her too. She realized now she had every reason to be afraid.

But even if she barred him by night, what of the daytime hours? How was she to set about being mistress of Blackheath Grange and caring for Jonny, never knowing what might arouse Grayson’s ire, or when?

Wrapping her arms across her chest, gripping each elbow until her fingers dug into the flesh, she faced into the room. What must she do?

She moved to the window and stared out at the stark moonlight, at the silver-tipped trees casting glimmering shadows across the lawns.

Don’t you long to run across those hills and stand beneath that golden light?
she had asked him that day at the National Gallery.

Were those the words of a murderer? Could a villain have made her feel more beautiful, more alive, more cherished than ever before?

Oh, but then he’d attacked that man, that Waterston fellow. . . .

Could a killer’s hands have coaxed such shuddering, vibrant responses from her body? From her heart?

Her raised fist slammed the window frame, rattling the glass. Her fears were like a fist upon glass, pressing to the breaking point.

‘‘Take Jonny and steal away.’’ The answer was so simple, yet so monumental and onerous she couldn’t help voicing it aloud. Leave her husband . . . and take his nephew with her. Such an act would be considered a crime. Kidnapping. She would become a wanted woman. A
hunted
woman.

And yet . . . contrary to everything logic told her, the very notion of never seeing Grayson’s face and never again knowing his touch left her as desolate as an empty canvas.

But what other choice? Her husband was . . . he was . . .

Surely mad. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth, then just as quickly dropped it to her side. She swallowed, blinked back tears and stood up straighter. Jonny needed her resolute and in control.

‘‘Papa will know where to send us. He can ensure no one ever finds so much as a trace—’’

The word filled the air and vibrated like an organ note against the ceiling. Nora jumped, then spun to face the room. Her nerve endings tingling, she searched the shadows for the source of the strangely musical voice.

‘‘Who’s here?’’

Nora knew that voice, was certain she’d heard it before. Seeing no one, she stumbled backward, shoulder blades hitting the window. Groping for balance, she gripped the curtain, only to tear it from the rod. Flowered silk rained down, half covering her. She clawed it like cobwebs from her face.

‘‘Kat? Mrs. Dorn?’’ But she knew neither of them occupied the room with her.

A few feet from the locked door, a glimmering radiance that had nothing to do with moonlight or the table lamp unfolded from the shadows. Nora’s instinct was to run, but astonishment held her paralyzed. The shimmer grew, elongated, took form. Human form. A head, shoulders, arms, the flowing lines of a gown.

A lavender gown.

Recognition sapped the strength from her knees. She sagged to the floor. ‘‘I’m going mad as well. . . .’’

Behind the figure the door was still visible, obscured as though by a veil of cloud. Elegant if insubstantial features softened to a smile.
‘‘You aren’t mad. Not in the least.’’

A transparent person telling her she wasn’t mad— surely proof she was.

‘‘What do you want with me?’’ Nora clutched the skirt of her gown, nearly renting the fabric as waves of incredulity made her dizzy. ‘‘Wh-who are you?
What
are you?’’

The image, as solid now as Nora herself but still glowing as if the sun shone full upon her, smiled again.
‘‘I am a woman who once lived here at Blackheath Grange. That is all I can tell you. The rest is for you to discover.’’

‘‘Discover what?’’

‘‘How?’’

Nora started to protest, but the woman held up a hand to silence her. ‘‘
Do not run away, Nora. Do not give up so easily. The people here need you. Desperately.My . . .’’
She paused and clasped pale, slender hands at her waist.
‘‘Your husband’s nephew . . . his father as well.’’

‘‘Jonny’s father?’’ Fascination overcoming a portion of her fear, Nora pushed to her feet and eased away from the window. ‘‘Thomas Lowell is dead. How can he possibly need me? What can I or anyone do for him now?’’

‘‘His spirit . . .’’ she whispered more to herself than to her otherworldly visitor. ‘‘He haunts this house. He’s been haunting Grayson.’’ Yes, for Grayson had seen his brother’s image in the portrait she painted. . . .

She shook her head. ‘‘There are no such things as ghosts.’’

A pair of shimmering golden eyebrows arched delicately but nonetheless emphatically.
‘‘Are there not?’’

Nora scowled as disbelief warred with the evidence standing before her eyes. Who was this woman, and why had she been manipulating Nora since before her wedding, albeit within the guise of her dreams? Was tonight another attempt at manipulation, and would it lead to yet another travesty, such as when Grayson hit Mr. Waterson?

‘‘Your riddles grow wearisome. If there is some truth I must know, tell me what it is. Tell me and leave me in peace.’’

‘‘I cannot.’’
Those exquisite lips again curled in a smile, one Nora found eerily familiar.
‘‘The wounds at Blackheath Grange are scored too deeply for mere words to heal them. You must find the truth that will free you all. You must see it with your own eyes, know it, believe it with your mind and heart and soul.’’

‘‘And if I cannot?’’ A sudden bleakness made Nora shiver. What was it this apparition demanded she learn? Whether or not her husband had committed murder? Was that a truth she wished to know? ‘‘What if I cannot believe as you say I must? What if there is always doubt?’’

All trace of the woman’s smile vanished. She said nothing, only regarded Nora with eyes grown large and luminous in her fine-boned face. The light surrounding her faded, and the room fell once more to shadow. Nora stood staring at nothing but her bedchamber door.

She rushed forward. ‘‘Wait. Please don’t leave yet. I don’t understand. . . .’’

A pounding at her door cut her pleas short.

"Y-yes, what is it?’’

‘‘Is anything amiss, madam?’’ Mrs. Dorn spoke from the other side. ‘‘I thought I heard you calling.’’

What was the woman doing skulking above stairs at this hour? She should have been completing plans for the morning with Cook and the rest of the staff before retiring to her own rooms near the servants’ dining hall.

Crossing the room on shaky legs, Nora turned the key and opened the door a couple of inches. ‘‘I’m fine, thank you. Just a dream. Sorry to have bothered you.’’

‘‘No bother, madam.’’ The housekeeper eyed her curiously, no doubt taking note of the day gown Nora still wore. ‘‘May I bring you anything? Tea, perhaps?’’

‘‘No, thank you. I’m going to try to go back to sleep now.’’

‘‘Good night then, madam.’’

‘‘Good night, Mrs. Dorn.’’

But after Nora relocked the door and faced the empty room, she knew that what had happened had been no dream, nor did she expect to enjoy anything resembling a good night because of it.

With no more sound than the house’s ordinary night creaks, Grayson eased his way into Nora’s bedchamber, his eyes pinned to the four-poster where she lay sleeping. The glow of his candle kissed the highlights in her hair, a glossy river burnished with gold. Grayson loved her hair, adored the gossamer glide of it through his fingers, over his cheeks, across his chest and torso, followed by her silken touch and her moist lips.

Yet as he reached the bed, he resisted the urge to run his fingers through the errant locks that beribboned her breasts. He tore his gaze from the nipples outlined beneath thin linen that, far from concealing, invited further exploration.

His hand shook, rustling the notepaper he held. Nora stirred. Without a sound he folded into a crouch beside the bed, set the candle on the floor and cupped his free hand around the flame.

Darkness once more claimed the room. From this position his face came level with hers, separated only by the rumpled bedclothes. Her lips were softly parted. His gaze traced the delicate bow of the upper lip, the kissable swell of the lower. He shut his eyes against a stab of desire.

Reaching, he placed the note on her nightstand where she would find it upon waking. Once she read it she would know she must leave Blackheath Grange. If this afternoon hadn’t sent her packing, his written wishes should. And if that still didn’t suffice, the fact that he had gained entry to her room despite two locked doors would.

He stole another glimpse at her mouth.
Kiss me,
her sweetly slackened lips said directly to the part of his brain that housed his lust. He groaned and pressed his forehead against the edge of the bed. The imagined words echoed, spiraling inside him, spinning all other thoughts to oblivion.

‘‘Gray . . .’’

His head shot up. Was she awake? He remained stock-still but for the flick of thumb and forefinger that extinguished the candle.

‘‘Grayson, dearest . . .’’

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, enough to perceive her outline against the ivory bedclothes. Her eyes were closed, her features relaxed with sleep.

‘‘Please, my love . . .’’

Reason fled. Something else entirely—instinct, lust, lunacy—propelled him to peel the bedclothes back and ease in beside her. She did not resist when he reached his arms around her. She barely moved but to snuggle her cheek against his shoulder.

Ah yes . . . to simply hold her for a few moments and think of nothing else but how lovely she was, how good she smelled, how soft she felt against him.

‘‘My dearest, sweetest Nora.’’ He spoke in a whisper no louder than the far-off murmur of the sea. ‘‘My heart.’’