Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  ‘‘You have no choice, Gray.’’

  ‘‘Say it as though you mean it.’’

  Chad clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘‘You’re looking downright ghoulish, old boy. Not ill, are you?’’

  He was quick to shake his head. ‘‘Only at heart. I could use that brandy, damn it.’’

  ‘‘And you shall have it.’’ Chad’s eyes reflected the many years of their friendship, their countless confidences, their infinite trust of each other. ‘‘See here, as I’ve told you at least a dozen times already, if there’s any way I can help you . . .’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  Chad’s hand slid from his shoulder. ‘‘I only meant . . .’’

  Grayson made an effort to soften his tone and relax his stance, which had tensed to battle readiness a moment ago. ‘‘I know. And you’ve already helped me more than you’ll ever guess. When Thomas died . . . if you hadn’t been on hand, well, I don’t know . . .’’

  ‘‘I’m still on hand, old chap. Always will be.’’

  The truth of that statement resonated with him. He could count on his oldest friend. But not even Chad knew about . . . it. No one did.

  ‘‘Then you’ll see me through this evening.’’ Grayson conjured a grin. ‘‘I’m depending on you.’’

  ‘‘To what? Ensure you don’t go sneaking out through the kitchen door? Come. My sister and Albert are waiting for us in the drawing room, bless their hearts. I suggest we join them and present not only a united front when your intended arrives, but a contented domestic scene as well.’’

  The two men climbed the carpeted stairs to the spacious hall above, their steps thudding in companionable rhythm. ‘‘Seriously, Chad, thank you for arranging this evening. How did you manage it, by the way? I should have thought Thorngoode would prefer to face me down on his own turf.’’

  ‘‘Manage it?’’ Chad gave a sniff that made him sound rather like his butler. ‘‘All I had to do was send my card and my compliments, and dear Millicent Thorngoode was on me like sugar glaze on a roast goose. Oozing and sticky sweet.’’

  ‘‘But it’s my goose that’s cooked.’’ Grayson crossed the landing, heading for the drawing room.

  Chad stopped him just before the threshold. ‘‘Look, I consider both Thorngoodes as bordering on the absurd. Like caricatures in the Sunday papers. But to tell you the honest truth, I find their daughter charming.’’

  ‘‘The Painted Paramour? Charming is not a word that leaps to my mind.’’

  ‘‘She’s talented. She’s surprisingly intelligent. And she is beautiful.’’

  ‘‘As half of London has had the privilege of witnessing.’’

  Chad laughed. ‘‘Has it occurred to you that she might not be the demirep she’s reputed to be? After all, since when have you and I put any stock in scandal-sheet prattle?’’

  A wave of chagrin swept Grayson’s shoulders. He certainly knew what the scandal sheets had to say about him. He knew too that behind every rumor there existed at least a particle of truth.

  The Earl of Clarington was pushed. . . .

  Must a push be physical?

  He cleared the darkness from his mind with a quick shake. ‘‘Dozens of people were treated to the sight of Honora Thorngoode’s unabashedly naked body. The scandal sheets didn’t make that up. Not to mention the buggers who are lining up claiming to have been with her.’’

  ‘‘Besides that Alessio chap?’’

  Grayson nodded, his expression grim.

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Bryce Waterston, for one.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Chad pushed a low whistle through his teeth.

  ‘‘Don’t tell me the bloke had the audacity to tell you to your face.’’

  ‘‘He bragged about it at White’s. Everyone knows.’’

  ‘‘Jealous, are we?’’ With athletic grace, Chad ducked Grayson’s halfhearted fist. ‘‘All I’m saying is keep an open mind. At the worst, you’ve found yourself a lusty bedmate, and a deuced comely one at that. With my luck I’ll end up chained to some vapid little virgin who’ll do her duty until she produces an heir and a spare and then forever bar her boudoir door. Sorry, but I’ve no pity for you at present.’’

  ‘‘I’m worried about Jonathan,’’ Gray said on a more sober note. ‘‘He doesn’t need any further heartache.’’

  ‘‘Then keep the new Lady Lowell clear of Cornwall. Meanwhile, enjoy your marriage for what it’s worth.’’

  ‘‘You’re simply trying to prevent me from slipping out through the kitchen and spoiling your dinner party, aren’t you?’’

  ‘‘The wolves must be fed, after all.’’ Chad flashed the smile Grayson had always envied, the one that had gotten him out of scrapes, made him a favorite at Eaton and, later, won the hearts of ladies. ‘‘Besides, it seems I am indebted to Mrs. Thorngoode. The woman addresses me as your grace. Odd, but I thought only the king could elevate an earl to duke.’’

  ‘‘She wrote to me last week, addressing me as your worship. That’s rather a step down, I should think.’’

  ‘‘Ouch.’’ Chad shook his head. ‘‘New money.’’

  ‘‘So new one can smell the ink, not that my creditors will complain.’’

  Chad gestured toward the open doors of the drawing room. ‘‘Chin up, old boy. Almost time to face the front lines.’’

  Zachariah Thorngoode closed the door to Chad’s private study and drew back the gilded armchair that faced the desk. ‘‘Sit, my boy.’’

  The gruff invitation sounded more like a command, and Grayson wasted no time folding himself into the exotic, Egyptian-inspired piece.

  He had met his bride-to-be not five minutes earlier, exchanged a bow, a how-do-you-do and a polite kiss on the hand before her father stepped between them. Without preamble Thorngoode had grasped his elbow and abruptly ushered him from the drawing room. Indeed, one might say grabbed his arm and hauled him without being accused of a gross exaggeration.

  He’d barely had time to form the slightest impression of the young woman. Except for her hair. Rich, dark chestnut. Streaked with gold. So glossy he’d wager it hung perfectly straight when not coaxed into the curls that danced about her shoulders tonight.

  Of her face he’d noticed little but its heartlike shape—full in the cheeks, pertly narrow at the chin. And her eyes. He’d glimpsed them just before her father yanked him away. Though their exact color escaped him—greenish, perhaps hazel—it was their exotic slant that produced a little jolt of . . . he didn’t know . . . interest? Curiosity? Perhaps even a begrudging desire to know more of her.

  Then again, why shouldn’t he find the Painted Paramour desirable? Most of London already did.

  Like a prowling footpad Thorngoode noiselessly circled the desk, his gaze pinned on Grayson with all the subtlety of the flat of a dagger, not exactly cutting into flesh—yet—but cool and flinty all the same.

  Grayson tried to focus on his surroundings, the rich oak paneling, the deep tones of burgundy and hunter green. The mellow scent of pipe tobacco permeated the air, mingling with the essence of leather-bound books and a hint of fine aged brandy. It was a room he knew well, having spent many a late night sitting up with his friend, talking, smoking and imbibing some of that excellent brandy.

  Even as a boy, this had always been Grayson’s favorite room in Wycliffe House. Chad’s father, the previous earl, had from time to time invited the boys in for a taste of what he’d termed a man’s last haven, refreshingly devoid of all feminine influence.

  It didn’t present much of a haven now, not with Thorngoode glowering at him like a pile of hot coals about to burst into flame. He supposed it was for effect, the man’s way of establishing who was in authority here and who was not.

  This was all for Jonathan, Grayson reminded himself. Thorngoode’s money would restore the boy’s inheritance. If only it could repair Jonny’s wounded heart as well, and give him back all he’d lost.

  Thorngoode cleared his throat. �
��‘I’ve ordered the improvements to Blackheath Grange. The outbuildings, the paddocks, the silos. It’ll all be repaired, along with the tenant farms damaged by the flooding last autumn. Livestock will be replaced. Your brother’s debts here in London are being handled even as we speak.’’

  Handled. Grayson knew better than to ask what exactly that meant. And as for the rest, the repairs would restore production, but would they renew the local people’s faith in the land? Dead livestock, failed crops—many believed Tom’s death had brought a curse upon them all.

  He forced the thought from his mind. ‘‘Thank you, sir.’’

  ‘‘It’s lucky you came to me when you did. Mending structures is one thing, but restoring a dwindling fortune is devilish tricky business. As things lie now, it won’t be easy to undo so many years of neglect.’’

  ‘‘My brother never neglected his responsibilities,’’ Grayson snapped, sudden ire pulsing in his temples. Whatever else his brother might be accused of, and Lord knew Tom had his faults, disregard for those in his care for damn certain wasn’t one of them. ‘‘He did his best—’’

  ‘‘What your brother neglected,’’ Thorngoode interrupted, ‘‘is the same matter so many of your kind have ignored since Boney’s wars ended. It’s not entirely his fault. Your father was equally guilty. You aristocrats shrink from dirtying your hands in trade and finance, but while you were all promenading through the park, the world changed. A fortune can’t be supported by the home farm any longer. You’ve got to stop living large and thinking small.’’

  He paused, running a speculative glance over Grayson that ended with a clearly doubtful lift of one coal black brow. ‘‘Tell me, have you got the faintest idea how much cotton is produced by this country’s Caribbean plantations? Or how many countries we export that cotton to?’’

  "I ah . . .’’

  Thorngoode leaned back in his chair. ‘‘No, I didn’t think you did.’’

  A weighty silence ensued while the other man continued his critical if silent appraisal. Grayson swallowed and then wished he hadn’t when Thorngoode’s gaze converged on his twitching Adam’s apple. The tiniest gleam of amusement entered the man’s eyes. Grayson wanted to crawl under the nearest settee.

  For the life of him he didn’t know why Zachariah Thorngoode made him feel this way, as if his life hung by a cobweb. He’d never seen the man behave with anything other than his peculiar brand of unrefined civility. Nor had he ever heard Zachariah Thorngoode raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Somehow he exuded more intimidation in a murmur than most men could muster with bellowed threats.

  Not to mention his way of wangling others to his will by means so subtle a man’s signature would appear on a contract before he even realized he’d taken up the pen. Take Grayson’s own predicament.

  He’d never meant to agree to marry Honora Thorngoode, had intended simply to negotiate terms for a loan no reputable bank would extend. He still didn’t quite know what had happened.

  Across the desk, the man laced his craggy fingers together and cracked the knuckles. Loudly. Grayson sat up straighter.

  ‘‘Now, my boy, about my daughter.’’ The East London influences on Thorngoode’s speech thickened to an ominous drawl. And his eyes—so dark a blue and so recessed they seemed nearly black—honed directly on Grayson like dual pistol barrels about to discharge.

  Suddenly Grayson envisioned himself in a dockside alley at midnight, surrounded by brigands. He didn’t move. Or breathe.

  ‘‘I wish to set a thing or two straight.’’ Thorngoode paused and aimed a crooked forefinger at Grayson.

  He felt an urge to duck. Instead he said, ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  ‘‘She’s a good girl, my Nora. Innocent of what people say about her. Don’t you for one instant believe otherwise.’’

  ‘‘No, sir.’’ His denial slipped out a beat too swiftly, and the other man’s expression hardened.

  ‘‘The very least I expect is for you to ensure her safety and keep her content.’’ The misshapen forefinger jabbed the air. ‘‘Can you do that?’’

  Was Thorngoode having second thoughts? Regrets about aiming so low on his daughter’s behalf? Not that Grayson could be blamed for that. If Honora had considered her reputation before suspending it from a wall for public viewing, she might now be marrying a nobleman rather than a nobleman’s second son, of questionable character himself.

  Her father waited for an answer, and none too patiently if the drumming of his fingers on the desk gave any indication.

  But he wondered—did he have what it took to content the Painted Paramour? He cleared his throat. ‘‘I’m certain your daughter and I can come to terms that will be mutually satisfying to us both.’’

  ‘‘She’s a woman, not a scrap of real estate.’’ Thorngoode’s wide nostrils flared, accentuating a nose undoubtedly broken on more than one occasion. ‘‘Be good to her. So help me, if you ever flaunt a mistress in front of her or lay an unkind hand on her, I’ll have your hide.’’

  The threat, delivered smoothly in a controlled tone, all too vividly conjured an image of Thorngoode peeling Grayson like a piece of fruit. ‘‘Understood. Sir.’’ Some indignant part of his ego prompted him to add, ‘‘It isn’t in my nature to harass or abuse women.’’

  ‘‘Then you and I shall get on famously.’’

  Thorngoode gripped the arms of the chair and pushed to his feet. Grayson should have been overjoyed at the prospect of escaping this little téte-à-tête, but one question had nagged from the very beginning, and now it demanded an answer.

  ‘‘May I ask you something, sir?’’

  Thorngoode sat back down.

  ‘‘Why me?’’ He looked down at his hands, not daring to meet the other man’s eye. ‘‘Surely you’ve heard the rumors. Aren’t you . . . concerned?’’

  After all, any father should be.

  Thorngoode had the audacity to laugh. Nearly doubled over the desk. Grayson didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.

  ‘‘You haven’t even asked me if there’s any truth to those rumors,’’ he added.

  Thorngoode sobered. ‘‘By Christ, boy, if I needed to ask, do you think I’d be handing my daughter over to you? The gossips can go straight to the devil, along with the creditors who’ve been banging at your door.’’

  He extended his hand across the desk. Grayson grasped it, instantly aware of the protrusion of the veins, the prominence of the knuckles, the calluses on the fingertips and palm. With those gnarled hands, Zachariah Thorngoode had clawed a fortune out of nothing. His was a grip that could strike an honest bargain or squeeze the life out of Lucifer himself. As Grayson shook that hand, he speculated on which it would be for him.

  At the rumble of approaching male conversation, the air abandoned Nora’s lungs in a whoosh facilitated by a forceful thrust of her heart. Would she finally exchange more than a word of greeting with Sir Grayson Lowell? And if so, what exactly would those words be?

  Delighted to meet you, Sir Grayson, but tell me, did you murder your brother?

  Oh, dear. Such thoughts wouldn’t do. Not here, not now, especially in such company. But she would have a word with him at the first opportunity.

  ‘‘Grayson is a splendid rider. Do you ride, Miss Thorngoode?’’ The question came from the Earl of Wycliffe’s beautiful sister, Lady Belinda Stockwell, perched on the settee beside her.

  Apparently the lady had known Sir Grayson since childhood and considered him a capital fellow. In the past few moments she had listed more attributes than any one man had a right to possess, and Nora couldn’t help wondering which were true and which were invented to impress her. Still, she could fault Lady Belinda for neither her loyalty nor her enthusiasm. Having such a friend of her own would have made this all so much easier, but Nora’s only close friends were artists, and Mama would take up arms before she permitted any of them through the door again.

  ‘‘I’m afraid I haven’t ridden in quite the longest time,’’ Nora rep
lied with a little sigh. ‘‘Not since I was a child visiting my grandparents in Kent.’’

  ‘‘Oh, what a shame. Perhaps Grayson will persuade you to take up the reins again.’’ Lady Belinda’s smile remained perfectly intact. ‘‘What entertainments do you enjoy?’’

  Nora’s hesitation lasted only as long as it took to realize the prudence of not mentioning her painting— as if anyone here needed reminding. ‘‘I’m a passing fair chess player.’’

  She heard none of Lady Belinda’s next comment, for Papa and Sir Grayson had entered the drawing room. At that moment Nora wanted nothing so much as to jump up from the settee, claim her fiancé’s attention and state her opinions concerning their impending marriage.

  Instead she discreetly craned her neck to see around Lady Belinda’s high coif, an effort that rendered her little satisfaction, for her father’s craggy profile blocked her view.

  Their introduction earlier had happened too fast, her nerves in far too tight a tangle for her to form more than a general impression of the man. Perfect grooming, stylish clothing, impeccable poise. On closer inspection, would she find him appealing? Or would she dread waking every morning to the sight of cold eyes, a disdainful mouth or the constant censure of a glowering eyebrow?

  ‘‘Ah, Zachariah. Sir Grayson. May we assume you’ve concluded your business agreeably?’’ Seated across the way beside Lady Belinda’s husband, Nora’s mother sat up straighter, her features pinched with nervous expectancy.

  Nora sighed. In spite of everything—Alessio’s crushing betrayal and Grayson Lowell’s dubious past— Mama simply could not hide her elation at Nora’s marrying into an aristocratic family. She would not relax until the vows were spoken.

  ‘‘Most agreeably, Mrs. Thorngoode,’’ Sir Grayson said, his voice smooth and carefully polite.

  ‘‘Oh, your worship, I am so pleased to hear it.’’

  Nora swallowed a groan. Chomping at the bit would best describe Mama’s reaction to that news, and would she never learn to address the nobility correctly? A subdued chuckle drew her gaze to the Earl of Wycliffe, who lowered his face to conceal a grin.