Vastly different from her own hands too. Sturdier, stronger. Hers were small and delicate but often paint stained, the nails and cuticles suffering from contact with powders and oils. And yet with her frail female hands she created, sifted life’s singular moments through her fingers and set them to canvas. At least, she did so as best she could and with an open heart.
Could Sir Grayson make a similar claim? Had he ever created anything with those fine gentleman’s hands?
His face came into focus and filled her vision, became the whole of her world while masculine scents settled over her. Lifting her veil did little to brighten the prospect before her, for the dusty church forbade entrance to all but the slenderest fingers of sunlight. Even close up her new husband seemed drawn from a midnight landscape, his startling blue eyes the only brilliance in his shuttered expression.
His lips were cool and smooth, just moist enough to leave a trace of dew across her own. She resisted the urge to flick her tongue across the spot while the rector concluded the ceremony. Resisted but could not quell the temptation to compare this kiss with the other one they’d shared.
She had bitten him. The memory nearly raised a grin. He’d deserved it, cad that he’d been. Though she must admit it hadn’t been so much the kiss but the insults flanking it that had provoked her temper.
But . . . she’d made a shocking discovery that night, a little secret he must never learn. It lived inside her, a quivery predicament with the power to trip her heart, hitch her breath, send her better sense for a tumble.
The organist struck up the exit march, discordant notes that blared through the building and rattled inside her. With a hand at her elbow, Sir Grayson, her husband, turned her about and nudged her toward the back of the church.
What a sad affair their wedding was. Between her and Sir Grayson they’d mustered all of a handful of guests—the Earl of Wycliffe, the Stockwells, the odd assortment of elderly aunts and uncles, all of whom appeared just the tiniest bit confused.
Mama had insisted on the church, at the same time bluntly refusing to allow any of Nora’s artist friends to attend. Somehow she saw Nora’s downfall as their fault, even though not one of them had been involved in Alessio’s deceit. Mama needed someone to blame, and in Alessio’s absence her anger settled on anyone even remotely connected to the art world.
At the open doors of the vestibule, the morning sun hit Nora full in the face. She blinked and wished Sir Grayson would release her elbow. Did he believe her incapable of remaining upright on her own? A new, gleaming black phaeton pulled by a pair of matching bays—a gift from her parents—awaited them on the windy street. They ducked beneath a shower of rose petals and well-wishes and made their way to the vehicle’s open door.
‘‘After you, my dear.’’ Again he nudged her elbow as if she were unable or unwilling to proceed on her own.
Feeling cross, she gathered her skirts and climbed inside, then experienced a heated sense of panic when he clambered in after her, filling the empty space with a bulk of shoulders, arms and legs.
The door closed, sealing them in dusky solitude, she and this stranger. He was all muscle and rambling limbs with no particular regard for her own need for space. His knee tapped hers as the coach rocked forward. His coat sleeve brushed her bare forearm while his shoulder knocked solidly against hers. Even as she attempted to negotiate an inch or two between them, that little secret whispered to her pulse points, murmured its quivering message to deepest places inside her.
Her fingertips traveled to her lips, pressing ever so gently. . . .
‘‘Thank heavens that’s over.’’
Snapped from her musings, she scowled up at him. ‘‘Can you never refrain from insulting me?’’
He regarded her blankly. Then his eyebrows gathered. ‘‘I did no such thing. You can’t mean you enjoyed that?’’
Her breath caught. Had he read her mind, somehow guessed . . . but then she realized which ‘‘that’’ he meant. The ceremony, not the kiss. A laugh of relief escaped her as she relaxed against the squabs. ‘‘Goodness no. It was torture.’’
‘‘Deuced right.’’ He paused. ‘‘Wait. You’re not insulting me now, are you?’’
Her gaze traced the strong lines of his face and she wished, for the briefest instant, that those vows they’d repeated hadn’t rung with such hypocrisy. She merely faced forward again and shrugged.
‘‘I suppose I’d deserve it.’’
She smoothed the layers of her lace and satin skirts. ‘‘Indeed you would.’’
From the corner of her eye she saw him studying her. She couldn’t be certain, but she believed she detected the beginnings of a smile. With a tremor of anticipation she wondered what he was thinking, what he might be planning. As she’d learned at Wycliffe House, Grayson Lowell was nothing if not unpredictable.
When she braved a glance, however, the smile had vanished.
‘‘I wish to apologize for my behavior that night at Chad’s,’’ he said, uncannily following her thoughts again. ‘‘I don’t usually say or do those kinds of things.’’
‘‘Oh?’’ She pulled the lace mitts from her hands and tossed them into her lap. The ring he’d placed on her finger only minutes before glimmered with indifference. ‘‘So you save that privilege specifically for me?’’
‘‘Not exactly.’’ He released a breath. ‘‘I was angry but not at you. None of this is your fault.’’
‘‘Meaning?’’
‘‘I had to marry. If not you, then someone else.’’
‘‘Someone with a generous dowry.’’
He nodded.
‘‘I suppose your options were limited.’’
Another nod, accompanied by a shrug.
She glanced at his profile, itself a fascinating world of jutting angles and rough planes, as inhospitable as any barren landscape. Several days ago she had begun a painting of him by memory. Now she realized she could never hope to capture a spirit as volatile as Grayson Lowell’s.
She sighed. She had been his last resort, just as he had been hers. No one else would accept either of them. No wonder he was angry. She was angry too. But did he have to say it? Rub it in? Wouldn’t a gentleman at least preserve the illusion of this day, make a gift of it rather than handing her an empty plate of reality and bidding her chew it well?
‘‘Supposing you could have it without me, then? The money, I mean. What would you give in return?’’
He shifted to peer down at her, one arm sliding across the squabs above her shoulders so that if she leaned her head back, it would rest in the crook of his elbow. He drew closer, searching her face until she pulled back. And then there she was, caught between his arm and his piercing regard. ‘‘Explain.’’
‘‘I—I’ll insist Papa give you full control over my dowry, in exchange for my being able to spend my time as and where I wish.’’ Her breath trembled despite her effort to appear calm. ‘‘I had one hope for this marriage. One. And you dashed it that night at your friend’s house.’’
‘‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’’
‘‘Your Cornwall estate.’’
‘‘Ah, that again.’’ A hard look entered his eyes, like a wall that could not be scaled. ‘‘Blackheath Grange.’’
‘‘Yes. I’d hoped . . . you see . . . I’ve been to Cornwall. The light there is extraordinary, the scenery unmatched. I’d give anything . . . But you refused to allow it. Still, surely there must be another of your nephew’s estates where I might bring fellow artists in the summer months. . . .’’
She stopped, biting down and swallowing a sudden and mortifying urge to cry. How could this man understand how important this was to her?
An artists’ retreat. For women only, of course. A place to study and experiment unhindered by society’s eye, or by the disapproval of parents and husbands who considered a woman’s constitution too delicate, too corruptible for any but the most trifling exploration of the art world. To have such freedom . . . oh,
it would constitute a boon of immeasurable worth.
‘‘It isn’t possible.’’ The words were decisive, his expression implacable.
‘‘But why not . . . ?’’
‘‘Because there aren’t any others. Estates, that is.’’ His voice grated; his jaw turned stony. ‘‘Surely your father explained. Two have already been sold off. A third is being leased in the hope of saving it from the auction block. Blackheath is all that’s left and . . .’’
‘‘And you won’t allow us to corrupt the mind of a child.’’ Oh, blast him for passing judgment. He didn’t know her, didn’t know her colleagues, yet he was determined to believe the worst. Did that mean she too should fall prey to rumor and condemn him whether innocent or no?
He’ll never hurt you. . . .
He grasped her chin. ‘‘You must understand. Jonathan is the best of what is left of the Clarington name. He embodies our future—the whole of it. I won’t take chances with his welfare. I will not risk him. Not for anyone. Therefore I must be certain—’’
Tears pricking the backs of her eyes, she shoved his hand away. ‘‘If you believe I could ever harm a child in any way . . . then there is nothing more to discuss.’’
‘‘Perhaps not,’’ he replied softly. His hand engulfed her shoulder, his fingers clamping with an insistence that startled her. ‘‘Perhaps I simply don’t like the terms of your bargain, Lady Lowell.’’
The term jarred her, for she’d not heard it spoken aloud before, nor had she once considered that it belonged to her. As her mind thrashed in confusion, he grasped her other shoulder and held her firmly against the squabs, then leaned in and set his mouth to hers.
The only points of contact between them were his hands on her shoulders and his open lips on hers, yet his touch kindled a fiery presence between her legs. Her thighs burned, turned to heated butter. Her bones dissolved and her breasts strained painfully against her bodice, seeking something unnamable, heretofore unthinkable.
As if he understood their mute cries for attention, his hands slid from her shoulders and covered her breasts, thumbs finding her nipples through all that satin, lace and linen. He rubbed them in rough, urgent circles that had her moaning into his mouth, squirming beneath him, had her pressing for more even as he deepened the kiss and explored the entirety of her mouth with his tongue.
Nothing existed beyond those kisses, beyond the desire that left her scorching, throbbing. And greatly fearing he had discovered her secret and planned to use it to his advantage.
For the truth was, she had enjoyed that kiss on Lord Wycliffe’s terrace . . . and this one as well. More than enjoyed; she delighted in the sensation of his hands upon her, savored the taste and heat of him in her mouth and all through her.
He lifted his mouth from hers, so tenderly she again felt the inexplicable sting of tears. He propped a hand beside her head. The other cradled her cheek, effectively trapping her within his gaze, within the breadth of his arms.
‘‘What I had been about to say before you so rudely interrupted me is that I must be certain of rendering the right decision. I may have been hasty that night. I shall think more about your request, and I shall take my time thinking about it, so do not ask again. You’ll know when I’ve reached my decision.’’
He brushed his lips against hers, and the graze of his tongue raised shivers that left her weak and feverish. He pulled back again and his eyes, blazing in the dimness, held her immobile but for her trembling fingertips. ‘‘Never put words into my mouth, my dear. Your tongue, your lips, your sighs of pleasure, yes. But never words. I will not stand for it.’’
For the first time she felt afraid of him, truly afraid, and not because of anything anyone might have said about him. He didn’t need rumors to make him fearsome. He need only kiss her and look at her like that.
Grayson poured brandy into a snifter, watching the coppery flow deepen the dimensions of the crystal. As the liquid heat poured through his body, his gaze drifted over the familiar dark furnishings of the study that had served the Clarington earls for generations.
By rights this should be his brother’s haven. Tonight, Grayson’s wedding night, Tom should have been here pouring brandy for both of them. Should have been grinning, slapping Grayson’s back and toasting his nuptials in less-than-polite terms.
The brandy burned his nose and eyes and traced a searing path to his gullet. He took another long pull, knowing it would do little to numb his sense of loss. Nor would it transform the hours ahead into the sort of wedding night he’d always believed he would celebrate. A virginal young wife with a heart filled with love. A future filled with hope.
Not for him, those things.
He sauntered behind the desk and threw himself into the chair. Slipping into a slouch, he raised his glass again. The liquid set his lips aflame. Would Honora’s kisses do likewise? All too well did he know their power to scorch. To make a man half-crazed with desire. Yes, he would have that if nothing else.
Leaning, he set his brandy on the desk. An object near it shimmered in the glow of the candle he’d brought. He frowned. Besides a few token items— glass quill holder and inkpot, a pewter letter rack, an inlaid stationery box—the desk had been cleared of personal articles. Except for a monthly dusting, no one ever entered this room but him, and then only rarely.
Puzzled, he reached forward.
His hand closed over a pocket watch. As he scooped it into his palm the chain scraped the desktop, the bleak sound producing a foreboding that prickled up his spine.
Tom’s gold watch—a Clarington heirloom—had gone missing since the day of his death. . . .
Lurching forward, Grayson dragged the candle closer and shoved the timepiece into its erratic flicker. But even before his gaze traced the designs etched in the silver cover, the size and weight of the piece produced a less-than-reassuring certainty.
This was not Tom’s watch, but his own. The one he’d opted not to wear this morning, which he had left atop his dressing room bureau.
His breath rasped in a throat gone dry. How did his watch get here? Surely his valet would not have moved it.
The night air penetrated the window behind him, its cool breath raising the hairs on his arms. The crisp scent of lemons crept beneath his nose. Inhaling it, tasting it, he shoved backward until the chair hit the window frame. His heart thumped as an overwhelming sense of recognition swept over him.
‘‘Charlotte?’’
He pushed to his feet, eyes straining into the crouching shadows. He knew he wouldn’t receive a reply; couldn’t receive a reply. Charlotte, Thomas’s wife, died nearly four years ago, along with their unborn child.
Tremors racked through him. The room suddenly felt like the wine cellar deep beneath the house. Snatching the candle in one hand and gripping his watch in the other, he nearly stumbled over his own feet in his haste to quit the room.
‘‘Do stop, Mama. That hurts. I believe there might still be a pin or two in there somewhere.’’
Nora winced and leaned closer to the dressing table mirror as she ran her fingers through her hair, raking unsteady paths along her scalp. Tonight was her wedding night, and here she sat in an unfamiliar bedroom in Clarington House, where her unfamiliar husband would visit her all too soon.
She felt like a prisoner facing a life sentence. . . . And, indeed, that was exactly what she was.
Her mother’s reflection frowned down at her. Holding the silver-backed hairbrush at her side, Millicent leaned to pluck one of the pins Nora had just located, pulling hairs along with it and pricking her scalp.
‘‘Goodness, Honora, this mane of yours is so long and thick, it’s quite like searching for reeds in a bushel of hops.’’
Millicent Thorngoode would know. Before her marriage, she’d been but a farmer’s daughter, and her father was by no means a gentleman farmer. No, Grandfather Whipple had worked his tenant lands with his own hands, his own sweat. Mama had grown up amidst the hops fields and oasthouses of south Kent, hel
ping to harvest the ripe bines and brew beer for the family’s use and to sell at market.
Even now Mama’s hands showed traces of the hard work, with calluses that would not be buffed away and knuckles that bulged as a lady’s never should.
Nora found it nothing to be ashamed of, and she regretted the airs that prevented her mother from acknowledging her youthful past. The memories were vague, but if Nora concentrated she could almost catch the bitter scents of the ripened hops, or the dry, pungent heat rising from the oast houses, those round, pointed-roofed structures she had once mistaken for fairy dwellings.
A stroke of the hairbrush caught another pin and several more strands of hair. ‘‘Ouch! Enough, Mama! It reminds me of when I was little. I learned never to let you brush my hair when you were angry or nervous. So which is it tonight?’’
‘‘Neither.’’ Millicent set the brush on the dressing table. ‘‘But . . . it’s time we had a little chat. There are certain things you must understand about tonight and—’’
‘‘Oh, dear.’’ A bit too quickly she pushed to her feet, forcing Mama to hop out of her way. The sensations Sir Grayson had aroused in her were constantly in her thoughts, but they certainly were not a topic she wished to discuss with her mother. ‘‘Really, Mama, it isn’t necessary. I’m perfectly well aware—’’
She broke off at the sudden alteration in her mother’s expression, not to mention complexion, as a startling crimson blush flowered beneath several layers of powder.
‘‘Oh, Honora, you promised . . . you swore you didn’t . . .’’ Millicent whirled away and stumbled to the bed. She fell facedown upon it, sending the down tick hissing around her in a great heave. A long moan funneled through the bedclothes.
It took Nora only a moment to understand this sudden fit of vapors. Sweeping to the bedside, she sat and pressed a hand to her mother’s shaking shoulder. ‘‘No, no, that isn’t at all what I meant. Of course I didn’t pose for Signore Alessio. My knowledge of . . . such matters . . . comes purely secondhand.’’
Thanks to Kat, she acknowledged silently. Kat was the upstairs maid at home. On several furtive occasions she wasn’t particularly proud of, Nora had listened in on tales of the alluring servant’s escapades with the Thorngoode’s groom, their man-of-all-work and the lad who delivered the coal on Thursdays.
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