Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  The tang of the sea, borne on a soupy mist, filled the interior of the coach and brought with it the bitter taste of Grayson’s colossal mistake.

  Outside the window to his left, the lush farmland of Helston had given way to the rugged sweep of the Lizard Peninsula, a high, rolling vista studded with outcroppings of granite and occasional thrusts of the area’s peculiar, green- and red-veined serpentine rock. From here, Blackheath Moor, the brooding stretch of land that hugged the boundaries of his Cornish home and gave it its name, surged westward to meet the upward swell of the Goonhilly Downs. The heather and gorse were in bloom, though today their vibrant purples and golds struggled to be noticed beneath the blanketing fog.

  In weather such as this, a man could lose his way within moments amid the hills and moors, wander for hours or even days, only to find himself trudging in circles.

  He closed his eyes to the sight, then turned his head to gaze out the window on Nora’s side. There the land edged away in a steep, wind- and rain-gouged descent to the cliffs, followed by a sheer drop to the sea. He sighed. Both views revealed a stark landscape, equally beautiful. . . . But as Grayson also knew, equally treacherous to the unsuspecting.

  He considered rapping for his driver to swing the team around. Too late he realized he should have sent Nora to Cornwall on her own and remained in London. Or gone anywhere else on earth but where the memories were still so alive that they blew their clammy breath down his nape.

  What had he been thinking?

  He knew damned well what he’d been thinking. That Nora deserved better than being chained to a man like him. Her own tarnished reputation had proved falser than paste jewels, and would therefore fade as people observed, as he did, her gemlike qualities.

  That would never be true for him. It wasn’t false that Tom was dead. It was excruciatingly real. As irrevocable as the part Grayson had played in what had happened.

  But he’d yearned to give her something, some rare gift in exchange for the man he wanted to be—for her—who he had been for a few short hours on their wedding night.

  Blackheath Grange was the only gift he could think of that might hold value for her. That might fill the gaps where her husband and lover and friend should be.

  She sat gazing out the window on her side, watching the sodden scenery roll by. He wondered what she thought of Cornwall so far. Was she rethinking her desire to be here? Did she find it as dismal and inhospitable as he did? Precious few words had passed between them today, leaving only the weighty silence that had become like a third traveling companion.

  When they first set out from London she’d sat close, her body warm and pliant against his side. He’d wrapped an arm around her, tossed her bonnet to the opposite seat and indulged in more than a few sultry kisses.

  They’d made love in the inn last night. Frenzied, mindless lovemaking that ended in slick bodies, wildly beating hearts and a look of alarm on Nora’s lovely face. She’d assured him he hadn’t hurt her, but he didn’t believe it. Didn’t his own bruised rib prove otherwise?

  The dream. He’d been half-mad when she’d prodded him from sleep. All he had wanted was to hold her close, bury himself in sweet kisses and warm flesh, reveal his dark secrets and find her willing to understand.

  But some ungovernable passion had sprung up from the madness. His other side had come plundering out. The side he wished she would never come to know.

  A low roll of thunder growled in the distance. He glanced across the carriage seat to discover her studying him, her expression speculative.

  ‘‘We must be nearly there,’’ she said. ‘‘You look as though something is about to happen.’’

  The observation speared him. She was becoming far too adept at reading him. Since that afternoon in the gallery, and then later in the library at home, he’d had the unsettling sense she was gaining the ability to steal inside his brain and sift through his thoughts.

  He angled a look out the window, though he knew this road so well he could identify where they were by the ruts and curves tossing the coach about. ‘‘We’ll be turning up the drive any moment.’’

  ‘‘I can hardly wait.’’ Yet her shadowed features hinted of apprehension, of perhaps finding disappointment in her fondest wish. Disappointment in him. And the disappointment of realizing she desired more now, so much more than the barren bargain she had once offered: her dowry for Blackheath Grange.

  He hated that, essentially, that was the bargain they’d made.

  Swerving, the coach maneuvered a bumpy course through an open pair of iron gates flanked by two fluted pillars. A stone gatehouse stood to the right. The roof, shiny from the rain, showed dull in spots where slate tiles were broken or missing altogether. One more repair that needed attending.

  The weather-lined face of Elliot, the gatekeeper, appeared in the open gatehouse door. The man grinned and waved his cap in the air as the coach rumbled past. ‘‘Welcome home, Master Grayson.’’

  He forced a smile and returned the wave. How ironic that even at twenty-eight he was still Master Grayson here, as he had been from his earliest days.

  As they rounded a bend, the oaks and elms planted generations ago, along with encroaching rowans, fell away to reveal the sloping park bordered by rhododendrons so in need of trimming they spilled their heavy blossoms onto the lawn. They turned again and the house appeared in his window, its stone facade and timber-trimmed peaks gaunt against the afternoon sky. Steely clouds reflected in the mullioned windows, lending them the rheumy gleam of eyes gone blind.

  Grayson’s stomach clenched at the familiar sights. He was home, yet that word had long ceased to evoke comfort or safety. He might as well be alone on a stormy sea with nothing but his own chaotic fears to guide him.

  Why on earth had he returned?

  Because had they remained in London, it would have been Nora who suffered for his mistakes. The incident at the gallery had convinced him of that.

  ‘‘It’s not as ancient as I’d thought,’’ she said, leaning at his shoulder to peer around him. Her cheerful tone rang as hollow as the felled tree they had just passed. ‘‘Not medieval at all.’’

  ‘‘Fire destroyed the manor in the 1520s. They razed what was left and used the original stones to rebuild. I apologize for its being so gloomy.’’

  ‘‘Gloomy? Hardly. It’s a glorious piece of history. I’ll wager there’s a maze of back stairwells and secret passages, for I’ve read the people of that age reveled in spying on one another.’’ A faint smile hovered about her lips. ‘‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s even a . . .’’

  ‘‘A what?’’

  A horrified spark ignited in her eyes. ‘‘N-nothing.’’ The unspoken word shivered in the air like a breath from the grave. She needn’t say it. Back stairs, secret passages . . . a ghost.

  Was there one at Blackheath? Surely, but was it a tormented soul crying out from beyond this world, or merely his own tormented soul?

  He faced stiffly straight ahead, avoiding both Nora and the scenery outside his window. He felt rather than saw her peeking at him from under her lashes. A frothy tension settled between them. She thought he was angry. True, but not at her. At so much else; at everything else but her.

  For her at this moment, he felt only sorrow.

  Chapter 10

  Nora could barely contain her excitement as the coach maneuvered the fiinal turn in the drive. Her fiingers, laced tightly in her lap, tensed to aching as she took in the lofty Gothic arch of the front door, presided over by the forbidding glare of a griffin’s head carved into the oak.

  The door opened and a tall female figure, thin and angular beneath thick folds of black broadcloth, descended the steps.

  ‘‘That is Mrs. Dorn, our housekeeper,’’ Grayson murmured as a footman hurried down from behind the woman and opened the coach door. Grayson stepped down first, then handed Nora carefully to the drive.

  Considerate. Gentle. But nonetheless distant. Last night he had asked her to love him�
��and she had, willingly and wholeheartedly, even when their passion had spiraled too high for safety.

  She supposed he felt contrite for the ungentlemanly way he’d treated her, but rather than reassure, his behavior only tightened those growing knots in her stomach. Where was that passion now? Surely not hiding within this placid stranger.

  A chill breeze churned her skirts and nipped at her ankles as Grayson retrieved her reticule from the coach seat. Meanwhile a middle-aged man with peppered hair and a slight stoop joined the housekeeper at the foot of the steps. With his craggy features and pitted skin he reminded Nora of the shadowy characters that often slipped in through her parents’ kitchen door at night to have a quiet word with her father.

  ‘‘Welcome back, Master Grayson.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Gibbs. I’d like to present my wife, Lady Lowell. Nora, this is Mr. Gibbs, our steward.’’

  ‘‘At your service, madam.’’ Contrary to his looks, the steward spoke with the careful inflections of a London-bred gentleman. His smooth bow rivaled any in polite society. From just behind him the elder woman emitted a cough.

  ‘‘And Mrs. Dorn, of course,’’ Gray continued, ‘‘who has ruled over Blackheath Grange with an iron fist these thirty-odd years.’’

  Up close the woman appeared nearly emaciated, her shoulders sharp within the severe cut of her sleeves. Clasping skeletal fingers at her waist, she dipped a stiff curtsy. ‘‘How very lovely to have you at Blackheath Grange, Lady Lowell,’’ she said in the clipped burr particular to Cornwall. Her flinty eyes narrowed as she took in every detail of Nora’s wrinkled carriage dress. Hers was a gaze that conveyed little affability, permitted no excuses. At least that was how she made Nora feel. ‘‘I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay.’’

  Nora gave an internal harrumph, for by those words it seemed Mrs. Dorn chose to view her as a guest rather than Blackheath’s new mistress. Yet until young Jonathan Lowell came of age, mistress of this place was exactly what she would be.

  ‘‘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 lovema
king.

  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.