Dark Obsession (4 page)

‘‘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?

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 replied 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.

She experienced a moment of ambiguity toward the man, and not for the first time. He treated her amiably enough, but she could not shake the feeling that there was more to the earl than appearances suggested. Tonight and on the previous occasion they had met, some underlying . . . she didn’t know . . . tension, perhaps . . . seemed to strain his nobleman’s poise, as though he were walking on ice and afraid of falling. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. . . .