Dark Obsession (9 page)

Hands on her ears, Nora sprang from the bed and scurried to the window. Oh, she did
not
wish her wedding night reduced to instructions on operating a pump. She even considered bursting out in song to drown out Mama’s unwanted advice.

Turning to see if Millicent would pursue her across the room, she backed up until the coolness of the panes penetrated her linen shift.

Would Sir Grayson’s hands feel cool or warm when he placed them on her? Would he do these things her mother was trying to explain?

Did she wish him to?

A dull ache through her lower regions suggested the answer, but she concentrated on the chill at her back rather than on the improbable,
inconceivable
images her mother was presently conjuring, and with such gusto too.

Good heavens.

‘‘Would you like me to show you, Honora?’’

Her face snapped in her mother’s direction. ‘‘Absolutely
not
. I . . . I understand all you’ve said, and I daresay I’m fully prepared for . . . whatever . . .’’

She had little notion, really. Only jumbled expectations careening inside her.

Her mother stood and came toward her, brows knotted in concern. ‘‘Are you quite certain, dearest? The first time can be frightening. Especially if he—’’

‘‘I’m quite sure he won’t. Truly. I’m not afraid at all. In fact, I think it’s time you were off, Mama.’’ She mustered a smile. ‘‘It’s late. You and Papa should go on home now. I’ll see you tomorrow.’’

‘‘Oh, we’re not going anywhere, child. We’ll be right down the hall. Should you need us, you’ve only to call.’’

Nora spun about to gaze down on the street outside the window. ‘‘Good night then, Mama. See you in the morning.’’

Millicent lingered at her shoulder, one hand stroking up and down Nora’s arm. ‘‘I do so wish you to be happy, Honora. As happy as your papa and I have been.’’

Was it possible? Could she find happiness with the brooding stranger she had married, that wandering creature of the mists?

She had offered him a bargain, her dowry in exchange for the occasional use of one of the Clarington estates. A simple business arrangement that would benefit them both. He had neither accepted nor declined that offer. Instead he had silenced her with the right of a husband, proving beyond a doubt that she now belonged to him.

The memory of his forceful kisses crowded her thoughts, seared her lips. While an achy heat squeezed her thighs and tugged at her breasts, her fears and uncertainties coiled round an extraordinary thought: it should be pleasurable, as much for the woman as for the man.

Could Mama be right?

She kissed Millicent’s cheek. ‘‘Good night. And you needn’t worry, I can handle Sir Grayson.’’

A gleam of pride illuminated her mother’s appraising look. ‘‘As you wish, then, dearest . . . good night.’’

Nora nodded, then quickly turned back to the scene outside the window as brisk footsteps receded across the room. Mama meant well, but this was a tangle only Nora could unwind. . . . Nora and her puzzling husband.

She shivered. Papa had said Grayson’s eyes were clear. . . . Clear of murderous guilt, perhaps. But not empty. Ah, no. She saw so much in those eyes—dread, hope, disdain, desire—but always with a silent warning not to get too close. If only she understood what lay at the heart of that admonition.

She stood, shaking slightly, at the window, as her nerves, bundled so carefully throughout the day, began to unravel. Outside a barouche lumbered by, followed by a lighter, swifter curricle drawn by two sleek dapple grays.

Hmm.
Perhaps if a stagecoach happened by, she might climb out the window, catch the branches of the tree just outside, swing out over the road and land safely amid the luggage stashed on the vehicle’s roof. Merely a matter of careful timing, a sure grip . . .

The bedroom door opened. Footsteps, too heavy to belong to her mother or even Papa, raised a wash of gooseflesh that left the hairs on her arms and nape bristling.

She drew in a breath, cooled by the night-chilled window. The time had come for her to become a wife in deed as well as in word.

On his way upstairs, Grayson told himself he was visiting her only to discuss the terms of their marriage.

Never mind that he simply didn’t wish to be alone. Not after those unnerving moments in Tom’s study.

Tomorrow he’d ask the servants if any of them had placed his watch in the study. He already knew what their answers would be. Tonight he didn’t wish to think any more about it. He wished to forget the unnatural chill that had crept up his arms and seized his chest. Needed to forget all the strange occurrences these past weeks. What else could they mean but that his hold on sanity was slippery at best?

Yet hold on he must, for his nephew’s sake. There were certain matters his new wife must be made to understand, and he must stand firm.

She was his wife now—
his
—and he expected her to act the part. No more Alessios, no more Bryce Waterstons. Finished. Forgotten. The sooner she learned that, the better. For the Clarington name. For Jonathan. Grayson would see to it there were no new rumors circulating about Jonny’s aunt.

He reached her room, let himself in noiselessly. The air inside fairly pulsated with her sensual, spicy scent. Nothing lemony about it, thank heavens for that. Should he turn the key, lock the door? He couldn’t but admit to an unfurling desire to seek the forgetfulness he craved within Honora Thorngoode Lowell’s luscious flesh.

Would that be assuming too much with this enigmatic new wife of his? One minute simmering, the next frigid as a winter’s dawn. Passionate . . . then downright demure. Which embodied the true Honora Thorngoode? Rampant rumor suggested the former. Yet some fragile quality behind those lovely eyes— he’d decided they were hazel—hinted at the latter.

Or was it merely the old guilt coloring his perceptions? Guilt and the constant fear of repeating past mistakes. But it wasn’t his brother, Thomas, occupying this room, nor Tom’s orphaned son, Jonny. This was Honora Thorngoode, Painted Paramour of London. Hers was a downfall for which he bore no blame.

He gave the key a resolute turn.

The room stood mostly in shadow, illuminated by a faceted lamp and the street lanterns outside. She was standing by the window, her back to him, so still and slight she hardly seemed real. Her hair flowed loose to her waist, a dark, glossy river glinting gold where it caught the light.

She wore only a nightgown, sleeveless and airy. The garment draped her torso in gentle folds that flared at her hips and hugged her bottom—her high, round, sweet bottom—in a way that set his feet in motion even before his mind formed the intention.

She didn’t turn, but the stiffening of her bare arms against her sides told him she was aware of his presence, his approach.

He was but a foot away when she suddenly spun about. Her trailing hair tumbled over one shoulder and curved around her breast, framing its pert roundness with an invitation he could not ignore.

She breathed hard, lips plumped and parted. Her tilting eyes held a glittering beauty. His reasons for being there rolled to some back corner of his brain as he reached out and cupped her breast in his palm.

She gasped, but whether in pleasure or affront he couldn’t say. She met his gaze with a challenging lift of her chin.

He should have released her. Instead he seized the opportunity of both that raised chin and her continued silence to press his lips to hers.

The petal softness of her mouth triggered a startling hunger inside him. Eagerly he leaned to widen the kiss, deepen the pressure. The fingers of one hand spread possessively across her cheek to hold her in place.

She exhaled a moan into his mouth, an involuntary burst that had his senses vibrating, his insides humming. Until, that is, he realized he felt neither resistance nor acquiescence. She simply bore his lust with stoic immobility.

Did she want him but wasn’t sure how to proceed? Did she abhor him and detest his very touch?

Or was this simply an elaborate game, and his burden to discover the rules?

He pulled back, searching her expression. When he met her gaze again, her eyes hardened and narrowed. An eyebrow slowly quirked above the other, daring him to proceed.

As no virgin ever would.

An instant’s consideration was all it took for him to accept that dare. The weight of her small breast trembled warmly in his palm; he rubbed his thumb across the nipple, ripe and dark beneath her thin linen shift. He stroked back and forth, around in little circles, feeling the bud tighten beneath the pad of his finger.

A spark flashed in her eyes and her nostrils gave a delicate flare. But still she stood motionless, letting him do as he wished.

Her acquiescence set him burning even as it piqued his temper. Why did she not respond? A smile, a sigh, a slap in the face. Why this stony, silent challenge? Did she not realize the temptation she offered? The carnal impulses rising inside him?

More likely, she knew very well.

He brushed a fingertip across her lips. ‘‘By God, you’re a work of art,’’ he murmured.

That roused her. She reeled a step backward, her arms swatting him away as though he were some loathsome insect. The action raised a grin. He couldn’t help it. Did she enjoy less-than-gentle love play?

Her eyes appeared more catlike than ever above lips pulled in a feline sneer. ‘‘You might try speaking a civil word or two before pawing me.’’

Ah. It wasn’t his inclinations that offended her then, but his methods. His grin widened.

‘‘Forgive me.’’ He dipped a little bow. ‘‘Good evening, dear wife. I trust you’ve found this room comfortable.’’

Her chin tipped with the merest hint of insolence. ‘‘Quite, thank you.’’

‘‘You’re very welcome,’’ he said, echoing her mocking courtesy. ‘‘This was once my mother’s bedchamber, but it’s been refurbished in recent years. Should you care to make changes, you’ve only to ask.’’

‘‘How kind of you.’’ She scanned him appraisingly from head to toe. ‘‘And what other privileges might I enjoy as your wife? Or must I gain your permission for everything I do?’’

The question angered him. His other sins aside, he was no tyrant, especially when it came to women. He didn’t like her implying otherwise, didn’t like her inferred accusations. He thought they’d established a kind of truce earlier in the coach, each admitting their lot wasn’t the other’s fault, but rather the result of an ironic, capricious turn of fate.

He gazed dispassionately out the window above her head. ‘‘You may do as you please, my dear, when you please.’’

‘‘Except go to Blackheath Grange.’’

The comment jabbed like a hatpin. ‘‘Don’t you d—’’

‘‘Oh, I’m joking. You can take a joke, can’t you?’’ The shining tip of her tongue slid along her bottom lip. ‘‘But I suppose I shouldn’t tease, especially in matters of consequence.’’

He regarded the path of moisture on her lip, wishing to follow it with his own. His spurt of anger flickered away, replaced by sheer perplexity coupled with a desire to kiss her senseless, emotions becoming increasingly familiar when it came to dealing with this woman.

She’d certainly used the right word—tease—for she
was
a consummate tease, a skillful tormentor. He raked the hair off his brow and blew out a breath. ‘‘I don’t know what you want, Honora.’’

She shrugged. ‘‘Nor do I.’’

‘‘Perhaps I might help you assess your choices.’’ He reached for her again, one hand claiming the small of her back, the other fisting in her hair. He tilted her head, exposing a creamy expanse of throat. Before his mouth made contact she shoved at his chest.

Now what? Panting, channeling those erratic breaths into snorts of indignation, each stood glaring at the other like adversaries with pistols at dawn. Confound it, what
did
the little seductress want?

‘‘Is the concept of subtlety a completely foreign one to you, Sir Grayson?’’

Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. Why should he have? Displaying one’s nude portrait in a public gallery did not particularly smack of discretion. Quite the contrary.

As he stood quite literally scratching his head, her bottom lip slipped between her teeth and an eyebrow quirked in an expression so ingenuous his heart constricted. And that left him more baffled than ever.

She set his blood on fire, then tugged his conscience like a naive girl.

Another game? Did she enjoy pretending each kiss was her first, each caress a new experience? Just as she feigned innocence about the portrait?

The notion had him grinning again.

‘‘Just what do you find so amusing?’’

He paused to choose his words carefully—
very
carefully. Because since entering the room he’d come to an emphatic realization. Few women had ever managed to arouse both his passions
and
his intellect the way Honora Thorngoode did. Certainly none had consumed his every waking moment as she had these past days.

He wanted this baffling, beguiling beauty in his arms and in his bed. And he was willing to do whatever he must to ensure her presence there.

‘‘Me, Honora.’’ He offered a lopsided smile. ‘‘I’m finding myself highly ridiculous at the moment.’’

Her eyebrows drew inward. With a shake of her head she crossed her arms and waited.

‘‘Here I am behaving like a schoolboy. Groping for you like some green youth.’’ Yes, he’d turn it around, blame himself. ‘‘I hope you can forgive me. For tonight and the other times as well. I can be an arrogant cad sometimes.’’

She gave her long hair a shake. ‘‘Apology accepted. I suppose.’’

He conjured a tender smile. ‘‘You know, it’s your fault I’ve acted the ass.’’

‘‘I beg your pardon.’’

‘‘It’s true. When I said you were a work of art, I wasn’t mocking. I swear I wasn’t.’’ That much
was
true. He hadn’t stopped to consider the obvious—that she would think he was referring to her nude portrait.