Her dark hair had been wet, and she looked more like a drowned cat than a woman. But her eyes glistened in such a way and her lips spread playfully, as she twirled in the moonlight, tasting the rain, embracing the storm. From that moment, it was love.
It had been over a year and, try as he might, he couldn’t get her out of his head. He’d tried to forget her at first, aimlessly taking to bed any woman who’d have him. It didn’t work, only lasted a few days, and soon the flavor of the world was lost to him, as each night his temptress danced into his dreams.
He’d watch for her endlessly at balls and operas, looking into the distance for the sight of her, hoping for the chance at an introduction. He had endless conversations in his head with her, none of which had come to pass. She didn’t go to balls and he’d missed her introduction into society. The year she came out, he’d been in Italy—tasting all the beautiful flavors of women the country had to offer. He liked his women wild, naughty, feisty.
Syrian, by reputation, was none of those things. She was boringly proper, so prudish that even the church would surely call it a sin. She was self-aware, judging with those damnably wide eyes—nothing that had ever attracted him in the past. But that night, in the rain, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He was obsessed.
“Ah, you take it, Harry,” Thomas said at length, clearly unaware of his friend’s thoughts. “I know you’re wasting your time with my sister. The dream is in your head, my friend, not reality. Take the portrait as a gift, so that you may look upon it and see the reality. I wouldn’t have it upsetting Syrian by hanging it in her presence.”
Harrison didn’t move.
Turning to walk away, Thomas called, “Come, let us go see what Mrs. Brown has cooked up. I’ll send someone out to deliver the portrait to your guestroom.”
Before moving to follow his host, Harrison whispered to himself, his heart nearly to the point it could take no more of Syrian’s rejections and slights, “I wish I really could see the truth of her soul in this painting. Then, mayhap, I’d have the answer to winning her heart.”
Harrison forced his eyes away and didn’t look back. Slowly, he turned, following Thomas back into the country estate.
Chapter Two
The painted brown eyes stared down at Harrison from the darkened corner of the Caldwell guestroom, direct and piercing. The large canvas was mounted in an old frame, sitting on the floor, leaning between the wall and a decorative chair. Thomas was worried about the drying paint, so Harrison dared not cover Syrian’s features from view. He couldn’t sleep, his male member hard from looking at the line of her neck dipping to her slender shoulder, glowing in the strip of moonlight coming from the opened window.
In the dimness, she looked almost real and once his tired eyes thought to see her shift and move within the painting, as if to smirk at him. It was torture, especially at night, with her so close, under the same roof, just down the hall, forty paces if he walked slow, thirty if he walked fast—not that he was counting, not that he paced the halls hoping to catch her running into the night to twirl and spin.
With a growl, he threw the crimson coverlet off his legs and spun his bare feet around on the thick feather mattress to the floor. He didn’t wear a nightshirt, as was the fashion, choosing to sleep in his drawers during the winter or in the nude as was most comfortable. Tonight he was naked.
He quickly looked around to the shadowed wardrobe, to the writing desk neatly folded away, the washstand, the armoire, the vanity where a crystal decanter of brandy still sat, half-empty, next to a used snifter. All the furniture matched—dark wood, ornate in curling design. Harrison barely saw it. The painted eyes of his obsession called him back to her.
Wildly, he pulled his hands through his hair, yanking the strands hard as he considered touching himself, stroking like an awkward youth to ease the ever-present tension in his loins. His eyes drifted to the painting, heating slightly with wicked ideas. His flesh burned and his arousal tightened painfully. His lungs rose heavily beneath the folds of his muscular chest.
Never had a woman resisted his charm. He’d had it too easy in the past, he knew that now. One smile and they’d come to him. One softly whispered word and they’d spread their legs, their bodies wet and ready for him. That had been the way of it since he was a young man, just turned sixteen—perhaps even younger. But he hadn’t gone to another woman for nearly a year—not since a few days after he lost his heart to a rain-soaked nymph.
Syrian resisted all his charm, his teasing, his goading. He’d tried every trick he’d known to get her to notice him, without being obvious of his intent. Nothing he said or did brought her a moment’s pleasure. Sometimes, she’d even find excuses not to be in his presence, leaving the room as he entered it. She seemed only to take delight in his misery.
“Then you should be very pleased indeed,” he said to the painting. He stood, walking over to the decanter to pour a full glass of brandy. He’d tried, perhaps too hard, to break her ice, to warm her to him. It was no use. Her smiles were rare and those were reserved only for her brother. Sometimes he wondered if his rain nymph had been a dream, a hallucination caused by the storm.
“No,” he said hoarsely, tossing back the whole glass at once, gulping it down to ease his suffering. Then, looking at the picture, swaying slightly on his feet, he said, “You were real. I know you were.”
He fell to his knees before the portrait, remembering her wet nipples, so close, so ripe, and beckoning for a kiss. Memory had perhaps added to the scene, making it more alluring to tempt him, tease him. It didn’t matter. His heart was beyond lost to her.
“Tell me how to win you,” he said to the portrait. He was drunk. He knew he was drunk, just as he knew he was crazily beseeching an imamate object that could no more grant his heart’s desire than the glass in his hand. “Show me anything, I implore you, Syrian. Give me a sign. What flower would I give to make you smile at me? What diamond? What joke to make you laugh as you did that night in the rain? What…?”
Harrison blinked, his vision blurred from drink. The moonlight seemed to quiver over the portrait, giving it a life of its own. The portrait’s features were still reserved, staring out with cold, calm eyes. Syrian’s silk clad body hadn’t moved. But as he neared, he saw something peculiar. He could’ve sworn red roses graced behind her back against the stone wall. But now, it wasn’t roses circling behind her shoulder. It was bluebells.
He blinked again, harder, swallowing as he rubbed his tired eyes. The bluebells remained, as vivid in color as the roses before them had been. Before he knew what he was doing, he pulled a shirt over his head and breeches over his hips. Bluebells only grew in one part of the Caldwell gardens—a hidden alcove surrounding a bench. He hurried from his bedchamber without thought. If the Fates had taken pity on him and given him a sign, he was no fool as to waste it.
Syrian rounded the dark moonlit path, loving the gardens at night. Her slippers crushed with little noises against the cobblestone. Night was the only time she felt as if no one watched over her. Since she was a young girl, she’d snuck from her balcony window. It was a climb she now made easily after so many years of practice, even in heavy petticoats.
Tonight she wore only her nightdress, a free-flowing gown of foulard and lace. History told her that no one would be out roaming the night and she’d felt no need to change into something more proper. The spring air was warm and a dress with numerous petticoats would be most unwelcome to her body’s current freedom. Tonight, more than ever, she needed that freedom. She needed to break free from the stifling memory of that horrible work of art.
Coming to her favorite bench, she breathed deeply. The air was scented with the scent of delicate flowers. Bluebells were her favorite, always had been since she was a child. She liked how they carpeted the ground, spreading like a wild field of blue in the nearby woods. She’d transported some of them to her favorite bench many years ago, so she wouldn’t need to go so far to see them.
She looked up at t
he stars, smelling the flowers as only the night could stir them. Her heart poured out into the night, crying out to have the memory of the portrait erased from her. Her soul begged to be freed from the prison of herself. Her mind yelled and screamed until she wanted nothing more than to stomp her feet like a pouting child, screeching at the top of her lungs until she got her own way. She held perfectly still, not letting any of the emotions pass over her motionless, reserved face.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, looking up at the heavens. Suddenly, she felt chills as if the moonlight shifted in the heavens. Blinking, the sensation was gone.
A soft chuckle came over the night, causing her to jump in alarm. Syrian spun to see the earl standing, half-dressed before her, blocking her path of retreat. Instinctively, she moved her hands to cover her improperly clad body. But as his laughter only grew at the action, she scowled, dropped her hands, and refused to be embarrassed. It was only Harrison, after all. There was no need to take him seriously. He didn’t even take himself seriously.
The breeze came a bit stronger than before, or was it that she was just now noticing it? His white shirt pulled to the side, hugging his muscled waist in a way that drew her gaze. For a moment, his shirt lifted and she saw the barest peek of his navel carved into the flat bed of his abdomen, over the smallest trail of hair. The sight was more intimate than she was prepared for and within that one second the image was burned into her brain.
“Have you looked your fill, Miss Syrian, or should I turn around for you?” The earl smirked.
Her mouth gaped, as a wave of awareness assaulted her senses. He was too smug, looking at her in his superior way. She wanted to cry out. It was he who invaded her sanctuary. The only time she had to be free of prying eyes and damning judgments. He could never understand how it was for a woman—the eyes of society constantly on her, watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake. He was a man and society was much more lenient on a wealthy, handsome gentleman.
But here he was, invading her sanctuary, calling her a prude. The memory of the portrait haunted her. She hadn’t seen it since its conception and she didn’t wish to ever look on it again. She hoped Thomas burned the horrible thing. If he did, it wouldn’t matter. The image would forever haunt her.
Harrison found her by the bluebells, looking up at the stars, and for a moment he was rendered speechless. He never really thought his foolish dash into the night would lead him to her. At first, he thought her a vision, a ghost created by his drunken mind to taunt him. A breeze brushed the thinness of her nightgown along her hip, rounding the curve of her pert butt and lovely thigh—thighs he longed to part and thrust against again and again until she screamed his name for all to hear. He swallowed, his hand shaking to reach forward. Trying to think of anything that would stop his body from pouncing, he’d done the thing that came most naturally. He laughed to provoke a rise from her.
Now, seeing her eyes on him, devouring his body as he had hers moments before, he felt his stomach tighten. Her lips parted and he wanted to kiss her, to have her kiss him in many indecent ways that she would surely protest. His shaft hardened painfully and no amount of willpower could lessen its pulsing torment.
Syrian frowned at him, as if to say, Oh, do go away! Her lips pursed together to hide the effect he had on her body, but he knew he had to affect her. Why else was she beginning to shiver? And why did her eyes want to travel down his scantily clad body to his bare feet and back up again? His feelings couldn’t be one-sided, could they? The wind suddenly felt as if it again chilled, though the breeze was warm. Syrian’s frown deepened. He was surprised that she would allow herself the bold inspection of him. He had to admit he was pleased to discover it. If anything, it proved she did have some interest in him as a man.
Her cheeks stained a dark pink and Harrison saw her swallow nervously. Her eyes rolled heavenward, as she demanded in annoyance, “What are you doing out here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he mused, stepping closer.
Syrian stiffened at his approach and he stopped. He wondered why it was she suddenly looked afraid of him. Her eyes narrowed, holding him back. He knew she was too proud to run away though her body looked tense and ready to do so.
“This is my home,” she said, regally lifting her chin to stare down her nose at him. If he hadn’t known differently, he would have thought her title above his. “I, unlike some, actually live and belong here.”
“You don’t like me much, do you, Syrian?” he asked, not letting his hurt show in his light words. Each time she tried to get rid of him, it cut him deeply. His only desire in life was to be near her. He longed to make her happy, for her happiness would complete him.
“You will address me properly, my lord,” she ground out, not looking pleased. Her eyes narrowed and her tone cut. “You may be my brother’s good friend, but you are not mine. I haven’t given you leave to be so familiar with me. In the past week, I have tried to overlook some of your more glaring faults, but I can no longer permit your vulgarities in—”
“Tell me, Miss Syrian,” he broke in with quick wit, if only to stop her onslaught of words. His brain didn’t want to hear them. After living with her in his head for the last year, he didn’t feel as if they were complete strangers. “Did you memorize Lady Hatfield’s entire book of etiquette or just the first three chapters?”
Harrison’s whole body lit with fire. Her skin against the moonlight was so pale and blue. He wanted to kiss the long line of her neck. Her hair was still pulled back, ever proper. He wanted to pull at it until the locks swam over her shoulders in waves that he could touch. It was clear she had absolutely no idea of his affections for her.
“I’m surprised you are even aware that such a book exists, Lord Wrotham, being as it wasn’t written in a playbill and in large print,” she quipped. She seemed completely unaware of how their sparring made her chest heave against the fabric of her nightdress, or how the breeze pushed the thin material to every single curve of her body as she faced him.
It wouldn’t do to tell her how he obsessed about her. No doubt, she would only ridicule and torture him for it. He licked his lips, not answering.
He wondered if he could even begin to torment her a fraction of how she plagued him. Her nightdress stirred, blowing forward to touch his legs. He almost shivered to feel the touch of it pressed so airily to him. Aside from the gloved hand she’d offered him upon meeting, it was the closest she’d ever willingly come to him. He didn’t need to touch her skin to know how it would feel against his. Hours of dreaming had brought her flesh to him, soft as silk, smooth as velvet, warm as fresh cream.
His voice dipped, low and seductive, the words hoarse from the passion he always carried for her. “So I’m not your friend, Miss Syrian?” Syrian blinked, wondering at his tone. If she weren’t mistaken, he looked hurt by the idea. Saying the only thing she could think of, the only thing that might get his bright blue eyes from sending chills over her flesh, she said, “I don’t make fast friends, my lord, and I have only known you for a week.”
“What if I told you I have known you for much longer?” he murmured, stepping even closer. He lifted his hand as if he would reach for her. Syrian jerked back, but didn’t step away. There was something in the softening depths of his eyes that held her where she was. His hand hovered near her face, lingering as if trying to decide its next course. In the end, he pulled it away.
Eyeing him warily, she replied in her confusion, “You mean you have heard Thomas speak of me and feel as if you know me?”
Harrison nodded, though his expression hardly looked convincing.
“After seeing Thomas’s idea of me earlier today, I don’t think you can know me at all from his descriptions,” she said, never knowing why she would admit to such at thing—especially to the Earl of Wrotham.
Suddenly, Harrison blinked as if coming from a fog. “I’m sorry to hear that we are not friends, Miss Syrian.”
“Why is that?” she asked breathles
s. She became all too aware of a heat from his chest. The playfulness entered into his eyes once more, calling out to her to join him in a fight—or was it something else he tried to wrest from her? The breeze molded the linen of his loose shirt about his muscular frame. She saw the folds of his tight physique beneath the weak barrier. She itched to touch him, to pull his shirt up to see if her memory of his stomach was accurate in its amazing detail. She smelled him, a scent so intoxicating in its subtleness that it drowned out her notion of the flowers.
“For if you were my friend, I would be honor bound to keep your secret. But being as I’m not, I’m honor bound to your brother to tell it.” Harrison bowed properly at her and moved away.
Her gaze drifted down to his muscular backside, before stopping. “Wait, what secret do you speak of?”
He smiled, trying to cover his grin with a look of innocence. It didn’t work. “Why, the secret of you being out in the gardens, at night, un-chaperoned, clad only in an alluring nightdress. If one were to see such a thing, imagine what would be assumed of it.”
Alluring? Syrian glanced down at her body. He thought her nightdress was alluring? Then, the rest of what he said penetrated.
“You wouldn’t dare to tell him,” she cried, rushing forward only stop and back away from him once more. “Not like that. When you say it in such a way, it sounds…horrible.”
“Is it not horrible? And so very indecent of you, my most proper Miss Syrian Blakeney?” he murmured.
She was troubled and barely noticed that he again came to her. When he looked at her, his gaze strayed to her lips.
“Why do you keep tormenting me?” she asked. “What have I done to deserve it? Are you so bored that you must find ways to vex me to ease your own…lack of amusements?”
“Do I torment you?” Harrison asked, drawing ever closer
“Yes,” she returned instantly. Her eyes found his, so close, so bright, so full of humor beneath their depths. But there was more, a look she’d never realized in him. His dimple pressed deeper, though it wasn’t with a playful grin. He looked almost serious. “You call me a prude. I’m not a prude.”
Portrait of His Obsession Page 2
