“Then kiss me,” he stated, staring at her parted lips.
“What?” she gasped, sure she just imagined his request. Oh, why did her mind choose now, this man, to bewilder her with?
“You must let me have a kiss of you, if you wish me to keep your secret,” he said. He lifted his hand to touch her cheek, ever so gentle as he stroked over the softness of her skin. “Come, Miss Syrian, what’s a kiss between friends? Give me an act of trust.”
Syrian hesitated. She didn’t move, didn’t answer.
“No? Shall I call your brother?” he asked, as he made a move to leave.
“No, wait, don’t,” she stammered. Taking a deep breath, she eyed him with disbelief. Her gaze filtered to his mouth, not at all repulsed by the idea. A strange awakening came to her senses, fogging her brain with the idea of such a simple, wicked pleasure. “All you want is one kiss? That’s it? Nothing else?”
He gave her an odd look and she wondered at it. His whole body was aflame being this close to her. No, he wanted much more from her than a kiss. In a whisper he answered, his voice trembling ever so slightly, “Yes, just a kiss.”
She didn’t hear his hesitance over the beating of her own heart. She kept her eyes trained on him for any deceit as she turned her cheek so that he may peck her. She was surprised when he didn’t take it.
“Your promise first that you won’t stop me,” he said.
Syrian smelled the liquor and thought he played a game merely to toy with her. The melodious tone of his voice washed over her. His breathing noticeably deepened and she wondered at it. A thrill coursed through her, seeming to jump off his untamed skin, at the feel of his heated breath to her neck.
“You have it, so long as you don’t tell Thomas you found me out here—so long as you don’t tell anyone about this,” she answered. “If you do, I’ll deny it.”
“On that you have my word,” he murmured. A tremor raced along her body.
“All right, you may have a kiss, my lord.” Again she offered her cheek. “You have my promise that I won’t stop you.”
He drew his fingers across her offered cheek, only to turn her lips to him. His eyes narrowed, serious and probing, as he commanded, “Lie down on the bench.”
When she opened her mouth to protest, his finger moved over her lips to hush her. Her mouth trembled along his finger.
“I’ve been known to make a lady’s knees go weak. I wouldn’t want you to fall,” he teased.
“I don’t swoon so easily, I assure you,” she quipped, though her voice was softer than usual. “Pray, take your kiss and end this. I’m tired and wish to get some rest. Some of us actually awaken with the dawn, not hours after it.”
“Are you afraid?” he goaded. “Are you so like your portrait?”
A strong sense of danger overcame her usual hesitance. It was the only thing he could’ve said to get her down on the bench. Detecting the challenge, she wanted desperately to prove that she could be devious and spontaneous, that she wasn’t like the damning portrait.
Syrian sat, her back stiff as she waited for him to come to her. He didn’t join her. Instead, he stood to tower over her, indecently close. She saw his stomach near her face. There was a strange protrusion coming from his breeches, but she didn’t dare to dwell on it.
Swallowing, she said, “Well, take your kiss. I assure you, my knees feel perfectly fine. I won’t fall over.”
He swiftly knelt before her. She blinked. Her pulse raced and she had the insane notion he was about to propose marriage. When he didn’t take up her hand, she relaxed.
“I said, lie down,” he commanded her.
“I’m fine—”
“You are afraid, aren’t you?” he challenged.
“I’m not afraid of you, my lord,” she answered, cool and reserved. Though it was a lie—a damnably huge lie. Syrian feared this man greatly. She feared the way she felt when he looked at her. She feared the insincerity in him, legendary in his conquering reputation. He was a gentleman rogue. He used women, left them. She didn’t want to admit to it before now, but had been trying so hard to deny she even liked him. The first moment she saw his blue eyes, alighting on her as he stepped down from his fancy carriage, she'd felt it—a jolt, a sting, a swift and powerful burning deep inside, a void needing to be filled. She was drawn to the rogue and she hated it.
She’d done her damnedest to slight him, ignore him, and spurn him. In return he teased her until she wanted to rip out his hair. He took nothing seriously, so it only stood to reason he didn’t take her seriously—nor the things he said to her. Any day she expected one of the prettier maids to walk by and catch his eye, drawing his potent attention away from her. That day hadn’t come yet, but she had no doubt it would.
She kept her eyes steadily on him. Maybe it was the way the moonlight caressed his tight features, or the slight shadowing of a beard on his normally smooth face, that convinced her to disregard societal rules and mores. Slowly, she lay down, crossing her hands on her stomach.
Syrian froze. His fingers were warm as they moved against her, kneading lightly into her flesh, touching her as no man had ever tried. The first brush of him to her mouth was soft, testing.
She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. She’d expected a brief peck, not this hot sensation of lava to her core. For a moment, she thought he’d killed her. Her heart nearly stopped as his hand traveled boldly over her hip, wrapping his long fingers to the bottom curve of her backside. A soft moan sounded and Syrian blinked, realizing it escaped from her lips.
Harrison heard the feminine sound. It called to his soul, making him mindless in the knowledge that she felt something between them and that his obsession for her, his longing, wasn’t completely one sided. The rogue inside him couldn’t stop, having been suppressed for so long. His free hand delved into her hair, gripping her jaw tightly to keep her lips to his. He deepened his kiss, burning his raging need into her mouth as he whispered her name softly against her tongue. He thrust beyond the barrier of her teeth. His mouth sawed, passionate and wild as he tried to taste every moment, every breath, every crevice of her sweet mouth. So long he’d wanted her and so long he’d suffered.
He had dreamt of this often, her soft body lying down for him willingly, vulnerable to him, so close that he could touch it. A curling smile flickered over his devilish lips, dimpling his cheek. Her wide, dark eyes looked up into his. Her face was bathed by moonlight, her gaze shining with the mesmerizing depth of the starry night. How easy it would be to climb atop her, pressing her legs open so he may feel her most intimate of secrets. He wondered if he would find her thighs wet with her body’s response, or would he have to coax the reaction from her, stroking her, milking the juices from her body with his wet tongue.
His gaze drifted languidly over her form, liking the way her arms pulled the gown to her chest, outlining it. He moved his hand to her stomach as he leaned forward. His palm skidded across to her hip, holding her down as he leaned his mouth closer, closer.
Harrison waited to hear her scream in fright, waiting for her flailing hands to hit upon his head and knock him away. She didn’t move. Emboldened, he opened his mouth, trailing his tongue along her bottom lip. She didn’t budge, didn’t flinch or blink as she stared into his bright blue eyes.
With a mind of its own, his fingers instinctively glided along her leg, inching the material of her nightdress up. He was pleased to find the naked flesh of her warm thigh beneath his searching palm. He couldn’t stop, didn’t even think to try. Why should he stop? It’s what he wanted and she didn’t scream, didn’t fight him.
Her eyes shot open in surprise. “What do you think you are doing?” demanded Syrian in a mad hush, breaking away from the kiss to gulp for breath. She slapped him as hard as she could, surely leaving an imprint on his face as she knocked him back.
He landed hard on the grating cobblestone, blinking in surprise at the assault. He’d been in a mindless web of ecstasy, his member hard and ready to go on. Becomin
g aware of what he’d done, he could only smile to see her running away from him.
Looking down at his culprit hand, the one that dared to press into the soft petals of her heated center, he groaned. She’d been wet for him and so very hot. Nothing could turn him away from wooing her now. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply of the bluebells—his new favorite flower. Syrian would be his.
Chapter Three
Syrian was horribly shaken as she made her way back to her bedroom. She nearly fell from the trellis as she scaled the side of the country home to her balcony. Her heart pounded frantically, but she didn’t care. She just had to get away from Harrison. She’d been enjoying the onslaught of his massaging tongue to hers, reveling in the peculiar movement and the sensations it wrought. But to feel his hand gliding beneath her gown, circling her hip, his thumb dipping along the inner edge to…to touch…
Closing the large double doors to her balcony with a hard thud, she pulled the drapes firmly over them, as if they alone could keep all that had happened outside in the night. It didn’t work. The feelings Lord Wrotham stirred were still there, running a rampant course over her flesh—as wild and untamed as the rogue himself.
Rushing to a long, freestanding mirror, next to her vanity of oak, she paused. A bit shy, she looked herself over to see if she was altered in any way. She stared at her lips for so long they looked swollen—probably from her biting them to get out the sting of the earl’s kiss. No one had ever dared kiss her before, not like that.
Finally convinced that her face was still her own, she pulled her nightdress back to look at her body. Glancing down the front, she blushed and instantly dropped the nightdress down. She couldn’t believe he had actually touched her there. She couldn’t believe that she actually liked it. A flush hit her features and she felt a curious heat all over her body.
She glanced at the window, her mind beginning to curl in consideration. She gulped, growing pale. No. A man like Harrison would have no qualms about telling what they did together. She wouldn’t, couldn’t become one of his conquests.
With a dive, she hopped into her large bed and snuggled deep into the covers. She pulled the blanket over the back of her head. Her gaze stared out, unmoving in their apprehension until she could no longer stay awake.
The morning light shone through Harrison’s bedroom, alighting on the red walls like they were aflame. Moaning, he smacked his lips. His tongue was thick and dry from drinking and stuck in his mouth so he could barely move it. His eyes were rimmed with red. Yawning, he suddenly sat up, scratching the back of his head. A myriad of memories came back to him, making his body lurch with excitement.
He hardly dared to dream it was real. Syrian had let him kiss her. He looked down at his hand, remembering all of it in perfect detail. Then, frowning, he pulled the covers from his body. He tried to ignore the constant nagging of his erection. The damned thing never seemed to go away. Then, realizing he still wore his breeches and shirt from the night before, he moved to look at the portrait. Surely, that had been the only falsity in the night.
Harrison laughed at himself for his whimsy, and then suddenly, he stopped. He blinked several times as he stared the painting. The roses were still gone, replaced by the bluebells. He explained this away as his oversight, knowing he’d been staring so hard at the woman that he could’ve mistaken the type of flower she was painted by.
Chuckling, he went to the washstand and began bathing himself in the clean water. As if a portrait could reveal a woman’s soul to him. The very idea was laughable. He’d have to remember to take it easy on the brandy in the future.
He dressed quickly, flipping his wet hair to let it dry naturally as he did every morning. Tugging on a dark blue frock coat, which he knew brought out his eyes to brilliance, he said offhandedly, “Tell me, wise portrait. How shall I make Syrian converse with me today? No doubt she’ll be angry at my kissing her.”
He grabbed his boots, slipping the dark leather over his feet. Looking to the portrait from where he sat before it on a chair, he froze. The color drained from his features as he tugged the second boot over his foot. Standing, he crossed over to painting. Now he knew he wasn’t seeing things. Next to the stone wall leaned a riding crop.
His eyes widened, looking up to the stillness of Syrian’s face. He must indeed be going mad, for her eyes did seem to sparkle with just a hint of mischief. Studying the picture carefully, he memorized every detail. Then, turning his back on it, he asked, “What shall we do when we ride, I wonder?”
He waited several seconds, his hands trembling slightly. Then, turning about, he carefully looked it over again. Nothing had changed.
Still not convinced the riding crop wasn’t magically perceived, Harrison strode from the guestroom. He would test this strange occurrence for himself—scientifically—and ask Miss Syrian to go for a ride.
Syrian tried to meet Thomas’s gaze but couldn’t. A horrible blush stained her cheeks that wouldn’t go away. He’d tried several times to catch her gaze from across the table, but she was more interested in pushing the fruit around on her plate. Thomas felt bad for the portrait and mentioned a couple times that he thought perhaps she was sore at him for having created it.
“Syrian—” Thomas began, only to stop when she turned to him. Her mouth opened as if to speak at the exact same moment. He bowed his head for her to go first.
“I just wanted to tell you I was going for a ride this morning,” Syrian said. In truth, she wanted to avoid Harrison at all cost. “I did not want you to worry if I wasn’t about.”
“Oh?” Thomas said, pondering her words. Syrian often reported to him, though he never really demanded it from her. She was much too proper and reserved for him to take much care in her whereabouts. He had mused often that perhaps, as her guardian, he was too lenient with her, but she was his only family and in the end he was always too distracted with his art to change his ways. He loved and trusted her. Not much could happen to her in the surrounding countryside. Thomas nodded his head in concurrence. “I think that is a marvelous idea. Would that I could go with you, but Mr. Turner arrives today from London. He wishes me to approve…”
Thomas waved his hand, not wanting to mention the paintings Turner came to collect. Syrian gulped, turning her gaze down as she paled. The very idea of Mr. Turner exhibiting her likeness for all of London’s fine society to gawk at left her breathless.
“I won’t be giving him that one,” Thomas said, softly, seeing her discomfort. Syrian nodded quickly, not answering otherwise. Changing the subject, he said, “Where shall you ride to?”
“The old cottage ruins, I think. I love the bridge this time of year,” she answered, smiling. “Someday, you must promise to come and paint it for me. So when I’m too old to seat a horse, I may look at it everyday and remember my youth.”
Thomas nodded, pleased. “That’s a promise. Though, the ruins are far away. Should I call for a groom to accompany you?”
“Beautiful morning,” Harrison called striding into the dining room, a wide smile on his roguishly handsome features.
Syrian paled in mortification as she turned back to her plate. What was he doing awake so early? She’d planned on being far away from the manor when he showed himself. Horrified, she stiffened, refusing to look at him.
“Ah, Harry, so glad you could join us,” Thomas called pleasantly, not noticing his sister’s suffering as she slighted his friend with her silence.
“Caldwell,” Harrison nodded. Then, turning to Syrian, he said, “Miss Syrian.”
“Lord Wrotham,” she mumbled darkly, her lips tight. Her gaze stayed fixed before her.
“I hoped to borrow one of your horses today, Caldwell. The groom tells me mine is still sore from getting trapped in that sinkhole when we raced over the fields the other day,” Harrison said, studying Syrian out of the side of his eyes. She didn’t move, not even to glance around.
“Ah, perfect,” Thomas exclaimed. “Mr. Turner is here today so I can’t go, but Syrian is
in need of an escort to the old cottage ruins. Would you mind terribly taking her and keeping her out of trouble?”
“I’m never in trouble,” she stated loudly. When both men looked at her, one with a set of mischievous bright blue eyes that begged to differ, she gulped and lowered her tone. “What I mean to say, is that surely Lord Wrotham has other plans and I don’t wish to impose upon him.”
“No,” Harrison said before Thomas could inquire into such, much to her growing ire. Syrian’s widened eyes pleaded with Harrison to stop talking. He only smiled back, his dimple forming next to his firm lips to distract her. Syrian remembered the feel of those lips all too well. Her mouth stung with the promise in his eyes, the knowledge.
“I’ve no plans at all. I would be most happy to act as your chaperone, Miss Syrian,” Harrison continued. Syrian frowned.
“Wonderful,” Thomas said. He glanced curiously at his pale sister. “Are you sure you’re up for a ride today? You appear as if you are getting ill.”
Syrian saw the look that came over the earl’s features, daring her to run away scared. Her jaw lifted regally. She wouldn’t let this man get the best of her.
“I’m perfectly well, completely unaffected,” she answered. Harrison frowned at that. She smiled, her cheeks becoming almost rosy as she stood in victory. “You are such an artist, dear brother. It must be the light that makes you take note of such things.”
“Forgive me for worrying,” he said. Both gentlemen stood as she did. Thomas leaned over to kiss her cheek, relieved to see a slight shine back in her pretty features. “Why don’t you take a picnic lunch with you? The weather is fine for it and I won’t be of any company today. You should stay a long time and enjoy the afternoon.”
Syrian paled once again, wondering if she should remind her brother about the impropriety of such a thing. Unwed ladies didn’t picnic alone with roguish gentlemen. However, knowing they were the only manor for miles, she doubted anyone would see them. Then, seeing the smirking grin forming on Harrison’s lips as if he could read her thoughts, she held quiet. So much for her plan to make it a quick ride there and an even faster ride back. Before he even said a word, Syrian already knew the earl’s answer.
Portrait of His Obsession Page 3
