“I’m going to speak to your brother.” His blue gaze bore into her, hard.
Syrian paled. “You wouldn’t dare. What of your friendship with him? He will never forgive this. He will never trust either of us again. Why would you do that? Does he mean so little to you?”
Harrison smiled. He lifted his fingers to touch her cheek. “Come to my bed tonight. Come to be with me again.”
“What?” she asked. Was he mad? They were fighting. He was threatening to expose them.
“Just come,” he said softly. And with those words, he was gone.
Chapter Eight
Syrian didn’t know how to act around Harrison in front of her brother and Mr. Turner, so she treated him the same as she always had. She had to admit that there was something wickedly enjoyable about slighting him in public, knowing him intimately as she did. Also, she liked sparring verbally with him. It made her blood boil to know he could give as well as she gave in their verbal play and Thomas and Mr. Turner were none the wiser for it.
After dinner, the men retired for cigars and brandy. She wished that she could join them, but it wasn’t proper for a lady to do so. Instead, she was forced to wait until evening. She ordered a bath, taking her time with it, daydreaming about the earl. She hated to admit it, but she was worried that she might become too attached to him.
“Don’t be silly, Syrian,” she mumbled to herself, coming from the bathwater and wrapping in a linen. “You’re just thinking that way because he’s new to you, because what he does to you is so new. If you were to sleep with Mr. Turner, it would be the same as…”
Syrian frowned. Thinking of Mr. Turner in such a way brought her no rush of pleasure. In fact, it left her body feeling a little dead. She closed her eyes tight and tried to imagine it. But every time she tried to imagine Mr. Turner’s lips on her breast, the image would melt and suddenly it was Lord Wrotham’s blue gaze looking up at her. She shivered. Well, surely Mr. Turner was the wrong man to try and prove a point with. It didn’t change the fact that Harrison was just an adventure and naught more. It’s not like they had a future.
“I wish to marry your sister,” Harrison said, looking at Thomas’s face. Thomas stared absently at the flames, lost in artistic thoughts. Mr. Turner had gone to retrieve a journal filled with notes about the Viscount’s upcoming art show in London and the earl wanted to speak his mind before the man came back.
“I know, Harry,” Thomas said almost sadly. He stared at the flames awhile longer, sighing heavily.
“Well?” Harrison demanded, a little harsher than he would’ve liked.
“Well, what, Harry?” Thomas asked, blinking. He turned to his friend expectantly.
“Do I have your permission or not?”
“Oh,” Thomas mumbled. It was clear by his confusion that he tried to follow. He looked blankly at Harrison for a long moment before gasping, “Oh! You’re asking my permission to marry Syrian. My apologies, Harry, I thought you were merely stating the obvious, forgive me.”
Harrison let small chuckle cross his lips. He really did love the absentminded Thomas like he was a brother and readily forgave him for not paying attention three quarters of the time.
“Well?” Harrison asked at last, thinking the man’s thoughts again drifted.
“No, I did not forget you again, Harry,” Thomas said quietly. “I was merely thinking of it.”
“You have to think of my request? Do you doubt my sincerity?” Harrison asked, a little hurt.
“A year ago, yes, I would have. However, now, I’m not so sure. I can see you love my sister and, as her brother and guardian, you can’t deny me the right to contemplate your past behavior with women. I’m inclined to think you have changed in that regard. My only concern is will you change back?”
There was no judgment in Thomas’s tone, only thoughtful questioning.
“No,” Harrison said. “I would swear to you on all I have—my title, my fortune, my life—that I won’t stray from her. You know I never give my word without meaning and truth. And I give you my word, on my honor, that, if she were mine, I would care for her better than my own life.”
Thomas gave a small smile. “Ah, then it’s settled. If she will have you, she’s yours. I won’t force her hand.”
“I wouldn’t ask it of you.” Harrison let a slow smile cross his features. He hadn’t realized he held his breath, waiting for Thomas’s approval. His heart beat, hard, slow, nervous.
“Do you have reason to think that she will have you?” Thomas asked, his eyes doubtful.
“Very little,” Harrison admitted. The image of Syrian’s passion laden face came to him, of her dark eyes hazy with the pleasure she derived from his body.
“After her treatment of you, I daresay your suit doesn’t look promising,” Thomas said.
“And yet, I can do nothing else.” Harrison’s mouth turned down. The bright blue of his eyes faded until he was left looking heartbroken and miserable.
Thomas stood. Moving to the decanter of brandy, he poured some for Harrison and then himself. Raising his snifter, he said, “The best of luck, Harry, the best of luck.”
Harrison nodded, drinking quietly. No more was said as Mr. Turner came through the door, muttering about a description for one of the paintings. Thomas nodded sadly at Harrison before turning his attention back to his work. Lord Wrotham stood, taking his leave and receiving absent waves from the two men, as they argued the fine points of art and its role in modern society.
Harrison looked warily at the painting, feeling very tense. The blanket covered the portrait’s face and he trembled as he thought of what to ask it. He tried to ask if Syrian would say yes to being his wife should he ask her, but the finality of what the portrait would tell him kept the words from leaving his throat. Swallowing, his heart in his throat, he said, “Tell me, portrait, do I have a chance at making Syrian my wife, if but a slim one?”
He lifted his fingers to the blanket and he drew it slowly back. The brandy swirled in his stomach, threatening to make him sick. His eyes closed and he took a calming breath before he could look. As his eyes opened, he heard a knock on the door. The blanket slipped from his fingers but not before he saw the smile on Syrian’s painted face had grown.
His heart skipped. He crossed over to the door, throwing it open, ready to declare his love… to a maid. The woman jolted to see Harrison grinning widely at her, his eyes sparkling. A blush came over her features as she shyly looked to the floor.
“My lord,” the redheaded servant said, daring a glance up at him. In her hands, she gripped a fresh decanter of dark brandy. “The viscount bid me to bring this to your chambers, my lord.”
Harrison tried to hide his disappointment, as he waved her in. The maid dutifully curtsied and passed by him. He waited, the door open, for her to finish. His linen shirt hung loose at his waist, open at the throat. His bare feet stood unmoving on the carpet.
The maid grabbed the chamber’s nearly empty decanter and curtsied again as she passed by him at the door. Then, turning, she glanced up to him, her eyes shining with unmistakable invitation. Harrison looked at her. She was a very beautiful woman, lush lips that rounded and pursed slightly. Her look was one he knew well. She wanted him.
“Is there aught else, my lord?” she asked, her tone dipping, husky. Her arms hugged the bottle to her stomach, artfully thrusting her large breasts up. It was a move to draw his attention. It worked. His eyes dipped down.
“No,” he said. A year ago, before seeing Syrian, he would’ve taken her offer. But now, she held only a passing interest to him as a beautiful young girl.
The maid’s face fell in shock that he rejected her offer. She blinked, standing before him in confusion. The maid wet her thick lips. Her lids lowered and she dared a step closer to him. Lifting a hand to his shirt, she asked, “Are you quite sure, my lord? I could help you change for the night.”
He opened his mouth to respond. His gaze flitted down the hall. Syrian stood there, her face white. She ducked around the
corner. Harrison frowned, knowing what she would assume.
“No,” he said, stopping the maid from following his gaze down the hall. “That won’t be necessary.”
The girl’s mouth fell slack and she took a hasty step back. Mumbling under her breath, she said, “Very good, my lord.”
He waited for her to disappear, before jogging silently down the hall after Syrian. To his surprise, he found her hugged to the wall, just around the corner. Her round gaze looked up, startled, when he found her.
“My lord,” she gasped, breathless and surprised.
“Come on, it’s safe, hurry,” He went to pull her arm. She avoided his hand and backed away.
“You seem to be busy,” she said. “It’s fine, go ahead.”
“What?” Harrison frowned at her. He knew well what she suspected. “Nothing happened.”
“You don’t have to explain it to me,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “You can do whatever you wish with the maids, so long as they are willing.”
“Would you be quiet,” he ordered under his breath, harsh. He glanced around the hall, before moving to look at his bedroom door. Grabbing her hand, he didn’t give her a choice as he pulled her to his room. Once he had the door shut behind him, he turned to study her.
“I wasn’t coming here,” she protested.
“I think you were,” he murmured with a smile.
Syrian trembled. There was no point in trying to lie. “All right, my lord, I was. But that was before I saw you with the maid.”
“Are you jealous?” he asked, his brow raising.
Syrian frowned. “Jealous? Me? No. I told you, I care not who or what you do.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
“I’m cold,” she said, willing her arms to still. Syrian gulped. She was jealous, insanely so. Her first impulse, after she kept herself from retching, was to tear the maid’s hair from her pretty little head.
“Come, let me warm you,” he said. He crossed quickly over to her and made a move as if to touch her.
Syrian pulled away. She crossed over to the brandy on the dresser. “I think I’ll try this instead.”
Harrison sighed. “It’s brandy. Perhaps, too strong for you.”
“You, of all people, think to deny me a whim?” She laughed. “I’ve always wanted to try this and port, but Mother always said it wasn’t ladylike to consume such things.”
“She was right,” Harrison said, though he knew plenty of ladies who did.
“My point exactly.” She poured a little into a glass and sniffed.
He was hard pressed not to laugh as her nose wrinkled. Wryly, he asked, “Would you like a cigar to go with it?”
Syrian smiled and instantly nodded.
“I was teasing, Syrian.” Harrison again went to her, drawn to be near her. “I don’t think it a good idea.”
“And I’m not. I do wish to try one,” she said. She braved a little sip and coughed. He smirked, amused. She lifted her hand to his chest and let it rest, “Please, my lord, let me try one.”
He sighed. One look into her eyes, and he would give her anything. Crossing over to his jacket, which he’d flung over a chair earlier, he obtained a cigar from the pocket. Then crossing to the large window, he pulled it open. Within moments, he had it lit and ready. He pulled steadily on the end, letting the smoke curl from his lips.
“Come here,” he instructed, moving his hip to the ledge. Syrian set down the glass and obeyed. Harrison hesitated.
“Well, show me,” she said, quietly. “How do you do it?”
“I almost regret my words to you that day at the cottage,” he said, not handing her the cigar. He lifted his fingers to tenderly stroke her cheek. “Sometimes I wish I could take them back. I fear they have ruined you.”
“Ruined me?” Syrian shook her head. “No, they have saved me. Don’t you see? They gave me the courage to go after what I want. I’ve been…”
“What?” he prodded. “What have you been?”
“Free,” she said. “Your words freed me.”
“And what about my friendship?”
The smoke curled from the lit cigar, pulled out the opened window into the evening sky. They ignored it.
“What about it?” Syrian’s eyes were held captive by his. The soft glow of blue moonlight edged his face and she found herself wanting to touch him. His shirt blew softly in the breeze, molding and pulling from his stomach and chest. He looked so relaxed, calm, handsome. He made her heart race and stop all at once. It was a strange feeling.
“How do you feel about it?”
“I value it,” she said, honestly.
“Only value?”
“What would you have me say, my lord?” Syrian’s eyes turned questioning. Her head pulled to the side.
“Here,” Harrison said instead. His lids lowered and he held out the cigar end to her. His words husky, he instructed, “Put it between your lips and suck, gentle and slow.”
Syrian took it. Her lips parted and she slipped the rounded tip into her mouth. his gaze narrowed. His breath caught. The edge of her lip pulled up. But then, she inhaled slowly. Her face instantly turned a shade of green and she coughed, a raw hacking sound. He grabbed the cigar from her and tapped it out on the side of the house. Pulling her forward, he thrust her face toward the fresh air.
“I warned you that it wasn’t a good idea,” he said.
“You could…have…warned me…that it was…like breathing…fire,” she gasped, coughing between words. “I need a drink.”
He rushed to get her the brandy. She took a sip and the coughing subsided.
“I think I prefer brandy to cigars,” she said, when she could again talk. “I don’t know what you see in them.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” he stated simply.
“Well, then I shall acquire a taste for it,” she murmured. When his brow rose in question, she lifted an arm to his neck. Her eyes dipped to his lips, as she said, “Let me taste it on you.”
Harrison smiled. He leaned down, pulling her closer into his arms. Their bodies were bathed by the blue moonlight. She moaned lightly, anticipating the touch of him. The taste of fine brandy on her tongue mingled with the unique flavor of him against her lips.
“I love…” Syrian began without thinking. Her heart nearly stopped, but she artfully added, “The feel of you. You’re so hot, firm.”
Harrison groaned against her mouth, deepening the kiss. Pulling back, he said, “And I love your skin, so soft, silky, smooth. Take off that gown for me, let me watch you undress.”
She stepped back. He tossed off his shirt. Then, crossing to the bed, he pulled the breeches off his hips and crawled naked onto the mattress. He laid back, his gaze watching expectantly. His arousal was already thick with need, standing up from his body. He ignored it.
Syrian slowly pulled the nightgown over her head. Her gaze dipped slightly as she tossed it aside, only to turn back for his approval.
His gaze dipped over her slender frame. He licked his lips. His breathing deepened. His gaze moved to the soft bed of curls between her legs. “Touch yourself for me.”
She blushed a pretty shade of pink, but his eyes were too warm for her not to obey. She didn’t feel embarrassment with him. He made her feel as if she could do anything, that nothing else mattered when it was just the two of them. She trusted him more than she’d ever trusted anyone.
Syrian lightly cupped her breasts, massaging them as he watched. She pinched the nipples as he often did. A jolt of pleasure racked over her and a soft moan fell from her lips. Harrison didn’t move. His shaft seemed to lengthen and pulse before her eyes. His gaze followed the movements of her hands.
Syrian ran her hands over her long, sensitive neck. She pulled the pins from her long, dark hair, freeing it. It fell in waves, tickling her already sensitive flesh.
He took his hand from behind his head and moved it along his stomach. Syrian stopped in her self exploration to watch him. He let his fingers journey
down the light trail of hair beneath his navel before reaching his towering erection.
She looked eagerly at him, enthralled as he stroked his hard length. He gripped at the top, over the smooth head and rubbed down along the shaft. She’d never seen anything so erotically stirring in her life. She moved her hands down her stomach, eager to try. She bit her lip, smiling as he nodded at her to continue her descending trail.
She stroked herself for him. He groaned. He fixed his gaze wildly on her finger as it dipped into the soft curls, parting the wet velvet lips.
“Come onto the bed,” he said, his voice rough. “Come closer. I want to see more.”
Syrian crawled on the bed. She straddled his knees, kneeling above him. His hand pumped faster, gripping tight to his hard shaft. His gaze moved to her hips, urging her to continue her naughty little show.
She thrust her fingers against the sensitive nub guarding her heated opening. She moaned, keeping time with his quickening movements. Soon she was panting, moaning, gasping for breath. Her eyes became hazy. She frantically grabbed a breast, becoming mindless with the sight of him. She couldn’t take her gaze from his beautiful body.
“Stroke inside,” he ordered. He moved his free hand to cup the soft globes beneath his thick arousal.
Syrian obeyed and was rewarded as her fingers slipped inside. She trembled with the threat of complete fulfillment.
“Don’t stop.” His stomach tensed, but he held himself back, slowing his pumping fingers. “I want to watch you bring yourself to full pleasure.”
She couldn’t have stopped if she wanted to. Sweat beaded on her flesh. Tremors racked her body as her release came over her. It was pleasant, but not nearly as strong as when he was in her.
“I want more,” she gasped, leaning over to crawl up him.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
She blinked in confusion.
“Trust me,” he urged gently. “I won’t hurt you—ever.”
“I know.” She wondered at the softness of his tone. And why was he looking at her all soft and warm like? She shivered, turning from him.
Portrait of His Obsession Page 10
