He groaned to see her backside pushed toward him. Coming up behind her, he rubbed a finger into her slick opening, stroking her until her feminine moisture flooded his fingers. Only when she gasped his name, over and over, did he guide his shaft to her body. He thrust hard into her tight opening.
Syrian cried out as he filled her. She rocked her body back into his, meeting his thrusts. At first he took her slow, enjoying the slick glide of her tight passage over him, as he taught her how deep and strong he could go into her body. But soon, the torment was too much and he needed to find his release. Controlling her hips, he withdrew and plunged against her, faster, harder, deeper, fitting within her completely.
Their bodies became one as they both climaxed in unison. She gripped the coverlet. Harrison pulled his fingers to her mouth, stifling her loud cry. Her trembling body clenched tightly around him, as he exploded to fill her soul with his release.
Weakly, his head fell along her back, his body nestled warmly inside hers. He pulled her back onto him, wrapping her in his arms from behind. He held her tight, nuzzling her neck.
“Marry me,” he said softly. “Say you’ll be my wife.”
Syrian’s body stiffened, though pleasure still tried to curl in her stomach. He was embedded deep inside her. She couldn’t speak.
He kissed her neck and she trembled violently, feeling it all the way to her toes. “Tell me you’ll marry me. I want to hold you like this for the rest of our days. I want to show you things. I want to give you grand adventures. I want to take you all over the world and make love to you in every country. Life will be too tiresome without you by my side to share it.”
It wasn’t how he wished the words to come out, but he couldn’t think straight.
“I’m not your plaything,” she said, struggling to break his hold. “I wouldn’t marry to ease your boredom, my lord.”
He held tighter, not letting her go. “If we are married, there will be no need to have an affair. We’ll be with each other and no one will question what we do. You’ll be rich, titled.”
Syrian’s heart beat in her chest. He said everything she would hear, but the one thing she needed to hear, to believe from him. She needed his love and she really doubted a rogue like him was capable of giving it. Her body shook violently and she was able to break from his hold.
“How dare you,” she hissed at him. Tears streamed over her cheeks as she pulled away. “What we had was a perfect arrangement and you ruined it.”
“Syrian,” he began. “Wait, I’m not finish—”
“I think you are, my lord,” she said. “I may have come to you in friendship, but I’m not a bauble for you to collect. I’m not a new toy for you to play with until you’re bored with me.”
“So I’m good enough for you to bed, but not to be your husband.” The words were cold, flat.
“Honestly, my lord. What kind of marriage could you possibly give me?” she asked, her features serious, calm, unnervingly somber. “How soon until your eye wanders back to the maid?”
“Nothing happened with the maid.” He growled, furious, and made a move to grab her. She leapt from the bed.
She reached for her nightgown, ready to pull it over her head. Her limbs trembled. She needed to get away from him. His proposal stung. He tried to buy her with his title, tempting her with her newfound freedom. He didn’t want her. He wanted a partner in mischief. And, though his offer was tempting, her heart demanded more—a more he couldn’t give her.
“My lord,” she stated calmly, whirling about, clutching the nightgown to her chest. Her arms were in the sleeves, but she didn’t move to pull it over her head. Harrison was off the bed and she backed away from him. “I won’t marry you. I’m sure, if you stop to think logically about this, you will come to understand what a grave mistake such a union would be. I know you hold no stock in love, for how could you? I don’t condemn you for—”
“You think to know me so well? You presume too much about my character.”
“All the more reason for us not to join. I have only known you a week.” Seeing he wasn’t going to pounce, she pulled the nightgown over her head. When she looked at him, he was still gloriously naked. She wanted to let her gaze roam over his delectable frame. She forced her eyes to stay on his handsome face.
“And I have known you longer.”
“You mean you feel as—” she began.
“No, I mean that I have known you for a year,” he stated. Harrison’s own eyes drifted over her shoulder to the painting beneath the blanket.
“A year? Are you mad? We have never been introduced—”
“I saw you in the garden,” he said quietly, turning his eyes back to her. “You were dancing in the rain.”
Syrian paled at his unreadable look.
“You chased a kitten and it ran away from you. And I saw you, in the rain. I knew then that I wanted to have you,” he said. “You were rumored to be so damned respectable, prudish. I wanted to—I wanted to be with you. I wanted to make you my lover. I wanted to show you—”
“You wanted to corrupt me.” She shook her head, thinking to understand. “I’m a game to you.”
“What?”
“You somehow tricked my brother into an invitation and you came to seduce me. What a fool you must really think me. I thought you were really offering friendship, but this is just a game to see how far I would go. You have no intention of marrying me. Even your asking it was false.”
“Let me explain,” he pleaded.
“There is nothing to explain. You wished to corrupt me and so you have, my lord,” she sneered. “With your words you have turned this lady into a whore. I hope you enjoyed your conquest, but this affair is over. I have grown bored with you and I wish to discover if other men—”
“Syrian,” he said in warning.
“What?” she forced a laugh. “Did you think I was falling for you? Please. I admit your motives do disappoint me. However, now that I’m ruined, I shall live life to the absolute fullest. There is no reason I shouldn’t go to other men—so long as I’m discreet.”
His face turned red with anger.
She rushed to the door. He was behind her, but her look stopped him. “I apologize for not being more of a conquest for you. Good luck on your future endeavors.”
“Syrian.”
“I want you out of this house by tomorrow morning. Tell Thomas you have grown bored of the country and wish to get back to your women in the city. Tell him this or I’ll tell him you attacked me. I have seen your affection for my brother and hope that it’s more sincere than your friendship to me. Either way, I doubt you would want to fight him in a duel. What would society think of you killing their premier artist? Not even your wealth could bury that scandal.”
Syrian felt her nose burning with unshed tears as she flung open the door. She was bluffing. She’d never put Thomas in harm’s way like that, but Harrison didn’t need to know it. He moved behind her, but she didn’t stop. She should have known that what they had was too good to be true. She’d wanted to believe he cared for her, just a little. But his words rang in her head. He saw her as a conquest, an adventure. He’d heard she was a prude, saw that she was fair to look at, and had wanted to corrupt her.
By the time she arrived in her bedroom, she was weeping. She locked the door behind her, flinging herself on her bed. The misery of her broken heart hit her with such force, she couldn’t breathe. She doubted she would ever be whole again.
Harrison growled, watching her go. He started to go after her, but stopped. Grabbing the brandy snifter from the dresser, he threw it toward the unlit fireplace. The glass shattered.
He didn’t hesitate, as he grabbed a large, broken shard. Strolling to the painting, he tore the blanket off of it, ready to strike. His arm lifted, a yell frozen on his angry lips. He couldn’t do it. Sinking to his knees, he stared at the canvas.
The figure of Syrian knelt on the ground, frozen and unmoving with her face buried in her hands. The pistol lay
next to her, abandoned. The riding crop had fallen from the stone and even the bluebells seemed to be withering on the vine.
The glass slipped from his fingers and the earl knelt before the portrait. Grabbing the frame, he shook it violently. His voice a hoarse whisper, he demanded, “What is it you want from me?”
Chapter Nine
Syrian rubbed her eyes red as she made her way to the library. Thomas wanted to see her. She guessed that he was going to be off to London with Harrison and Mr. Turner, so that they may share in the ride together. It was just as well. She wanted to be alone for a long, long time and it would be impossible to nurse her wounds with Thomas’s artistic gaze studying her every emotion.
Knocking quietly, she entered before being summonsed. Seeing her brother, his head down on his desk, she couldn’t help her small smile. If she had her guess, he’d spent the night in the studio with Mr. Turner preparing for the show. Seeing a spatter of red paint in his hair, she chuckled softly.
“Thomas?” she asked quietly, ready to turn and leave him to his rest.
To her surprise, his head pulled up to look at her. He did indeed look as if he hadn’t slept, but there was something strange in the way he looked at her. Her stomach tightened. He looked as if death rode on his heels, so pale and gray was his face.
“Thomas? What is it? Has something happened? Has…someone been hurt?” Syrian rushed to go to him, but his troubled look held her back.
“Harrison has asked for your hand and I have granted it. You’re to be married as soon as possible.”
For a moment, she blinked, not believing to understand his words. Her legs weakened and she stumbled to fall into a chair. “Thomas? I apologize. I think I misheard you. I thought you said I was to marry the earl.”
“Yes, as soon as it can be arranged,” he said. “I have already spoken to Lord Wrotham and have sent notice to the papers in London.”
“Surely, you jest,” she said.
“So he’s not who you would’ve chosen for yourself?”
“No, of course not.” She wondered at the surprise in his tired face. “Why ever would you think such a thing, Thomas?”
“Because he knows.”
Syrian paled, hearing Harrison’s low voice behind her. She shivered. A look of horror came to her pale features as she saw the truth of it on Thomas’s face. Her brother couldn’t meet her eye. Instead, he looked at his desk.
“I don’t understand,” she said unconvincingly. She swallowed, trying to remain calm, though her heart raced and her head spun. She couldn’t look at Harrison, but she felt him behind her. “Knows what?”
Harrison’s hand slid onto her shoulder and she tensed under its pressing weight. “Knows about us, darling.”
Syrian jumped. The endearment didn’t sound like that of a lover, or even a friend. She finally managed to look at Harrison’s hard face. His blue eyes were dark, emotionless pits as they stared at her.
“What did you say?” she ground out, glaring at him. “I deny it, Thomas. Whatever this rogue has said, I deny it. You, my lord earl, have overstayed your welcome here. I demand that you leave at once and never come back.”
“If he leaves,” Thomas said, quietly. He watched the two lovers carefully. “Then you go with him.”
She paled. “Thomas, why? What have I done to deserve this treatment from you?”
“I saw you, Syrian. I saw you with my own eyes,” Thomas yelled. His body shook with passion as he stood from his chair. He glared at both of them, hurt, confused. Lowering his tone, he repeated, “I saw you.”
“Surely, you don’t know what you saw,” she said. “Please, don’t make me marry him. Give me to anyone but him.”
“You chose him, Syrian, not I,” Thomas said. “Even now you might carry his child. I won’t have you publicly shamed for I know how you value your reputation. To be humiliated in such a way would destroy you. I’m sorry. But you will be married with much haste and little ceremony. I have already dispatched Mr. Turner to London with the rumor that I merely forgot to post the bans of your engagement a year ago. It will be quite the scandal, but I believe I’ll be forgiven. Disorganized, hapless artists are fashionable at the moment. With Lord Wrotham’s less than usual behavior this last year, it will be believed the engagement was already in place. And, with your reputation for being reserved, it will be assumed you demanded a small, quiet wedding.”
Syrian flinched. She looked helplessly from one man to the other. “How soon?”
“I believe it can be arranged for Friday,” Thomas said. None of them looked happy. There was an odd tension in the room. “Have your plans ready by then, Syrian.”
Syrian’s eyes turned hard. Looking at the earl, she said, “You may force me to be a bride, but I won’t be a happy one. If you wish to plan this nightmare, have at it. I want little part in it.”
She strode from the library, refusing to cry until she was out of their sight.
Harrison watched her go, feeling as if she slapped him with each word. As she went through the door, her dark eyes turned to him, helpless, scared, angry.
Swallowing, he turned to Thomas. “Thomas—?”
“Leave me, Harry,” Thomas said wearily. He turned his back to stare out the window.
Harrison knew his friend felt betrayed and he was sorry for it. He also knew that Thomas hated himself for having to force his sister’s hand. Quietly, he said, “I’ll take care of her.”
“I know,” Thomas answered. He glanced over his shoulder. “But perhaps you should try telling her that.”
“I would. I have tried. But she doesn’t want to hear me.”
Several days passed and Syrian avoided her new fiancé as if he carried the plague. She refused to come to breakfast or dinner, often rising so early that she was out riding with a picnic before the others awoke. She’d stay out all morning and afternoon, never really telling where she went, but for the vaguest of directions. When she returned, Thomas would look at her sadly. She could barely meet his eyes before running up to her room. Each night, Thomas had a tray of food sent to her. She was grateful for it.
On the first night, Harrison had come to her door, knocking softly, asking if he may enter. Her door was locked and she didn’t answer, no matter that he stood outside it for a little over half of an hour. He hadn’t tried again since.
Syrian felt awful. Her heart ached for herself and her conscience ached for Harrison, though she tried to tell herself she hated him. He would make a fair husband and the passion was there between them, but how long would such a thing last? How long until she saw his eyes turn to another? How long before her heart shattered, leaving her empty? She should have run far away from him that first day by the cottage, when he suggested she live a double life. She should have known better.
Looking back, she did know better. Looking back, she knew that it was Harrison who captured her interest, not only with his words—though they were pleasing to her still. He accepted her for who she was, not forcing her into a role. For that, she’d fallen in love with him. For that, she was now to be punished for the rest of her life.
The cottage ruins stood before her, as did the bridge she loved so much. It was the first time she’d been back since she’d started her foolish pact with Lord Wrotham. To look at it now, only a week and a half later, she felt strange.
Sliding down from her sidesaddle, she landed neatly on the ground. She left her mare to graze, not really caring if it ran off without her. Today was to be her wedding day and, as she said, she hadn’t lifted a finger in the planning of it. She couldn’t bear to. As far as she knew, nothing had been planned and no hour set. The local parish only had one vicar, so it was doubtful he cared at what hour he wed them.
Looking down, she saw the white gown that was left in her chambers the night before. It was a simply elegant affair of soft hem pleats and stamped velvet trim. A small bonnet with a long back veil flowed over her back, covering the ringlets of her hair, which spilled along her shoulders. Her maid was o
nly too happy to inform her that Harrison had ordered it from London for her. She took little time to wonder at his thoughtfulness.
Crossing over the field, toward the little stream, she sighed. She couldn’t go home and face Harrison or her wedding, not yet. And, as she looked over the distance, she didn’t know if she would ever get the courage to go home again.
Harrison could barely breathe as he urged his stallion over the long field. The horse’s legs stretched and pounded as they ate away at the distance. He just had to find her. Never had he dreamt she would abandon him at the altar. He didn’t know what he would say to her once he found her. His fist clenched in outrage. It was possible he wouldn’t say anything at all.
He neared the cottage ruins, the sleeves of his white linen shirt ruffling in the strong wind beneath his dark blue waistcoat. He’d discarded his jacket when it was reported that Syrian wasn’t in her room. Instantly, he consulted the portrait, not caring that Thomas was right on his heels.
When he asked the portrait where she was, Thomas had gasped as if he were insane. Only after seeing for himself the changes wrought upon his work did he understand its mystical power. No longer did Syrian stand by the broken wall in the garden. She was before the old cottage.
Harrison saw her mare and urged his horse faster. Coming up along side it, he finally slowed. Her horse startled nervously and ambled away from their intrusion, trotting off into the distant field only to stop and watch him for a brief instant before turning to graze again.
Harrison swung roughly off his mount. He found her on the bridge and strode straight for her. She glared in his direction, watching him approach.
Syrian watched Harrison come for her. How dare he intrude upon her solitude. But seeing his angry face, her heart fluttered. She took a quick step back and then another.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, nearing her.
She gulped.
“You left me waiting at the altar for you,” he charged. She flinched ready to fight him off. To her amazement, his hands lifted and pulled her face roughly to his in a searing kiss. She moaned in surprise. His tongue invaded her mouth, leaving her breathless and weak. She tried to resist, but she couldn’t. Her hands rode up his shoulders to settle around his neck. She pressed her length into him, feeling the familiar pull of his strong body.
Portrait of His Obsession Page 11
