As they made the trip home, Syrian didn’t deign to speak to Lord Wrotham again. Harrison’s pleasure in the day soon faded as he realized she had no intention of acknowledging him before her brother. In fact, she acted as if nothing had changed between them.
* * * *
Syrian’s cold treatment of the Earl lasted the rest of the day, much to Harrison’s dismay. They ate the picnic lunch in the Caldwell gardens, spreading out blankets on the lawn. Thomas spoke of his paintings, keeping his sister’s rapt attention most of the afternoon.
Harrison watched her in amazement, especially when it became clear that she was going to continue greeting his comments in the same fashion she’d always had--like he was a nuisance not worthy of her time or patience. He’d expected her to soften towards him a little, to shoot him a secretive glance, a feminine blush. Nothing. She barely looked at him.
By the time evening came, Harrison found himself in a dismal mood. If he didn’t have the memory of her trembling body on his tongue and lips, he would never have believed aught happened. But, the memory of her on his mouth was burned so deeply, he could think of little else, couldn’t even taste the wine without thinking of drinking of her instead.
Turning to look at the fire, Harrison ignored the paper from London he’d been pretending to read. He glanced across the masculine study to the bookshelf. He usually found some diversion in books, but not even the idea of the most ribald of comedies was lightening his spirit.
Thomas had gone with Mr. Turner, cloistered in Lord Caldwell’s art studio. Harrison knew from past history that the men wouldn’t emerge from there any time soon. The Earl knew that he could join the men, had been invited to do so, but he didn’t wish to sit back and listen to them argue as they forgot he was there. They spoke of art-- something artists loved to do--and would be oblivious to everyone and everything else until all their points were settled.
"There you are."
Harrison stiffened, instantly turning around to look over his shoulder. Syrian shut the study door behind her, careful to keep quiet as the door latched. Harrison frowned, wondering if she mistook him for Thomas in the dim light of the fireplace. He had turned off the gas lamps, liking the dark for his sulking.
"Your brother is in his workshop, Miss Syrian," Harrison said coldly. After a day spent being slighted by her, he was in no mood to have his heart trampled anew.
Syrian turned to him at his low words. To the Earl’s surprise, she smiled shyly at him. His heart nearly stopped beating. She was so beautiful. Carefully, she bit her lip as she came forward.
"I know," she said. "I just left there. They will be busy for most of the night, I’m afraid."
Harrison eyed her as she came forward, wondering at the look on her features when she neared him. To his surprise, she stood by his chair instead of moving to sit. A light flush came over her pale skin.
"I wanted to see you," she said quietly.
That admission caught him off-guard and he was hesitant to feel any pleasure from it. His brow lifted, as if to say, Oh?
"I wanted to talk to you about what happened this morning," she continued.
Unable to stop himself, Harrison lifted his fingers, gliding the backs of them over her forearm and wrist in a lazy movement. He was surprised when she shivered, but didn’t back away from him. He waited for her to tell him it was a mistake and it couldn’t happen again.
To his amazement, she knelt on the floor beside his chair, looking up at him, her wide dark eyes framed by the long length of her lashes. Her arm drew along his thigh as she faced him, resting ever so intimately, but not moving.
"I wanted to say I was sorry we were interrupted," she said, her gaze dipping down, moving along his chest to where his arousal grew. That’s when he noticed her gown. She’d changed her dress from earlier, wearing an evening gown with a low bodice. His gaze roamed her cleavage, turned golden from the fire. He moved his fingers over her arm, testing as he lightly dragged them over her exposed chest.
Syrian shivered. A small smile came to her features. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, allowing him access to her body. Her breasts heaved as a heavy sigh left her lips. He didn’t move, save for his leisurely dancing fingers as he carefully watched her reaction. He turned his hand, moving up to cup her jaw in his large palm.
"You could’ve fooled me," he said, before letting her go. He purposefully turned his gaze back to the fireplace. He had to look at anything but her sultry lips, begging for kisses. "The way you’ve treated me today."
Was he hurt? Syrian blinked in surprise. Was he pouting? Suddenly, she giggled.
Harrison stiffened.
"It was your idea to fool society and do what I wanted in private," she answered. "What would you have me do? Proclaim our actions to my brother? He would demand a marriage, you said so yourself. And at the cottage you were as frantic as I, no more so, to hide what we’d been about. I thought you’d understand."
Her explanation made sense. But it didn’t excuse her cold slights and hard looks, or her harsh jabs at his person in front of others.
"I thought we had an arrangement between us," Syrian said. "No one would ever know about what we did."
Harrison frowned. This wasn’t turning out as he’d hoped. He didn’t want to be her dirty little secret she hid from the world. He wanted to be more to her, for she was much more to him.
Syrian bit her lip. She crawled up to sit on his lap. The Earl stiffened, not moving to feel her as her body lowered on top of his. She laid the back of her head on his shoulder. His chest pressed along her spine. She liked the strong, protective feel of his hard body to hers.
Syrian longed to have his arms around wrapped around her. She wanted him to hold her, touch her, kiss her. Her stomach twinged and throbbed, growing hot at the memory of his lips against it. Already she was addicted, wanting to feel him on her again. She knew she shouldn’t trust him, but she did. She trusted him with her body, wanted him to teach her what he knew, wanted him to share his worldly experience with her. No one had ever struck her interest as he had. No one would ever be the perfect instructor. She’d never be able to trust anyone else. The Earl would keep her secret, if only for his friendship to Thomas.
"Get up," Harrison ordered, harshly. A strand of her hair tickled his jaw. She smelled so good, so fresh and clean. His fingers itched to touch her. His hard flesh longed to plunge into her, staking his claim. He wanted to stick himself in every opening she had until she knew she was branded as his woman. However, his ego still smarted from her careless dismissal of him all day and that kept him from acting.
Syrian trembled, thinking he meant to show her something new. She instantly stood. Harrison stood behind her. His eyes closed, his resolve wavering slightly.
"My lord?" she asked when he didn’t move to touch her. Her wide eyes glanced over her shoulder at him. She looked so vulnerable. He couldn’t say what was on his mind, couldn’t confront her about it.
"A servant may come," he said at last. "I ordered a cigar. It’s not safe to play here."
"Then where shall we play?" she asked.
Harrison smiled at her eager tone. Shivers of pleasure ran along her spine at his look. Slowly, he bowed to her, turned, and walked away.
Chapter Five
Harrison paced the length of his bedroom, grinding his bare feet into the carpet as he tried not to look at Syrian’s portrait. His body sung with the idea that she ignored him all day because she wasn’t sure how to receive him after such an experience at his hands. Undoubtedly, she didn’t understand all that happened between them--how amazing her response to him was and his to hers, how special. And, when they were alone, she did seem eager to be with him, to learn from him, to please him. It was more than he could’ve hoped for.
It was quite possible that it was his own unfulfilled desires that made him so sensitive to her treatment of him earlier in the day. He knew his body ached for her in such an unbearable way and that he could’ve drawn more from her actions tha
n she intended. Perhaps she had looked at him tenderly like she did in the study. It was possible, in his preoccupation with the need for manly release, that he’d missed it.
Going to the window, he looked out over the night and mused aloud, "Tell me, portrait, where should I next encounter Syrian?"
His heart sped slightly as he took a deep breath. He turned, looking the painting over. His eyes narrowed as he crept forward, trying to see in the dim cast of moonlight. The riding crop was there, as were the bluebells. He’d checked the broken wall in the garden earlier and indeed it was red roses that grew--clear evidence that the portrait had indeed changed.
Looking at it now, he saw no difference. He frowned, wondering if he was missing something. Then, hearing a light knock on his door, he stood tall. Glancing around, he went to the dresser and pulled a bottom drawer. Jerking a blanket through the air, he tossed it over the portrait to hide it from view. Then, crossing over in quick strides, he answered the summons.
As he opened the door, Syrian looked in at him. She wore her nightdress, her long, dark brown hair flowing over her shoulders in gentle waves. Glancing over the hall to make sure she was unwatched, she pushed him out of her way as she stepped into his room. The door shut quietly behind her and she leaned against it. Her chest heaved with barely contained excitement as she looked at him. Her full bottom lip sucked between her teeth, giving evidence to her fear and excitement.
"Syrian," he began, his tone full of wonder and question that she would dare to come to his room.
Syrian continued biting her bottom lip, glancing up at him. She swallowed, nervous to be alone with him now that she was there. She’d thought about him all day, though she would hate to admit the content of those thoughts to him. She softened somewhat to his charm, though she thoroughly convinced herself that it was a physical attraction only.
Syrian knew that he was a rogue with many lovers. He would undoubtedly discard her when he was done, but only if she didn’t discard him first. She was smart, logical. She knew this wasn’t love between them, but lust. Who knew lust could feel so good? Before now, she never realized why someone would risk everything for a chance at a moment’s pleasure.
When he didn’t continue, Syrian blinked up at him. "Do you want me to go?"
"It depends," he murmured, drawn to her. He saw why she was there. It was written on her lovely face. He knew she’d come so he could finish what they started in the cottage. He fit his hand over her head and leaned into the door.
"Depends, my lord?" she asked, weakened by his nearness.
"Yes, on what you’ve come here for," he finished. His eyes pierced into her, awaiting an answer.
Syrian’s body shivered. He loomed over her, towering above her with his impressively broad shoulders and firm lips. She loved those lips, loved what he did to her with them.
"I came to see if you would kiss me again," she said, softly. Almost weakly, she added, "If you wanted … to…."
"Only a kiss?" Harrison drew forward so she could feel the heat from his body soaking into hers, though he didn’t touch her.
Syrian’s mouth went dry at his sultry tone. She pressed back into the door, breathing heavily. He wore a linen shirt, pulled at the waist, unbuttoned on the top. She could see the smoothness of his chest, the hard muscles of it, peeking at her. The shirt ends hung over his tight breeches hiding his hips from view, hiding the mysterious bulge that captured most of her imagination. His strong feet were bare.
Her gaze looked past him to the fireplace. No fire burned so the room was dark. Only the bright moonlight from outside gave relief to the shadows. It cast over his body, making him appear wickedly alluring. She trembled, wanting to see all of him. Her heart beat faster. This affair was dangerous and it thrilled her beyond measure.
"I," Syrian tired to answer. Nothing came out, so she nodded.
"Oh," he answered. Leaning over her, Harrison pecked a quick kiss on her cheek and pulled away. "There, now you’ve had a goodnight kiss. Pleasant dreams, Miss Syrian."
Syrian’s eyes widened, when his hand dropped and he backed away from her, still watching her. Her mouth fell open. There was a teasing light in his eyes.
"I’m sorry," he said, his handsome face tilting quizzically to the side when she didn’t move from her spot against the door, but merely gaped at him in surprise. "Was there something else you wanted?"
"Well," she began, confused. Suddenly, her gaze dipped down to the carpet. She swallowed. Slowly, she shook her head and moved to go, unable to face him. Syrian was mortified. Her eyes blurred with tears as she searched blindly for the door handle.
Harrison saw her look and rushed forward to stop her, reminding himself that she was new to such games as these. She stiffened when he placed a hand near her head, palm flat against the dark wood, keeping her from leaving. He pulsed with need and there was no way he was letting her from his room until his desire was fulfilled.
Coming forward, he pressed his heavy manhood into the small of her back, forcing her hard against the door. She gasped as a jolt of sensation crowded her being. Her breasts pressed into the unforgiving oak, not nearly as unyielding as the man behind her. She took her fingers from the latch, rising up on the wood in a slow caress. His chest trapped her to his as he let her feel every curve of him overpowering her.
Leaning close to her ear, he said hotly, "Are you sure there was nothing else you searched for tonight?"
Syrian gasped. She tried to speak, but Harrison’s tongue trailing over the rim of her ear stopped her. He let his body push into her, letting her feel his strength as he did wickedly delightful things to her ear. He pressed his hands flat to the wood, not moving to touch her. Her body was so soft. With a bend of his knees he could’ve ground his readied manhood into the cleft of her buttocks. He let it press wickedly near the small of her back. She shivered and he grinned to himself in pleasure.
"Tell me, Syrian," he demanded, pulling her lobe between his lips and sucking gently. "Tell me the real reason you came to my room tonight."
"I wanted," she breathed, before whispering honestly, "I wanted you to teach me what you know."
"Ah," he murmured, biting the lobe gently.
Harrison smiled. He liked his women bold. If he was to be her instructor, she would learn that as her first lesson. He would make her say the words to him. He would make her beg. His arousal pulsed in instant protest of the plan, wanting to surge forward and conquer that instant, trying to tell him that her coming to him was enough. He concentrated, tempering his desire back. He couldn’t act rash, lest she not beg to remain in his bed.
"I want to live while I’m young, like you said," Syrian said, as if reading his thoughts. She shivered. His attention to that one ear made the rest of her body very jealous. She closed her eyes. "I don’t want anymore regrets. I don’t want my life to resemble that horrible portrait. I want to have secrets. I want to have mystery. I want to feel. I want you to touch me like you did this morning."
The last was said in such a light pant, he had to strain to hear it. A wave of pleasure and longing mixed in him until his need was painful.
Slowly, he drew his hand down, pulling her long hair off to the side to expose the back of her neck to his lips. When he kissed her there, she cried out lightly, shivering all over. Harrison drew back, amazed at her reaction to such a simple caress. He tried it again, licking lightly down her spine. Again she trembled violently, whimpering as he kissed the bend where her neck met her shoulder. She worked her hands into the door.
Nipping her gently, he murmured, "Do you like that?"
"Ah, yes," she said too weak to think. When he kissed her there, it was almost as pleasurable as when he’d kissed her between her thighs. Her body was heating to the point of boiling. She felt every flex of his muscular form along hers. Her mind was drawn down to the firmness of him against her lower back.
Harrison released her, stepping away. She blinked, suddenly feeling very cold now that his body was gone. She turned, looking u
p at him. He’d drawn back far enough that she had to step forward to touch him.
"May I look at you?" she asked, her eyes dipping over him. Her blood was rampaging with the passion he created.
He held out his hands wide, offering himself up for her inspection, unashamed and so confident it made her limbs shake. His eyes pierced into her and a crooked smile came to his devilishly handsome face.
Syrian went to him, her eyes devouring his perfect form. Slowly, looking deep into his eyes, she moved her trembling fingers to his chest to unveil him to her, unbuttoning his shirt. His look didn’t waver. He didn’t lower his hands in the slightest to stop her as she tugged the linen from his shoulders. She swallowed, looking down at the deep folds of his chest.
He was dark against her lighter skin and, as she touched him, his breath deepened in approval. She explored with her fingers where her gaze led, over his shoulders, to his sides, up the center from navel to neck. The small, dark nipples drew her attention and she moved to touch one. To her surprise, it budded beneath her caress. A low moan came from him and his body jerked. She glanced up to see his eyes were tightly closed.
"Kiss me there," he demanded in a whisper, not looking at her.
Syrian leaned forward, her hands sliding to hold his hips. She lightly puckered her lips around the nipple in a gentle kiss.
His body jerked, and he said hoarsely, "Lick me there."
Her tongue darted out to drag over the tender bud. She was rewarded with another deeply satisfied moan. Going to the other side, she gave his other nipple the same soft treatment, enjoying the texture in her mouth, liking the taste of him.
Syrian pulled back, smiling and feeling very powerful. Her gaze traveled down his firm stomach. When she glanced back up, he was staring at her, the smile gone from his face. His blue gaze smoldered her with its heat.
Slowly, she continued to undress him, dropping the breeches to slide down his legs. She gasped, pulling slightly back to see what he looked like. She looked up, puzzled. He chuckled as her mouth opened to ask a question only to close in confusion.
Portrait of His Obsession Page 6
