Page 42 of A Symphony for the Earl

She paused, wondering if it had been a mistake to interrupt him, but it was too late to repair the damage. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, but I’ve brought an ointment that will soothe your headache, my lord.”

He remained motionless, each hand gripping the armrest. His eyes were unfocused and slightly confused. She hurried to fill the awkward silence. There was tension in the room she did not understand, as if he were angry at her for something.

“’Twas made by our housekeeper in Barbados and contains herbs that reduce aches and pains. I thought perhaps some on your temples…or the back of your neck…” A muscle twitched in his cheek and her voice trailed away.

“Fiona?” He regarded her with a deep frown.

The silence stretched between them until a log fell on the fire with a whoosh of sparks. He started, and his gaze sharpened on her. She noticed the pupils of his blue-gray irises were huge, but he looked a bit less bemused.

“Thank you.” He got to his feet unsteadily. Was he drunk? The heavy silk dressing gown he wore gaped open to reveal a white shirt, partially unbuttoned over a dusting of dark hair. He was barefoot and certainly not expecting a visitor.

A flush crept up her cheeks as the intimacy of the situation struck home, and she wanted to bolt out of the room. Instead, she held her ground and squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t run like a scared rabbit, perhaps just make sure he was well and then leave. Besides, she was curious as to why he was acting so strangely.

“I hope you are feeling better, Lord Richard. I was concerned for you at the ball.”

“Yes.” He scowled, blinking rapidly and running a hand across his face. The pain must be very bad indeed to warrant such a taciturn reception.

His shirt opened further as he lifted his arm and she glimpsed the ridged lines of his abdomen. Would his entire body be as fine as that? Fiona sensed that she was toying with fire not to leave immediately but couldn’t help herself.

“And I wanted to thank you for tonight. I’m sure the success of my debut is due to your orchestration—”

She broke off, aware that he was staring at her. Not at her face, but lower. His gaze was transfixed on the decolletage of her gown. She should have been shocked. Instead, her breasts tightened painfully, the nipples beading against the thin silk.

A muscle worked in his jaw and he looked up, his eyes glittering with some unreadable emotion.

Fiona held out the jar, dismayed to see that her hand was unsteady. He continued to stare. What was wrong with the man?

“If you would try some ointment—”

“Give me the dammed jar,” he finally said impatiently. She placed it in his outstretched hand, and their fingers brushed. He took the pot and practically flung it onto the chair. It teetered to the edge but didn’t fall.

“Why did you come here, Fiona?” he bit off, raking his fingers through his disordered hair. “Don’t you know all the levels of propriety you break being alone with a single man at this hour of the morning? Are you so completely naïve?”

“I’m not naïve,” she retorted. “Why are you being so rude? I’m trying to help you…you…bodhar. I wanted to thank you for heaven’s sake. You’re in pain, but there’s no need to take it out on me like some spoiled—”

With a muttered expletive, he took her by the shoulders and crushed her against him. She froze, then freed a hand to push him away. He released her immediately, breathing harshly. They locked eyes, and Fiona, to her astonishment, reached for him.

Richard pulled her close again, this time bending to capture her lips, demanding and coaxing all at once and she met him kiss for kiss. He kissed her in places she never imagined: the corner of her mouth, her cheekbone, the hollow beneath her ear, then her throat and collarbones.

Then, his lips sought her mouth again, and the pressure deepened, no longer greedy but slow and seductive.

“Open your mouth for me,” he murmured against her lips, which were swollen and ripe with desire from his kisses.

“Why would I—”

His tongue curled around hers, exploring and teasing in a way that weakened her knees.

“Oh…my,” she managed when he lifted his head.

“You wretch—I am torn between kissing you or spanking you every moment of every day.”

Fiona stood on tiptoe to reach his mouth again. “You should kiss me then,” she breathed.

She drew his head down when he hesitated and wound her fingers in his dark locks. He groaned, angling his lips across hers and exploring her mouth so thoroughly that her knees wobbled. The thickness of his arousal brushed her stomach. Cupping her bottom, he lifted her against his hard shaft, which only intensified the throbbing ache at the core of her femininity.

“Fiona,” he muttered hoarsely, burying his face in the hollow of her breasts, lifting them in his hands to press scorching kisses to each one. Even through her gown, they throbbed in response, cresting against the thin silk. He pulled her bodice aside and his tongue flicked one ripe bud. Drawing the other into his mouth, he suckled and teased, and her gossamer undergarment became saturated with slick wet heat, clinging to her thighs.

“Richard…A Dhiá…Richard…”