Chapter Ten

H e shouldn't have kissed her. Owen groaned and tunnelled his hands into his hair, giving it a hard tug that hurt. He had broken his first rule when it came to his sitters. He had allowed himself to feel, to think of her as a woman, instead of viewing her as a means to an end.

The warmth of her lips, the sweet puff of her breath, and the utter wonder of that kiss they had shared...

The result had been a brilliant sketch, and he only hoped he had fully captured the dazed look in her eyes and the flush in her cheeks. Just thinking about it made his cock harden, and he wasn't sure what to do about it. Over the past few days, being with her, cataloguing every part of her, had only increased his attraction for Ellis.

It was starting to feel like an obsession.

And yet at the same time, Owen was doing some of his best work. He knew it, and he knew Hugh Madrigal would recognize it, too. Owen could just imagine his publisher's excitement when presented with this new series. Hugh was always enthusiastic, but this time he'd be incandescent! In such circumstances, how could Owen walk away from Ellis?

One thing he could do was distance himself a little. Not seeing her again until the morning had felt like a good idea, even though the disappointment in her face when he said he did not think he would be at dinner had nearly made him change his mind. But he hadn't, and an evening apart might mean he could regain some of the equilibrium he had lost.

The troubling thing was, Ellis was attracted to him, too. He had seen it in her face, the tentative smile, the way she gazed at him with her big brown eyes. Owen knew this sometimes happened—it had even happened to him. Models thought themselves in love with the artist. The close attention they experienced tricked them into believing it was more than just a brief, professional relationship. There were many stories throughout history to illustrate this, and he knew of artists who were more than happy to bed their models, arguing it was a perquisite of the job.

But Owen had always sworn he would not take advantage. Even if he was tempted, he refused to act upon that temptation.

Until now.

He groaned again and gave his hair another hard tug. That seemed to do the trick, and he took a deep breath and steadied himself, before looking down at the drawings spread before him. They really were the best he'd ever done. Kissing her had meant the outcome on paper was even better than he could have imagined. The question was, could he walk that fine line between professional and cad, until he was finished with the series? Could he then smile at her and send her on her way to London?

He wasn't sure that he could. He didn't even know if what she had told him about her escape in the forest was the truth, but he suspected not. After Joan had informed him about the coach, she had sent some of the servants to investigate Ellis's story.

Only there had been nothing to find. No sign of a coach, and no sign of the pistol-wielding highwaymen.

Whatever had sent Ellis running for her life was gone. If it had ever existed. Did that mean she had lied? Owen had seen for himself the angry gentleman who had come to the door of the lodge and demanded to know if she was inside. There must be some truth in it.

Joan had tut-tutted at Owen when he had admitted he was reluctant to delve into Ellis's private business.

"Sometimes there is being too much of a gentleman," she had scolded. "Let us hope these angry men do not return before you finish your drawings."

Owen knew that sometimes he was a selfish being, more focused on his art than the world around him, and he preferred not to interfere in matters that might take his attention away from his endeavors.

Maybe it was time he changed that.

His uncle had always indulged him. The elderly confirmed bachelor had a fondness for his nephew, and Owen would be forever grateful for his kindness in taking in a small boy he hardly knew. Owen was certain it must have been a great shock to the viscount to find himself the sole protector of a child who cried in the night for his parents and refused to eat and spent most of his time scribbling on paper.

Uncle Steven often teased Owen and exclaimed in disgust over some of his work, but Owen knew that if it came down to it, the viscount would protect his nephew's right to do as he wished to his last breath.

Owen could have lived with his uncle in London, and he had for a time, but he did not enjoy the hustle and bustle of life in the capital. He was not a social creature by nature, and when the canvases and sketchbooks began to pile up in Owen's bedchamber and creep into the rest of the house, his uncle had suggested his nephew might be better off in the country. "Hawthorne Lodge is just the place. No one for miles to bother you. And if the neighbors invite you to a soiree you can lock the doors and refuse to go. Take Joan with you," he'd declared magnanimously. "She's just as averse to company as you."

And that was how Owen had come to the Lodge, and he'd never left.

There had been no pressure for him to marry, despite being eight and twenty years now. And anyway, his uncle was hardly one to talk of matrimony when he had never shown the slightest interest in that institution himself. Owen had indulged himself with women over the years, but it had never turned into anything serious. He had always drifted away when his physical interest waned, or perhaps it was the women who drifted away. Despite being a lord, he didn't think he was much of a catch. What wife would want to spend her time at Hawthorne Lodge twiddling her thumbs when she could be in London going to balls and visiting her friends?

Although he wasn't inexperienced when it came to ladies, he still wasn't at all sure what this feeling for Ellis was. Yes, he was attracted to her physically, but it felt different... deeper, and far less civilised than anything he had ever experienced before. Shockingly, when he was with her, Owen sometimes felt as if he might lose his much-lauded gentlemanly restraint entirely.

His thoughts were so muddled, he was relieved when Polly knocked on the door and carried in a tray.

Was it time to eat? When he became too wrapped up in his work and in his head, the two women scolded him as if he were still five years old.

"Tea and cake." Polly set the tray down. She glanced at his desk, and then, when her curious gaze latched onto the sketch on top, she went still. "Oh!" she said softly. "That is very striking, my lord." Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head to see better. It was the drawing of Ellis, hair loose about her, clothing rumpled, and looking "well-kissed."

"Miss Mallory is a very good at striking a pose," he said stiffly. "She has inspired me."

"I can see that," Polly murmured, with a lift of her eyebrows. "Forgive me, but she looks almost as if she has been kissing someone. Kissing them all afternoon." Her gaze slid slyly to Owen.

"As I said, she is very good." Owen was aware he sounded defensive. "Now, if you don't mind, I am very busy."

Polly nodded but lingered, ignoring his hint. "You know that Joan hopes..." The words drifted off.

Owen waited but she seemed disinclined to speak again, still staring down at the image of Ellis. He could let it go. It was probably better if he did. But he was irritated and anxious, and suddenly he wanted to know what it was his housekeeper hoped for when it came to him.

"What do you think Joan hopes?" he asked lightly.

Just as Polly said, "Did you like the outfit Miss Mallory wore today?"

"It was superb," Owen admitted.

Ellis had appeared at breakfast in a white sheath with a belt at her waist and sandals wrapped about her calves. She looked like a Roman slave, or a goddess. He vaguely remembered having the outfit made for a series of drawings a year or so ago, but the project had fallen through, and it had never been used.

Polly's eyes lit up. "It was, wasn't it? Miss Mallory is a beautiful woman. And," she tapped her finger against the sketch, "I think she is smitten with you."

Owen had been thinking the same thing, but now he denied it. "Of course she isn't. We barely know each other. Is that what Joan hopes for, for me and Miss Mallory to fall in love and marry and live happily ever after? I can't see it, I'm sorry, Polly. Now, if you don't mind..."

"But are you happy now?" Polly asked, obviously not going anywhere. She was like that when she got a bee in her bonnet. "I know that you have me and Joan—and who could deny we are great company—but aren't you sometimes lonely, my lord? You should not let what happened with Merrily make you unable to trust."

He sighed. "Polly, I have never enjoyed the society of others. Occasionally, yes, but mostly, no. And as for Merrily... I'm well rid of her."

"Doesn't everyone need someone to talk to when they feel sad or lonely? Someone to cuddle up to in bed." Polly must have seen something in his eyes and winced. "Sorry, have I gone too far, sir? I should know your boundaries by now, but I worry. And I know Joan does, too."

Owen cleared his throat. "You have definitely gone too far, Polly." Then, curious despite himself, "Do I need someone to cuddle up to in bed? I go to bed to sleep, not to cuddle."

She answered tartly. "Well, Joan said she heard you pacing last night, as if you couldn't sleep. Besides, everyone needs a cuddle now and again. If you want my opinion, there's not much point to having a life if you can't share it with someone special." Polly finished with a respectful curtsy she clearly didn't mean and left him to his solitude.

Owen stared after her, and wondered if he should give her notice. For a moment he imagined the satisfaction it would give him... until she started to cry and Joan began to shout. No, he knew he wouldn't do it. He was too fond of Joan and Polly, and they of him, and he knew how precarious their lives together were. He would do everything he could to protect them.

His thoughts strayed to Polly's words despite himself. Had Joan really heard him pacing last night? He seemed to be pacing most nights, his emotions unsettled and confused. He suspected it was because he wanted things he couldn't have, his baser instincts battling with his chivalrous ones. Ellis Mallory seemed to have turned his heart and mind into a battleground. Not to mention his sexual desire for her. That was raging.

This afternoon when she had asked him to kiss her... in God's name, had the woman no sense of self-preservation? For all she knew he could be a ravening beast and here she was, asking him to gobble her up! Owen gave a brief bark of laughter, only to groan again in the next moment.

He needed to get through the rest of the series of drawings, to finish The Lady's Sensual Journey or whatever he was going to call it, so that he could send it on to Hugh, and bundle Ellis off to London. That was all he had to do. The trouble was that the next drawings in the series would be the most daring, the most sensual. The lady at rest was all very well, but now the lady had been kissed and soon she would be touched and then, God help him, her body would be taken, consumed, and the passion and pleasure would grow and grow, until—

Abruptly Owen stood up, wincing at the obvious and painful bulge in his breeches.

Perhaps it would help if he sought out a woman in the village? There must be someone? The trouble was he had never had the need to pay for tupping. The women in London had been practiced and sophisticated. Willing to come to bed with him, while at the same time they had been aware that it was nothing more than a momentary pleasure.

Despite her secrets, he already knew Ellis was neither sophisticated nor practiced.

Movement caught his eye beyond the window, and when he stepped closer, he saw that Ellis was standing in the walled garden with her arms clasped about herself. She was wearing something quite different from the outfits she had donned for her sittings with him. It didn't matter, she could be in sackcloth, and he would think her exquisite.

She moved then, as if to return to the house, and he saw her expression more clearly. Bereft, as if the weight of the world was upon her shoulders.

What was she thinking? Was it about what happened to her in the forest that day? What were her secrets? Because he instinctively knew there was more than one.

Ellis had passed by the window and out of sight, but Owen remained staring out. The day was fading, and he reminded himself he had much to do. But as he went to turn away something else caught his eye. A reflection, a brief flash of silver, coming from the edge of the forest.

Was someone there? What could have caused such a thing? A horse's bridle, or a buckle or an ornament, catching the last of the sunlight?

He stood and watched, but whatever he had seen did not come again. By then he had decided it was nothing important after all and, pushing aside all thoughts of Ellis, Owen went back to his work.