Chapter Thirteen

O wen watched her, trying to read her mind, but she seemed determined to keep her own council. His heart sank. Whatever the truth was, she did not trust him enough to share it with him. He had known she had been lying from the start, but he hadn't pressed her. It hadn't been in his selfish interests to do so. But now he did care, and that she wouldn't tell him hurt more than he had expected.

He reminded himself how Merrily had lied to him, stolen his money and his work, and gone off to London. How he had sworn he would not let himself be taken in again, and now here he was.

It was all very well to tell himself that she was no more than a stranger who had come into his life, briefly, and would soon be gone again. The truth was he had been attracted to her from the first moment. Instantaneous connection. Love—or was it lust?—at first sight. He might struggle, but every day he spent in her company only pulled him deeper into this emotional morass.

"Let us get on," he said in a purposelessly detached voice. "You've moved. Lie back the way you were a moment ago."

She did as he asked, attempting to relax, watching him cautiously, as if at any moment he might begin shouting at her. Owen had known this would be difficult. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen was spread before him like a feast and although he was starving, he could not indulge. She had been a little self-conscious earlier, when she suggested the pose, but had seemed to throw aside her doubts.

His pencil stilled. Was she teasing him? His eyes followed the hypnotic movement of her finger on her pink nipple. Was she trying to lure him into behaving in a way he had sworn he would not?

He had already kissed her, and now he ached for her. He had hoped his time away might have calmed his passion for her, and he had thought at first it had, but here it was roaring back to life again, only twice as bad. He couldn't sleep at night for thinking about her, and his days were filled with being in close contact with the one thing he denied himself. He wasn't sure how long he could hold out. He didn't even know if he wanted to!

Ellis gave a little shiver.

It was his opportunity to turn away, hurrying to stoke the coals in the fireplace back to life. He took his time about it, kneeling on the hearth, until he had his body under control again. When he turned back, she was watching him with a little frown between her brows. She had drawn up the bodice to her throat and was clutching it there like some sort of maiden under threat.

"I didn't realize how cold the room had become," he explained, trying for a smile. "Is that better?"

She nodded, her hair falling about her, and then her eyes widened. "Oh! I have moved again."

"Never mind. Let me..." He stepped forward to arrange her back into the pose, and only realized his mistake when it was too late.

As he reached for the turquoise cloth, to slip it back down over her breast, his fingers touched her skin. At the same time, Ellis reached for the same piece of cloth, and their fingers fumbled, tangled. She pulled her hand back and her bodice fell away and there she was. Naked to the waist. Desire raged through him as hot as wildfire. Unstoppable. Incinerating all his resolutions in its path.

He groaned. The sound came out of him before he could stop it. She leaned toward him, winding her arms about his neck and drawing him close. He didn't struggle, he came willingly. It was impossible to do anything else.

Her mouth was as warm and willing as he remembered. He tilted his head for better access, his tongue slipping inside. Heaven. Good sense tried to shout to him, but it was drowned out by desire and need, and an urgency he could not remember ever feeling in his life before.

Either she pulled him down or he tumbled over, because now he was lying on top of her, still fully clothed. He was no longer resisting. Whatever had held him back before was forgotten, and he groaned again as he explored her mouth. Her lips were so soft and willing, and she was so addictive. He wanted more.

Owen lifted his weight off her with one arm, his other hand cupping the lush mound of her breast. Her nipple prodded into his palm, and he bent and took it into his mouth. She arched up with a soft cry, and he used his tongue to caress her, rolling the nub and then sucking hard.

"Oh, you . . . that . . . oh!" She gasped, sensible words seemingly beyond her.

His desire was raging now, but finally good judgment began to make itself heard. He should turn back. He should get to his feet right now and move away.

As if she was aware he was on a knife edge, she said, "Please," and when he looked down into her brown eyes, they were full of want, of need. "Please make love to me," she breathed against his lips and reached up to kiss him again.

She was giving him permission, and Owen slipped over the precipice.

Her skirt was already rucked up to her thighs, and he slid his hand over her soft skin, finding nothing to stop him when his hand cupped her mound. Her breath stuttered, and he could feel how wet she was, how ready. His fingers brushed against her opening, testing her response.

Ellis gave a little moan, pushing toward him, her thighs falling open. Owen wanted to lie between them, to push his long-suffering cock inside her, and that was when he remembered he was still fully dressed. Dazed, he sat up, reaching for buttons and ties, shrugging off his jacket and pulling his shirt over his head and throwing it carelessly aside. Ellis rested back on her elbows, watching him with wanton eyes. She reached out her hand, and he felt the warm slide of her fingers over the hair on his chest, following it down to his stomach, where the dark trail vanished beneath his breeches.

He went to unbutton the flap but then paused, his gaze meeting hers. As much as he wanted to rut against her like an animal, his gentlemanly instincts were ingrained. "Are you sure?"

She gave a choked little laugh. "Very sure. Don't stop."

With a hard grin, he undid the buttons and his cock pushed aside the flap of cloth that was covering it, so eager he almost laughed. Her eyes widened, but she wasn't daunted. A moment later she was stroking his hard, aching flesh, and this time Owen groaned so loudly he was afraid everyone in the house could hear him.

She wrapped her fingers around him as best she could, but Owen was sure that if she kept touching him, then he would spill. And that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to make her his in the most fundamental, and possibly ungentlemanly, of ways.

He shuffled down the chaise longue, until his panting breath was against her thigh, and then he leaned in and breathed her in. Warm and delicious. He parted her soft flesh with his tongue and found her soaked. She arched up against him and then her hands tangled in his hair, holding him against her.

"Oh God... oh Owen," she managed in a strangled voice.

He licked again, and then sucked on that hard bundle of nerves that made her thigh muscles shake and her hands tighten painfully in his hair. She was on the verge of coming and suddenly he wanted that. He wanted to bring her to her peak. His own pleasure was important, but hers was more so. Bringing her to her climax felt like a matter of pride to him.

She was so close. As he licked and sucked, her hands tightened more and more, her body arching against his mouth like a bow. He was playing her like an instrument, and she was about to reach her crescendo.

With a gasping cry she went rigid beneath him, until she fell back, boneless and replete. Her chest rose and fell, drawing in short breaths that slowly lengthened.

Owen sat up, wiping his mouth with his hand, and gazed down at her. He felt as if he was the most powerful man in the world. He wasn't sure whether or not that was a good thing, but he couldn't help it. He was the king of all men, as he looked down at her flushed cheeks and her dazed eyes. He had done this. He had made her look like this.

After a moment he noticed that although she was still wearing the dress, it was rucked up about her waist, so she was essentially naked. There was something of great abandon about that, and he itched to record it on paper, but for once he resisted his creative desires in favor of his physical ones.

He closed his hand over his cock, stroking himself. In a moment he would be pushing inside her, deep, into that moist warmth. He leaned forward, nuzzling against her throat, the tip of his shaft entering her that first little bit.

"May I?" he asked politely and felt her shake with laughter.

"Oh, you may, indeed you may..." she began.

Just as there was a sharp knock on the door.

It took Owen a moment to become aware of Joan's voice on the other side because of his blood roaring in his ears. Another moment for him to comprehend what she was saying.

"My Lord? There is a man here asking to see Miss Mallory. Sir? He says his name is Elijah Jones."

Owen was looking down at Ellis and he saw her eyes widen. She blinked, and suddenly the dazed, sated look vanished. She started to rise and when his weight prevented her, she pushed at him. Owen stumbled from the chaise longue, still dizzy with desire, still aching. She refused to look at him as she tugged up her gown, or perhaps she had forgotten him altogether. She smoothed down the skirt and then began to fasten the back.

He noticed that she was perfectly capable of doing it herself, and the last of his desire slipped away.

"Who is Elijah?" he asked sharply.

"Someone I..." She hesitated and took a breath. Her eyes avoided his. "He is important to me, and I must speak to him."

Important to her? He watched as she went to the door, but it was only when she glanced back, raising her eyebrows as her eyes slid up and down him, that he remembered he was still half naked, his chest bare and his softening cock exposed. Self-conscious, Owen turned his back and began hastily to put himself to rights.

She opened the door just as he retrieved his sketchbook and pretended to examine it. He didn't want to meet Joan's gaze—she would know what had been happening in here. He wasn't sure if he was ashamed. Disappointed in himself, yes. Confused, yes. But the chief feeling was a growing distrust when it came to Ellis.

He heard her ask where Elijah was, and Joan's reply that he was outside in the garden. She hurried away, her satin dress rustling eagerly, and the front door opened and closed. He hoped Joan had gone too, but then she spoke.

"Well," she said softly.

"Not now," he barked. "Really, Joan, not now."

He was grateful that for once she took him at his word. When her steps had carried her away, Owen closed his eyes and wondered what on earth he thought he was doing. Had he really broken all his rules, and for a woman who would not even tell him what she was doing here? Did he never learn?

He had tunnelled his hands into his hair, about to give a hard tug, when he realized he could see Ellis outside his window. There she was, standing in the walled garden, a vision among the flowers. She was calling out for this Elijah, and then a stranger appeared behind her, and rested his hand on her shoulder.

Ellis turned to him and the expression on her face... it was an agonizing mixture of pain and joy. And then Elijah clasped her in his arms and Owen felt his own hands clench at his sides. He wasn't sure what emotion was swirling around inside him as he watched them, but it was something dark and dangerous. The sort of feeling he would never have thought himself capable of.

Until now.