Chapter Fifteen

O wen had stood before the window, frozen to the spot, as Ellis had embraced the stranger. He had felt as if he had a fever, his blood at boiling point as he watched them hug and kiss. It was obvious there was a deep affection between them. Perhaps they were lovers, and Ellis had been separated from him by circumstance or disapproving relatives. Was that why she was fleeing by coach in the forest—if indeed there was a coach, he reminded himself.

And now this man, this Elijah Jones, had found her. Why had he just walked away? Had they decided their love could not survive whatever it was that had come between them? Or had Ellis promised to meet him elsewhere so that they could continue their love affair in safety?

He was speculating like a fool, but he did not think it was entirely speculation. He had borne witness to the attachment between Ellis and Elijah, and even a blind man could see that whatever game Ellis had been playing with him, her real loyalty, her real love, was for Elijah.

Too many questions without answers. Too many wild thoughts spinning in his head. Despite Ellis's secrets he had begun to feel as if he knew her, that he was falling in love with her, and now...

He just wished it did not hurt so much.

For all his talk of acting professionally and of gentlemanly behavior, he could admit that he had begun to crave more. A relationship, where he could freely kiss her and hold her and take her to his bed. Had he been falling in love with her? Well, now that lay in pieces. She had maneuvered him and tricked him and almost persuaded him she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He felt lower than he had ever felt, and angrier than he could ever remember being, and oh so jealous.

He looked down and realized he had crumpled up the latest sketch in his closed fist, too upset to know what he was doing. For an instant he was tempted to tear it in two. How good that would feel! At least for a minute or two. But common sense came to his rescue, and he smoothed it out with care, and then placed it between the leaves of a large book to flatten it again. Whatever Owen's inner turmoil, he had a job to do. Hugh Madrigal was waiting for this new series of drawings and Owen refused to let him down. He refused to allow Ellis Mallory to break him.

And if the worst came to the worst and she left, there were plenty of other pretty girls who would be happy to sit for him.

The outside door closed. He waited, wondering if she would have the audacity to walk back into the room as if nothing had happened. When he heard her on the stairs and knew she wasn't coming back, he wasn't sure whether to be outraged or wretched.

After an indeterminate time staring into space, Owen sat down at his desk and began to work again, shutting away his reeling thoughts and bruised heart. He scoffed at his earlier idea that he had fallen in love with her. How could he have? He had only known her for such a short time. Love grew slowly and steadily, not like this feeling, this whirlwind of painful emotion that made his hands shake and his eyes sting.

It was lust, pure and simple, but he was certain that whatever game she was playing, Ellis had felt it, too. She had wanted him, she'd told him so, and if they hadn't been interrupted he would have taken her.

The afternoon light faded into evening, and soon Polly was at the door, informing him that their meal was ready. "Joan has cooked your favorite!"

Owen couldn't even remember what his "favorite" was but found himself rising and going to his room to wash and shave before he changed his clothes. He did it automatically, without thought. He could have stayed upstairs or locked himself in his study, but it seemed more important to show Ellis that he wasn't affected by her lies.

Before he knew it, he was seated at the table in the dining room.

Ellis arrived shortly afterward. He gave her a brief glance and thought she looked pale, her face strained, as though the skin had tightened over her bones. Her hair was neatly coiled on her crown and her clothing was modest—a blue gown with a high collar and sleeves gathered at her wrists. It was a far cry from the outfits she had worn as his model, and it felt as if she was marking a line between the two.

She gave him a nod as she sat down, and a moment later Joan came to serve them.

His housekeeper was also quiet, her suspicious gaze going from Owen to Ellis and back again. Her mouth was pinched shut, as if there was a great deal she wanted to say but was restraining herself. Owen was grateful for that—the last thing he needed was one of Joan's lectures. When she left them alone, he pretended to eat, and by the way in which Ellis was arranging and rearranging her food, he guessed she was pretending, too.

Until she set down her cutlery with a clatter and looked up at him.

"Owen," she said. "I want to talk to you."

"Talk to me," he said, purposely brusque, loading up his fork again with whatever was on his plate. "What about?"

"The man who came to see me. Elijah." She sounded frustrated and worried.

"What of him?" He lifted his gaze, making sure it was cold and disinterested, because that was the only way he could protect himself from the emotional damage she was inflicting on him. "Is he going to interfere with you sitting for me?"

Was that hurt in her dark eyes? She must be playing with him. Owen refused to imagine she was genuinely pained by his response.

"No," she said. "But I want to explain—"

"No need," he said in that same cold voice. "I don't need to know your private affairs. We will finish the drawings and then I will put you on a coach for London. That was our deal, was it not?"

He chewed, swallowed, and loaded his fork again with precise movements.

Ellis took some time to answer, but he kept his eyes down, busily cutting up his meat into bite-sized pieces that he had no intention of eating.

"Yes." She spoke at last, her voice huskier than usual. "You're quite right. That was our deal. But Owen—"

"Then there's nothing more to be said." He took another mouthful despite the food almost choking him.

He half thought she would argue with him and wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved when, after a long moment, Ellis began to eat, too.

They finished the meal in silence, the only interruptions being when Joan and Polly cleared the plates and brought in pudding. Even the two women seemed oddly reticent, as if they were affected by the uncomfortable atmosphere in the room. Normally Owen and Ellis would be chatting politely, and even if was only the weather they were discussing, it had been comfortable.

But not now.

When they were done—had a meal ever before taken so bloody long?—Ellis rose. "I am going to retire," she announced. "I am tired."

She hesitated as if waiting for him to reply, and he felt her eyes on his bent head as he played with the barely eaten apple crumble.

"Goodnight," he said as pleasantly as he could manage.

"Owen," her voice was uncertain, "I've enjoyed spending time with you. Whatever you might think of me, I have rarely enjoyed anything as much. But I think I should leave tomorrow. Unless you want me to stay?"

The hopeful note in her voice almost broke him, but he remained stoic. "You must do as you wish," he said, as if he was indifferent to her.

She nodded. Was that a tear spilling down her cheek? Manipulation, his brain said. Merrily had cried at will. Before he could move or speak again, the door closed behind her.

Owen dropped the spoon and clasped his head in his hands. He was a fool. Why had he allowed himself to fall under her spell? After Merrily he should have known better. He had thought himself to be more sensible, more pragmatic than that, and instead he had made an even worse hash of it with Ellis.

He didn't realize Joan had come in to clear the dishes until she spoke.

"You know I am your greatest devotee," she said gently.

Owen looked up warily. He had thought he had avoided the lecture, but it seemed his relief was premature. "Please, Joan, not now."

"Yes, now," she retorted. "You need to hear this, my lord."

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, pushing away the pudding. "I'm sure you will not tell me anything I don't already know. I have been a fool. You'd think I would have known better after Merrily, but instead I let myself fall for the lies of the very next woman who came to my door."

"Ellis isn't Merrily."

Surprised, Owen let himself look at her. She appeared very solemn. "No? They are both liars. You warned me."

"She is lying but I don't think it's to do you mischief," she said. "She's afraid. Elijah Jones, the man who came to the door, is also afraid. Although I don't know him, I know his family in the village, and they are good, honest folk. He has been a servant at Breamore for years, and there has never been a bad word spoken about him." Then, her eyes narrowing, "Did you think he and Ellis were lovers? You've got the wrong end of the stick there... sir. Elijah doesn't lie down with women. Just as I don't lie down with men."

Owen blinked. "He doesn't . . . oh!"

"They are friends, from what I gathered. And they are in trouble. The coach, the highwayman—I may not have found any evidence of either, but that doesn't mean it isn't true. Ellis has stayed here with us because she is frightened, but also because she feels safe at the Lodge. She feels safe with you , my lord."

"I should have asked her for the truth, but I could see she didn't trust me, and I didn't want to drive her away. Selfish of me, I know, but my drawings of her are the best I have ever done."

Joan smiled as if she couldn't help herself. He saw movement near the open door and realized Polly was there. For support he supposed. "You may as well come in and have your halfpenny's worth, too," he muttered.

Polly grinned and then bit her lip. "Sorry. Joan was worried you'd give her notice, and I couldn't let her leave without me. But she's right, sir. Ellis is in some sort of trouble, but she's stayed here because she can't bring herself to leave."

"Well, she seems to have won both of you over," he muttered.

The two women exchanged a glance. "She's the sort of person you can't help but like," Polly said.

"And now I've told her she's getting on the coach tomorrow." He shook his head. God he was a fool. Sulking like a child because he thought she didn't love him. Owen had believed himself better than that, but it seemed where Ellis Mallory was concerned he had reverted to childhood.

He could pretend this was all about his drawings and not being able to complete the series, but that wasn't really the problem. Owen needed her. He wanted her to stay. In the short time she had been at Hawthorne Lodge, she had become the reason he couldn't sleep at night. And the reason he got up in the morning.

"What should I do?" He put his head in his hands. "You are both so full of suggestions, tell me that."

He felt two hands, one on each shoulder. Joan said, "Go and tell her you didn't mean it." While at the same time Polly said, "Ask her to stay!"

Pushing up clumsily from his seat, his chair almost tipping over, Owen stumbled out of the room.

He took the stairs two at a time with a terrible urgency. He knew he should stop and think, consider his actions, but he didn't want to think. He dared not think. If he stopped and thought, he would lose her.

The door to Ellis's bedchamber was closed but he knocked hard upon it. There was movement inside, footsteps, and then she opened the door a crack and peered out. Her dark eyes grew big with surprise.

"Owen? What is it? Has something happened?"

He'd frightened her, and that was the last thing he'd wanted to do.

"I'm sorry," he said, running a hand through his unruly curls. "I don't know what came over me." Well, that wasn't exactly true. "I mean... seeing you with that man, I just couldn't think straight."

She searched his face before comprehension filled her own. "Oh. The window. You saw me and Elijah."

"Yes, I saw you and Elijah," he agreed. He reached out and cupped her cheek in his palm. "Can I come in? I know I said I didn't want to talk, but I do."

She hesitated and he dropped his hand. She had decided he wasn't worth bothering about. His heart sank, but then she widened the door, and gratefully Owen stepped inside. He wasn't looking at the room or anything in it, he was looking at Ellis. She was twisting her hands together as if this conversation was difficult for her.

"Elijah and I are friends," she said quietly. "We've been through a difficult time together. I was worried about him, and he was worried about me. He wanted me to leave Hawthorne Lodge and come with him."

"Leave?" This time he covered her hands with his own and looked down into her worried face. "No, please don't. I don't want you to. Stay here with me, at least for a bit longer."

"I should go. What if I put you in danger?"

Owen snorted a reckless laugh. "I can deal with any danger that comes my way." But he wondered if that was true. Certainly, he could put up a fight, but he was an artist, not a pugilist. Wryly, he remembered that it had been the mention of his uncle that had sent off the man demanding entry to the Lodge, and nothing to do with his fearsome demeanour.

But Ellis seemed to take his words at face value, and her tension eased. She gave a sad little smile. "If I left now, I would miss you. So much."

"I would miss you, too," he said, and found he could not look away from her, their eyes meeting and saying things that needed no words.

And then he, or she, or maybe both, reached for each other, and they were kissing. Her arms were twined around his neck, tangled in his hair, and he held her so close that their bodies seemed to merge.

Owen knew then he was completely lost, there was no going back, and he found that he didn't care.