Chapter Three

O wen couldn't keep his eyes off her. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had an eye for beauty. It wasn't just physical beauty either, but the way her emotions shone from her dark eyes and her mouth tilted at the corners as if it was made to smile, even if she wasn't smiling now. It was a face that caught and held his attention.

He shot a glance at his desk and the sketches resting on top and wondered if she had seen them. It occurred to him they would hardly inspire trust in a lone, frightened woman. But she had said nothing, so perhaps they had gone unnoticed.

Before he had been interrupted by her arrival at his door, he had been sitting at his desk, glaring at his latest efforts. His most recent model, Merrily, a young woman from the village with a sweet, innocent smile, had turned out to be a perfidious creature. She had certainly fooled Owen, and he did not consider himself someone who was easily fooled. Merrily had won his confidence, and then she had stolen his drawings of her, as well as his purse.

When he went looking for her, Merrily's father had informed him that his daughter believed her future lay in London rather than in this out of the way place. Once she had discovered her smile and her naked body could be used to make money, she had begun to imagine a fortune awaited her. Owen doubted it, but if anyone could manipulate her way under a man's guard then it was Merrily.

He felt foolish to have trusted her and told himself he would not be so gullible again. He also knew it wouldn't be long before his publisher, Hugh Madrigal, began sending him stern reminders that he had yet to fulfill his quota of artistically rendered naked ladies.

Recently there had been many more subscribers signing up for his books than Hugh knew what to do with, which in one way was flattering, but in another increased the pressure on Owen. With the jump in sales, Hugh was already talking about the new series of drawings that Owen was meant to be producing, which was all very well, but Owen did not crave fame and fortune. Yes, he enjoyed using his talent, and the money came in handy whenever he felt like he was encroaching on his uncle's generosity. Owen had been a child when his parents died, leaving him nothing but debts, and Uncle Steven had taken him in and treated him like his own. His uncle had ensured he was now free of debt, but the thought of relying upon him for everything made Owen uncomfortable.

It was true that, once upon a time, Owen had dreamed of being a famous portrait painter, with eager sitters queuing at his door and the art world marvelling at his work. His one attempt to enter the Royal Academy of Arts had met with sneers and derision, and from then on he'd resolved to turn his back on what he considered a pompous, condescending, and outmoded institution. He and Hugh Madrigal had begun their association shortly afterward, and for years Owen had been perfectly happy with his situation. His books of drawings sold well, people liked them and wanted more. There weren't many other artists who could say that.

So it wasn't waning popularity that had kept him up last night. It was that he lacked a model, had an imminent deadline, and was struggling with his work. He had also begun to feel, even before Merrily, that his creative spark was dimming. He probably needed to try something different, but he also knew Hugh Madrigal would not thank him for it. At least the problem of a new model may have been solved. This woman had landed on his doorstep in the most serendipitous way, and although Owen wasn't a great believer in fate, or of things moving mysteriously, this seemed too auspicious to ignore.

A shiver of excitement ran through him. She was perfect . He was already thinking about how he could pose her for the best effect, which was hardly fair of him, not after what she had told him about highwaymen. And he had seen for himself she was in some kind of danger. Owen wasn't a fool, and he suspected she didn't want to tell him the truth for a reason, but for now it suited him to pretend not to notice. Did that make him a selfish, calculating fellow? Or was he just being a polite, understanding gentleman?

A bit of both perhaps.

Cautiously, Owen rose from the chaise longue. The woman had fallen asleep and was breathing softly, her body relaxed. Her black gown was torn. Was she a widow or in mourning for the father she had mentioned? From the state of her hands and stockings she must have fought her way through brambles. She had lost a shoe and there were leaves and twigs adorning her tangled hair. That part of her story must be true at least—she really had been running for her life.

He looked down at his sleeping guest and admitted that her mysterious circumstances only heightened his interest in her. A beautiful stranger suddenly appearing on his doorstep. He was intrigued and fascinated and filled with the desperate desire to start work. How long since he had felt like that? Of course, the question was: Would his mysterious guest be willing to pose for him?

Would she be willing to remove her clothing?

His cock twinged at the thought of her naked, which was wrong on so many levels that he groaned softly and strode over to his desk and sat down. He could hear her quiet breathing as she slept. As soon as Joan, his housekeeper, returned from the village, he would ask her to arrange a bath and bed for her. And if she wanted to leave in the morning, then he would send her on her way.

Although that would be very disappointing.

He was annoyed with himself for not asking her name while she was conscious. He'd been too focused on her beautiful face with its hint of vulnerability, and her soft, husky voice and his own need to draw her. Now Owen surveyed the earlier drawings laid out before him and, whereas moments ago he had been trying to tell himself they weren't too bad, all he could see now were the mistakes and obvious lack of emotion. They were poor efforts, and he could do much, much better. In sudden decision, he pushed them aside and set a new, blank page in front of him. Then he closed his eyes and considered the vision in his mind. When he opened them again, he began to draw with swift, practiced strokes of his pencil.

Even as the image took form in front of him, he could tell this was something special. This was one of those rare times when he was able to sink entirely into his work, losing himself in the desire for perfection he had pursued since he was a mere boy. Now, at eight and twenty, he was still pursuing it. Not that the subscribers complained when he didn't achieve it. Perhaps they weren't as fussy as Owen. As far as he was aware everyone else was perfectly happy with his work. It was just Owen who strived for the impossible.

He was so focused, so lost in his creation, that it was only when he heard his servants returning that he came back to himself. He wasn't even sure how long he had been engrossed in his task, but the light in the room had dimmed significantly as the summer evening had turned to night. The sleeping woman seemed to become aware of the sounds too, because she had begun to stir.

Quickly, Owen reached to cover the sketch, only to pause as he stared down at it and really saw it as a whole for the first time, rather than a series of parts of that whole. It was full of movement and emotion, and better than anything he had done in a very long time. The woman looked out at him, her eyes wide and wild, while her tangled hair framed her face. Her gown was torn at the shoulder, and she was holding it together with one elegant hand. Her stockings were smudged and ripped, and as she stood at the edge of the forest she appeared to be on the verge of fleeing.

It was strong and evocative, and Owen was delighted with it.

The woman stirred again, making a sound, and hastily he covered the drawing. She would think him a peeping Tom if she saw it, and he didn't want that. He would never hurt her, he was not that sort of man, but he wanted her to trust him. And he was selfish enough to know she represented a chance for him to more than fulfill his commitment to Hugh Madrigal and his list of devotees.

There was a tap on the door, and when it opened Joan was there, frowning at him.

"This house is as dark as a tomb," she declared. "You've been daydreaming again, haven't you, sir?"

His housekeeper liked to call Owen's artistic endeavors "daydreaming" and at this moment she was probably right. He had been caught up in a dream. Before he could answer, the woman on the chaise longue gave a gasp and sat up. With her wild hair and torn dress, she was a startling sight, and Joan stared at her as if she were a ghost. At the same time, the woman looked about at her unfamiliar surroundings and appeared to be about to flee.

Joan's eyes narrowed. "And who is this? Has she been dragged through a hedge backward?"

Owen got hastily to his feet and reached out a calming hand toward the woman. "Please, don't be afraid. This is my housekeeper, Joan. She will take care of you."

Joan approached, hands on hips. "A bath, I am thinking," she said, with a questioning glance at her master.

"If you would be so kind," Owen agreed with relief. "This lady will be staying with us until she can make other arrangements."

The woman didn't argue, and despite the fading light he could see an expression of relief on her face. It was Joan who said, "And does the lady have a name, sir?"

Owen floundered, but luckily he didn't have to admit his lack of manners.

"Ellis," said his damsel in distress. "My name is Miss Ellis Mallory."

Something about the name struck a long-ago memory, but he didn't have time to pursue it. Joan was already shuffling Miss Ellis Mallory out of the room, fussing like a mother hen. By now she had seen the ravages of the forest on Ellis and was talking about seeing to her hurts with lotions and ointments.

Joan glanced back at Owen from the door. "Supper will be a little late," she said, "but I have a feeling you will not mind."

Owen smiled. "I don't mind at all."

He heard the two of them crossing the hall to the stairs, with Joan calling for hot water to fill the bathtub. Thank God for Joan. His housekeeper had been with him since he'd first come to live here at Hawthorne Lodge. Before that, she had been a servant in his uncle's house, so she knew his family well. She might call his work daydreaming, but she had always encouraged him despite his uncle's head shaking at his nephew's chosen career.

"If you're going to paint, then paint landscapes for God's sake!" Uncle Steven had roared at him more than once. "At least there'd be less chance of you being arrested, boy!"

Owen smiled at the memory. No matter how often he explained to his uncle that he had a growing audience for his work, and that just because he didn't exhibit at the Academy in London, it did not mean he wasn't a "proper" artist, his uncle refused to believe it. All the same, he supported Owen, and always had. Ever since his uncle took him on as a child, he had always known he could depend upon the elderly viscount and had never felt a lack of either love or care. When Owen had declared he wanted to be an artist, his uncle had grumbled and then offered him Hawthorne Lodge, so that he could live in the quiet countryside and find his muse.

Owen had never been blessed by that mythical creature who could inspire him to great artistic heights, but he was happy to draw naked ladies posing while he waited.

With the household once more in the efficient hands of Joan, and his lady in distress being safely cared for, Owen breathed a sigh of relief. It was quite dark now, and he lit a lamp before he returned to his desk to examine his latest creation. It was good, very good.

Miss Mallory was a damsel in distress with secrets, perhaps dangerous secrets if the men at the door were anything to go by. He had not recognized them but then he kept to himself, rarely mingling with his neighbors. One of the men had looked as if he was prepared to push past Owen and rampage through his house to find Miss Mallory, but Owen's mention of his uncle, with his powerful political friends, had been enough to put him off. There was no reason to assume they would return. And if they were searching around the forest then there were plenty of other properties to comb through.

Instinctively, Owen knew that if he insisted that Miss Mallory tell him her secrets, she might well run off. And he didn't want that. He wanted to keep her here at Hawthorne Lodge as long as she would agree to stay. Yes, he was selfish, and he felt a pang of guilt for that, but at the same time he reminded himself that he had taken her into his home. It could not hurt to make use of her while she was here.

Owen wanted Ellis Mallory to consent to pose for him. He needed her. She just might be his muse. Although he had scoffed at that term often enough, he was definitely inspired by her. Right now, he could only guess at what beauty lay beneath her torn clothing, but he wanted to know . He wanted to draw her and paint her and immortalise her.

He felt almost feverish as he imagined the various positions he could ask her to assume. But... his excitement waned... would she agree? She was frightened and alone and it would be unconscionable to use her for his own benefit. What if he offered to pay her? She was obviously in need of help, and as she had lost everything in her encounter with the "highwaymen," she would need money to find her way to London where her mother lived. Owen always paid his models, so it was no hardship for him to pay Ellis Mallory.

The plan was a good one and would benefit them both. Now all he needed to do was persuade his unexpected guest to agree to it.

Because this woman had sparked something inside him. Lit a flame that had almost gone out over the past year. And now he needed to do everything in his power to keep it burning.