Chapter Six

E llis slept well in the comfortable bed, her body worn out from her escape and her mind exhausted from thinking about her future. Lord Lyndhurst—Owen—had toasted to that—"To the future." For the present she was safe, and she believed him when he had told her so. She had awoken refreshed and with a low thrum of excitement growing inside her. Last night she had agreed to pose for Owen—in all honesty she had led him down the path of asking her, but she refused to feel guilty about it.

There was something very appealing in the thought, something delicious. Giving a man permission to gaze upon her at her most intimate so that he could sketch her? It was titillating. Powerful. Freeing. She suspected some men would take advantage, but even before Owen assured her he wasn't one of those men, she had trusted him. Ellis was normally a good judge of character, and he had seemed sincere. His servants liked him, which was always a good sign. She would be safe here in Hawthorne Lodge, and she was prepared to enjoy every moment of their arrangement.

She allowed her thoughts to dwell a moment on Lord Lyndhurst. He was handsome in an unconventional manner, with his wild dark hair and serious hazel eyes in a thin, angular face. He was intense, but she liked that he was serious about his work. There was nothing superficial about him. She could imagine herself having long conversations with him in the gardens at Breamore, arguing some point or other with him over tea, or laughing as they strolled beside the flower beds. Before her life had turned upside down.

He was exactly the sort of man she had dreamed of meeting one day.

"I want you to find someone whose company you enjoy," Archie had said, with a smile, on their wedding day. "You deserve to be happy. You have been so kind to Elijah and me. I want to see you smile, Ellis."

But she hadn't found anyone. Archie and Elijah were her dear friends, and although she'd wished she had someone to love her as deeply as Elijah did Archie, she had not wanted to take the risk of choosing just anyone and ruining their idyll at Breamore. Theo was always in the background, watching, and although the two men shrugged off her worries about him, Ellis could not be so prosaic. If Archie hadn't died, Ellis might have eventually found someone. A lover to share her bed and her private moments. Perhaps even her other half, as seemed to be the case in so many romance novels.

And now, here she was, hidden from the world, safe for the moment at least, and with a man who seemed to fit her fantasies. It was as if anything was possible.

Polly soon arrived with warm water for Ellis to wash in, and a new gown for her to wear. At first sight she thought it ordinary in comparison to the one she had worn last night. This dress was a pastel pink and the sort of thing a debutante might dress in for her coming out.

Until she held it up and saw that the cloth was transparent against the light.

Polly did not seem to think she needed a chemise or petticoat, and when Ellis stood before the looking glass, the silhouette of her body was perfectly visible against the window behind her.

She had never worn anything so daring in her life, and the thought of strolling about in it made her hesitate.

"Are you sure...? Is this what Lord Lyndhurst wants me to wear?"

Polly gave her a brief, disinterested glance. "Don't you like it, miss? Merrily had no trouble wearing it for her sittings with his lordship. Half the time she took it off anyway and he drew her bare."

Ellis considered this. She told herself not to be shocked, or a little jealous of Merrily, who was so comfortable in her own skin. If Merrily had worn this gown, and if Owen wanted Ellis to wear it today, then she should not be quibbling over it.

Polly gave a sniff. "I am only obeying his lordship's instructions. If you're not happy, then you'll need to take it up with him."

Ellis could refuse, Owen had made it clear the choice was hers, but she found she didn't want to. If she was going to model for Owen, then she should begin as she meant to go on.

That excited humming she had noticed since she first saw the drawings increased a notch, vibrating inside her and making her skin tingle.

Polly seemed to think the conversation was over and carried on with the morning toilette. She arranged Ellis's hair loosely, ringlets dancing about her face, and a pink wreath of flowers circling her crown. She really did look like a debutante just arrived at her coming-out ball—apart from the inappropriateness of the gown. Imagine appearing in front of everyone and waltzing about in a Mayfair ballroom. She almost giggled. How shocking that would be!

Polly's eyes met hers in the glass.

The maid seemed to be waiting for her to speak, and she also looked rather tense, as if Ellis's decision was important to her. Was Lord Lyndhurst that hard a taskmaster?

"His lordship will be waiting for you to join him for breakfast," Polly said at last, sounding awkward. "We... that is, me and Joan, we try to make sure he has at least one good meal a day. Sometimes he forgets to eat."

"Oh." Ellis understood then. The two women were worried about Lord Lyndhurst in a purely motherly way. They wanted to do their best by him, and they wanted to please him when it came to Ellis. It was loyalty and love.

"Miss Mallory?"

Ellis gave herself a mental shake. "Yes, of course." She moved toward the door only to pause again. "Are you sure?" She gestured at herself.

Polly's smile broadened. "I am very sure, miss. You're exactly what he's been looking for. I'm sorry for your troubles in the forest, but it was a very happy day for all of us when you knocked on this door."

Breakfast was served in a small room off the dining room, and the smell of food made Ellis's stomach growl. Normally, at Breamore, she would still be lolling in bed, sipping on her hot chocolate and nibbling on toast before choosing which gown to wear and wondering what she would do to fill in the day. Perhaps a walk in the Great Park or the white garden or chatting with Elijah and practicing the latest dances with Archie. And reading. Her favorite thing of all was to lose herself in the fictional world of a book.

Now she stood in the doorway of Hawthorne Lodge in a transparent gown, about to pose for a man she barely knew, and it felt as if she had stepped into the pages of one of those novels. But instead of reading about the heroine's adventures, she was taking part in them.

Owen was sitting at the table reading a newspaper. He must have heard her because he looked up swiftly. For a moment he went still before he rose to his feet.

"Miss Mallory!" he said. "Good morning." He was such a gentleman that she couldn't help but smile. His gaze dropped down, taking in her outfit, and she could have sworn she saw the movement of his throat as he swallowed. "You look very becoming," he said, and his voice had dropped an octave.

Ellis wondered if he could see through her dress. She suspected he could, by the way in which he kept looking at her and then away again. Perhaps he was thinking of his next sketch—the composition, the colors... At least, she supposed so, but the faint flush on his cheeks made her wonder if he was thinking of other things as well.

The thrumming inside her had returned and was already at a low hum. She wanted to wriggle and twirl, like a child faced with a long-awaited treat.

Instead, she dropped a polite little curtsy in response to his greeting. When she saw the silver chafing dishes set out on the sideboard, she automatically went to serve herself. There was quite an array of food, and her hunger informed her that she needed to satisfy it.

Behind her she heard Owen clear his throat. "You slept well?"

"Yes. Very well, thank you." She turned to smile at him over her shoulder and a lock of hair slid from its pins into her eyes. With an embarrassed laugh she reached to push it back.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Don't move!"

Ellis froze, eyes wide, wondering what was wrong. She dared not move, but watched as Owen began frantically searching the table beneath his abandoned newspaper. With a triumphant cry he held up a sketchbook and pencil. Then he looked up at her, bright eyes narrowing.

"Can you just... for a moment... just don't move." His pencil moved incredibly quickly over the paper, his eyes flicking continuously from her to his work. "That's it," he murmured. "Yes. Stay just like that."

Ellis stood as still as she could, wondering if it was safe to breathe, but it only seemed a few moments later that Owen stopped drawing and grinned at her. As he raked his fingers back through his wild curls, he suddenly looked much younger and more carefree.

"Thank you," he said. "That was just so... I had to capture it. If I hadn't, then I would have regretted it." He gave a self-conscious laugh. "You can eat now."

"Oh. I-I'm glad. That you captured it," Ellis responded nervously.

As she turned back at last to fill her plate, she couldn't help but wonder what his drawing looked like. She wanted to ask him if she could see it, but then she pondered whether that was part of their deal. Did the artist share his work with his model? She brought her plate to the table and sat down. Owen poured her a cup of tea and pushed the toast rack toward her. There were little pots of butter and marmalade and strawberry jam.

"No one will ever starve in this household," Owen said wryly, as he watched her make her choices. "The problem I have is not to get fat."

Ellis smiled. He was far from that. With his tall frame—long legs, narrow hips, and broad shoulders—he looked a little too slim. She remembered what Polly had said and imagined him becoming so engrossed in his work at times that he forgot to eat. She imagined that Joan and Polly probably overcompensated for moments like that by offering him far more food than he needed, just so that they could see him eat.

"Do you ride? Or walk?" she asked, as she cut into a crispy slice of bacon. When he didn't answer she glanced up.

He was still watching her with that focused stare, and she tried not to let it make her feel uncomfortable. She suspected he wasn't really seeing her but a picture he could make with her in it.

"I ride," he said at last, seeming to pull himself back from wherever he had been. "Mostly in the early morning. And I walk during the day if the weather is clement. I find the fresh air helps the creative process."

"I walk, too," Ellis said. "At my home there are some lovely walks by the stream, and a small bridge where I can watch the fish. They were imported from—" Remembering herself, she stopped. She must not give too much away. As vast as the Breamore estate had been, he might recognize parts of it. Maybe he had been there? Although she thought that if he had ever visited, then she would remember.

There was something very memorable about Owen, Lord Lyndhurst.

In any event, he asked her no more, respecting her silence. She wondered if he had read her unease in her voice and her face—he seemed very empathetic. When she pushed her plate back and finished her second cup of tea, Ellis dabbed her lips with her napkin and saw that Owen was still watching her. He almost looked to be vibrating with anticipation for their sitting, and the idea made her want to smile.

"Are you ready?" he asked, hastily getting to his feet. "Shall we begin?"

Ellis rose, too.

His gaze dropped to her breasts, which were decently confined but perhaps he could see through the thin cloth of her bodice, because that flush rose in his cheeks again.

"Good, very good," he muttered, and quickly turned away. "Follow me, Miss Mallory."

It was the same room she had hidden in yesterday, but the chaise longue had been pulled over by the window and a chair placed before it. Owen's drawing equipment was on the seat, all ready for their session to begin. He gestured for Ellis to take the chaise longue.

Then he stood and looked at her for a few moments before he reached out a hand toward her, only to stop and say, "If I may?"

Ellis nodded, and permission given, Owen set about arranging her to his satisfaction.

Feeling his warm but impersonal hands on her body was a little disconcerting. After a moment she decided not to think of him as a man. He was an artist . He was posing her to represent some idea he had fixed in his mind. He probably did not even see her . Ellis tried to relax and make herself malleable.

When Owen finished, she was sprawled upon the chaise longue, her legs stretched out, with her feet crossed at the ankles. Her upper body was raised, and her chin rested on her hand, with her arm bent and elbow set upon a cushion. It was a position she often enough assumed when she was reading in the conservatory at Breamore, so it was comfortable, if a little odd, to have an audience.

Owen had stepped back to run his gaze over her. "Yes," he said with satisfaction. "Hold that for as long as you can. If you need to stretch, then tell me, Miss Mallory, and I can stop for a while."

"Call me Ellis," she said. "Please."

His eyes searched hers briefly, and something in his face softened. "Ellis," he agreed.

He had another long look at her, the considering look she was beginning to recognize as his "artist's look," as if he was on a higher plane than a mere mortal, and then he reached out to rearrange a strand of her hair where it rested against her bodice. His fingers were so quick and light she hardly felt them, and yet they left behind goose bumps on her skin. She suspected her nipples tightened too, but she hoped he could not see that, although if he did she was sure he would be too gentlemanly to say so.

"Now," he said with an eager note, more to himself than her, "let us begin."