Chapter Eight

"E llis?"

Owen was speaking and she was far away. For the past three days they had been working together. Well, Owen had been working and she had been lounging about, and although it was surprisingly tiring sitting still, she didn't mind. She enjoyed it.

"Yes?" She brought her attention back to him, which wasn't difficult. It was never difficult to look at Owen when he was working, with that little pinch between his brows and the intensity of his hazel eyes. He was a constant source of attraction for her, and that attraction was growing.

"You were wool gathering," he said, with a smile, watching her.

Wool gathering about him , she realized guiltily. She had been imagining herself reaching for him, winding her arms about his neck as he pressed himself against her on the red velvet chaise longue, his mouth covering hers and his hands on her body. She was rather overheated at the thought of it and wondered if he could somehow read her mind.

Ellis should be planning her future, thinking of ways in which she could travel to London and outwit Theo, and at the same time she should be in mourning for Archie and the life they had led. But it was all too painful. She just wanted to forget for a little while. Hide away at Hawthorne Lodge and pretend it had never happened. Was that wrong of her? If so, then she was very sorry, but she needed a moment to catch her breath. To just be .

Every morning when she rose, she looked forward to breakfast with Owen, and then a day of posing for him. At the end of the day they had dinner together, and the conversation was polite and comfortable—he did not ask her any difficult questions. She learned that his uncle had brought him up after his parents died, and he had no siblings. He had always aspired to be an artist, and he had found a niche where he was successful. "I never wanted to be beholden to my uncle for the clothes I wear and the food I eat. I am his heir, it's true, but I wanted to support myself as much as possible."

It occurred to Ellis that she had been beholden to Archie and had never given it a second thought. She imagined the expression on Archie's face if she had insisted on cooking her own dinner and making her own clothing and had to bite her lip on laughter. She had not thought of their marriage as one person being more significant than the other. She had helped Archie live the life he wanted, and he had saved her from her mother's ambitions.

But obviously Owen felt differently about his own personal arrangements. She wondered, a little worriedly, what he would think if he found out she was a duchess.

"What did you want me to do?" she asked now, meeting Owen's amused hazel eyes. There was a gentle warmth in them that seemed to feed the kernel of heat inside herself. Every time he looked at her that fire grew a little bigger, a little hotter.

"The story I'm telling needs to progress. We see the lady at ease, and then teasing her lover. Although the lover does not appear in the pictures, he is there. The people who buy the books can pretend they are the lady's lover. They are who she is gazing at so... wantonly." He cleared his throat. "At this stage I need to suggest that there has been some contact between them."

"Oh." She frowned. "But you will not include the lover in your pictures?"

"No. It is your expression, your manner, that will hint at the contact. Imagination plays a big part. Right now, I want you to look as if you have just been kissed," Owen said. "Messy and appealing. And wanting more."

By this time it was afternoon and the day was drawing to a close. Owen had spent most of the time sketching her face from different angles, and then her hands. He had even drawn her feet, which made her giggle. Nothing suggestive at all, which was disappointing.

This sounded much more exciting.

Ellis tried to imagine how a woman who had just been kissed would look, but she genuinely had no idea. "I've never been kissed," she blurted out. "At least, not in the way you are suggesting." Her cheeks heated and she knew they would be growing redder by the moment. He must think her a poor excuse for an artist's model.

His eyes had widened as he stared at her in amazement. " Never? But surely..." He bit his lip on what he had been about to say, however she could guess what he was thinking. Never been kissed? What sort of sheltered life had she lived? She supposed she should have pretended. And then she thought: Why couldn't this be her first kiss? Yes, technically, they were still mostly strangers, but she didn't feel like they were strangers. She felt as if she knew Owen. Certainly, she trusted him. Elijah had always said she would know when she met the right man.

Could that man be Owen?

"Do you think the lady in your book is someone like me, who has never been properly kissed?" she asked abruptly. "She could be on a journey, an... exploration of her senses. I am sure there are lots of single ladies who secretly long for such things while being obedient daughters or obliging sisters."

He stared and she could see he liked the idea. His hazel eyes seemed to shine green when he was excited by something. "That sounds... yes, Ellis, that is very good. An exploration of the senses." He pondered a moment and grinned. "I think my publisher would like that very much indeed."

Another idea came to her, a cunning idea, and she spoke before she could change her mind. "As this is my... her first kiss, I'm not exactly sure how I should look. Perhaps... maybe you should kiss me to make it more authentic?"

She could tell he was going to say no. If she had learned anything about Owen so far, it was that he prided himself on approaching his work in a strictly professional manner. He opened his mouth to speak but then stopped. "You want me to kiss you?" he repeated at last, as if he wanted to be sure he wasn't hearing things.

"Yes. If it will help with your drawing. You don't mind, do you? For the sake of your art?"

Was she laying it on too thick? Suddenly she had the horrible feeling he might not be interested in her in that way at all. She could have sworn he was, but perhaps he was just being kind. Or was it worse than that?

The words burst out of her. "I'm so sorry! Are you married or... or engaged? Is there someone else who—"

He held up his hand to stop her and she came to a halt.

She felt like such a fool! Just because the man drew salacious pictures did not mean he wasn't respectably married, probably with a brood of children with dark curls and eyes just like his.

"I am neither married nor engaged," he assured her, and there was amusement lurking in his eyes. He gave a cough to disguise a chuckle. "I have no paramour tucked away in the attic, either." And there was that hint of gentle teasing to make her heart flutter.

"No? Oh. Well, that's good then, isn't it? If I were your wife or—or fiancée, I would not want you kissing other women. In fact, I definitely would not."

She stopped, took a breath, and avoided his gaze.

"So, will you? Kiss me, I mean?"

When he hesitated, she was certain he would say no and talk about the need for integrity in their arrangement. But then he rose and came over to the chaise longue. She looked up at him, as he seated himself beside her.

He was going to do it. He was going to kiss her. He really was.

Owen reached out to cup her chin in his palm, and her lashes swept down, hiding her eyes, and her breathing quickened. She heard the rustle of his clothing as he moved closer, felt the warmth of his body, and then his lips pressed to hers, so lightly it felt barely more than the brush of a butterfly wing.

She trembled, she couldn't help it, and he went to draw back. But she didn't want him to stop, so she leaned in, and this time it was her lips that pressed to his.

He didn't pull back. He adjusted his hand, tilting her face a little, and his warm breath fanned her skin. The tip of his tongue ran along her bottom lip, and she gasped, and then his tongue dipped inside, deepening the kiss. She murmured, thoroughly enjoying the intimate experience. Blindly, needing to get closer, she reached up and slid her fingers through that wild mop of curls. His hair was soft, a little tangled, and she loved it. Her tongue touched his, tentatively at first, and then with a sense of desperation.

Oh, this was nice !

Their kiss deepened, grew more fervent. She even thought he might press her back onto the chaise longue. But he didn't. Slowly, delicately, his mouth lifted from hers, and his lips returned to the gentle press he had started with. One more soft kiss, and then he moved back.

She could not help it when her mouth followed his. Wanting more. She was struggling to breathe, and she knew her cheeks were flushed, heated with what could only be passion. Slowly she opened her eyes, lashes fluttering, and looked at him.

He was watching her avidly, and when he spoke his voice was raspy. "That's it. Stay exactly like that."

She tried not to be disappointed. She had to remind herself that he had only kissed her because she had wanted him to, and because he needed to capture the exact look he had spoken of. This had nothing to do with him desiring her.

She stilled her thoughts, watching as he picked up his sketchbook, his pencil flying over the paper as his eyes flicked back and forth to her. She wondered how she looked. Dazed, probably, and with her hair tumbling about her, and her eyes sleepy and her lips swollen, rather unhinged.

"Is this how you wanted me to look?" she whispered, barely moving her tingling lips.

"Exactly how," he murmured with satisfaction.