“As you are,” he said, his voice lowering an octave. The deepness matched the burn of his eyes, making her wriggle with delight on the bed.
He took a sheet of parchment from a nearby drawer in her writing desk and laid it out on the desk before angling his chair towards her. As he began to paint, Diana found she watched him as intently as he watched her. Wearing nothing but his trousers, he was bent over his creation, his gentle brown eyes flicking repeatedly between the paints and her. His brown hair tangled around his forehead, too, reminding her of the way she had last tangled her fingers in those locks, pulling on them playfully in the heat of their passion.
Diana was unsure how long they sat there, staring at one another, yet when Owen eventually sat back, pleased with his work, the moon had moved slightly across the sky, basking him in the white glow rather than her.
“Can I see?” she asked.
“Of course.” He beckoned her to his side. Slowly, she pulled herself up from the bed, righting the chemise that swathed her figure as she crossed towards him. When the painting came into view, she gasped and gently placed her hands on his shoulders.
It was perhaps the most ethereal painting he had created of her. With her hair undone and cresting her shoulders, she no longer appeared the fine lady or duchess. The chemise and the wildness of her hair made her look like a free woman.
The fairy wings he so often painted her with were there again, majestic this time, almost dominating the picture as they framed her on the bed. The way her eyes were angled towards the viewer was the most piercing thing of the whole painting. The facsimile of herself was gazing at him with pure love.
“I have never seen anyone with your talent,” she whispered softly.
“Talent? No. I merely do it for my own pleasure.” He took the hand she had placed on his shoulder and turned it to his lips so he could caress the back with gentle kisses. “I do not expect anything to ever come of my paintings.”
“That is what I thought of my writing,” she said carefully, watching as he paused with his kisses and turned his eyes up to her.
“Diana, no one will want to see a painting by a butler.”
“I thought no one would want to read a novel written by a woman. I was wrong, Owen. Why can’t you be too?” she asked. He laughed softly; it was such a delightful sound as he stood to his feet that she moved closer towards him, dying to be that much nearer to him.
“Diana, I …” His words faded as he rested his hands on her waist. The silence stretched between them, startling in its suddenness. She gazed at his face, wondering if he had been about to say what she longed to hear.
Do you love me?
She bit her lip, knowing that if she gave herself a chance, she would speak the truth of how she felt. She loved him.
“What were you going to say?” she whispered.
“Something I should not say.” He lowered his head a little until their foreheads rested together.
“Why not?” she asked, maintaining that connection.
“Because if anything goes wrong between us, Diana … it could make things that much harder.”
She closed her eyes, knowing that he had been indeed about to say what she wanted to hear.
“You shouldn’t be afraid of saying it,” she spoke as softly as she could. “What is the point in hiding it when it is already felt?” He smiled, though there was a sadness tinged in it.
“Come, let’s go back to bed.”
It was not the words she had wanted to hear. She followed him back to the bed, but as she rested her hand on his chest, tracing the toning of muscle beyond, all she could think of was those three little words.
I love you.
***
“Where have you been?” Owen asked in a hissed whisper as Jessie stepped through the door and into the kitchen. She sharply looked up, then shrugged. “Jessie, you and I still have jobs to do.”
“What does that matter now?”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Owen asked, following her as she walked through the busy kitchen. He looked around the two of them, aware of all the scullery maids and cooks that were hard at work.
“Perhaps I have,” Jessie said calmly, stepping out into the corridor, away from the kitchens.
“Where have you been? Mrs Jarvis has been asking after you all morning. They had to ask another maid to make up the fires.”
