CHAPTER ELEVEN

      ‘HASSAN.’ Ella paused long enough to ensure that she had her husband’s complete attention. ‘I can’t spend much more time doing this.’

      Hassan looked up from his newspaper. The light was flooding into the breakfast room and glimmering off the red-brown curls which spilled over Ella’s shoulders. The silk robe she wore was loose and flowing but the unmistakable swell of her belly drew the eye like nothing else. And the by-now familiar sense of wonder settled over him as he surveyed the blossoming body of his wife.

      The passing weeks had made obvious the unspoken secret within the palace—that the queen was with child. And Hassan couldn’t help but question if that was the reason for his brother’s continuing absence from court life. It was unlike Kamal to be away from Kashamak for so long but attempts to contact him had proved fruitless and Hassan had been forced to accept that his nonappearance was deliberate.

      Was his younger brother hurt that his position as heir apparent might soon be assumed by a newborn baby? Or just angry that Hassan had done what he had vowed he would never do: marry and procreate?

      Yet maybe it was better that Kamal wasn’t here, demanding to know what his position would be once the baby was born. Leaving Hassan to admit for the first time in his life that he just didn’t know. That nothing was as it seemed, or as he had thought it would be. That he had been lulled into a curious state of contentment by the sweet nights he now shared with his wife. A false contentment, he reminded himself grimly, and nothing but a pleasurable distraction while they awaited the birth of their child.

      Because hadn’t there always been the underlying certainty that they would divorce soon afterwards? Hadn’t the thought that she might go back to England leaving their baby for him to raise been his secret desire?

      But he had come to realise that was never going to happen. Sex taught you much about a woman beyond how she liked you to play with her breasts, and Hassan had discovered a dangerously sweet and soft side to Ella which had defied all his expectations.

      Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he looked at Ella’s faintly disgruntled expression. ‘What did you say?’

      ‘That I can’t carry on doing nothing all day!’

      ‘You are bored?’ he questioned.

      ‘Not bored, exactly. More a little restless.’ She shrugged her shoulders, aware of the heavy swell of the baby as she moved. ‘The gardens are wonderful and so are all the books in the library, but I …’

      ‘What?’

      She met his black gaze. What would he say if she told him that she wanted to spend more time with him? Quality time which involved finding out more about him as a person. That seeing him only at breakfast, dinner and when they were in bed at night was proving oddly frustrating. Or maybe the source of her frustration was Hassan’s ability to keep her at an emotional distance. She felt as if she could never actually get through to him. That after the confidences she’d shared with him during their first night together at the palace, the shutters had come slamming down again. Why did he do that? she wondered. Why did he guard his feelings so that she never really knew what was going on in his head?

      Oh, he played the part of attentive husband to perfection. He fussed around and made sure she was comfortable, sometimes causing the servants to smile as he positioned a cushion behind her back, like some overzealous nursemaid. Sometimes he even did cute things, like picking her the sweetest pomegranate from the bowl and having the chef prepare it just the way she liked it. And things like that got to her every time.

      But somehow it all felt like some sort of displacement therapy. She still felt as if he was pushing her away from him. She fixed him with a steady look. ‘I need to get my teeth into something.’

      He put the paper down and gave her his undivided attention. ‘By doing what, exactly?’

      ‘I want to paint you, Hassan.’

      He slanted her a reflective look. ‘Run that past me again?’

      She took a deep breath, her well-rehearsed words coming out in a rush. ‘In London, you promised that I could paint out here if I wanted—and I do. When … when the baby arrives …’ She met his eyes, acutely aware of his sudden watchfulness. ‘Well, I certainly won’t have time to paint then, will I? So I’d like to do it now, while I can.’

      Hassan drummed his fingers against the table, but could see instantly that her idea had merit. His aversion to sitting still was legendary. So wouldn’t his people be pleased to have a new portrait of him, as well as giving her something to do?

      ‘I suppose it’s a possibility,’ he conceded slowly. ‘As long as you’re aware that my schedule is packed and my time is very precious. I can’t sit for hours on end.’

      ‘I know that. I’m not expecting you to. Please, Hassan?’ Ella made no attempt to hide her eagerness because she wanted this. She didn’t care how snatched their sessions were; she needed to do something other than wait. To focus on something other than the baby and her uncertain future, and the sense that her feelings for Hassan were growing stronger than she’d ever intended them to be.

      Was that what happened when a man made love to you every night, so beautifully that sometimes it was as much as she could do to prevent tears of joy spilling from her eyes afterwards? Was nature a cunning as well as a random mistress, making a woman form a strong attachment to the man whose child she carried, no matter how emotionally distant that man was?

      Well, painters always learned masses about their sitters during portrait sessions—everyone knew that. Maybe this was the only way to get through to him and to find out what really made him tick.

      She looked at him enquiringly. ‘So can I?’

      ‘How can I possibly deny you when you ask so sweetly?’ He picked up his newspaper to resume reading. ‘Tell Benedict what it is you need and he’ll make sure you get it.’

      ‘I will. And, Hassan?’

      ‘Mmm?’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Just go away and let me read my newspaper, will you?’ he growled.

      Ella was smiling happily to herself as she went off to find Benedict and, as always, the English aide was surprisingly friendly towards her. Surprising considering he’d delivered the replacement dress and underwear the morning after Alex and Allegra’s party. At the time Ella had wondered what he must think of women like her, and how many he had to deal with in the course of a year. Women who fell into bed with a powerful man without really knowing them. Was it strange for Benedict Austin to see that same woman now installed as queen?

      But he was nothing if not efficient and had soon allocated her an airy, north-facing room at the far end of the palace, close to the perfumed garden. Deliberately, she left the shutters open so that drifts of sweet scent could waft inside. As a place to paint, it took some beating.

      Ella prepared the room thoroughly before the first sitting, intending to make rough sketches in charcoal before attempting to put oil to canvas. She positioned a chair against a completely plain background and decided that she would depict Hassan in his everyday robes. She’d taken the opportunity to study existing portraits in the palace and the few of her husband showed him looking resplendent in his various military uniforms and his more formal sheikh regalia. But she found herself