The Truth About Love (19 page)

She’d been alive but stationary, going nowhere, learning nothing, not growing, or experiencing any of those things she’d always thought life and living were about.

She was tired of life passing her by.

It would continue to do so—leaving her to experience all that might be only at a vicarious distance—until Gerrard completed her portrait, and forced those around her to see the truth, and start the process of finding who had killed her mother and avenging her death; only once all that had occurred would she be free to move forward and live again.

Restlessness seized her. She stood and shook out her skirts, surprising Eleanor.

“I should get back to the house—I promised Gerrard I would make myself available to sit whenever he wishes, and he must have finished with his sketches by now.”

C
ontrary to her expectations, Gerrard wasn’t looking for her; he hadn’t sent or come searching for her. Treadle told her he was still in his studio.

She’d told Eleanor that Gerrard had insisted all sittings be private, just her and him, and that he’d made it clear he’d show none of his sketches or preliminary work to anyone; disappointed, but also intrigued, Eleanor had sauntered off, heading home through the gardens.

Jacqueline had returned to the house, only to discover her presence wasn’t required—not by anyone, least of all the ton’s latest artistic lion.

Disappointed—and irritated that she felt so—she found a novel and sat in the parlor. And tried to read.

When Treadle rang the gong for luncheon, she felt hugely relieved.

But Gerrard didn’t appear for the meal. Millicent, bless her, inquired, saving Jacqueline from having to do so; Treadle informed them that Mr. Debbington’s man had taken a tray up to the studio. Apparently his master, once engrossed in his work, had been known to miss mealtimes for days; part of Compton’s duties was to ensure he didn’t starve.

Jacqueline wasn’t sure whether to feel impressed or not.

When at the end of the meal, Millicent asked whether she would join her in the parlor, she shook her head. “I’m going to stroll on the terrace.”

She did, slowly, from one end to the other, trying not to think about anything—especially artists who kept all their intensity reserved for their art—and failed. Reaching the southern end of the terrace, she looked up—at the balcony she knew to be his, then lifted her gaze higher, to the wide attic windows of the old nursery.

Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned.

Muttering an unladylike curse, she swung on her heel and headed for the nearest door, and the nursery stairs beyond.

G
errard stood by the nursery windows looking out at the gardens—and not seeing a single tree. In his hands, he held the best of the sketches he’d done yesterday. They were good—the promise they held was fabulous—but…

How to move forward? What should his next step be?

He’d spent all day weighing the possibilities. Should he, for instance, insist that Millicent be present through each and every sitting from now on?

His painterly instinct rebelled. Millicent would distract, not just him, but Jacqueline. It had to be just the two of them, alone—in intimate communion, albeit of the spiritual sort.

His problem lay in keeping the spiritual from too quickly transforming to the physical. That it would at some point he accepted, but she was an innocent; wisdom dictated he rein in his galloping impulses to a walk.

A tap sounded on the door. “Come.” He assumed it was a maid sent to fetch the tray Compton had brought up earlier.

The door opened; Jacqueline walked in. She saw him, met his gaze directly, then, closing the door behind her, looked around.

It was the first time she’d been there since the area had been converted for his use. Her gaze scanned the long trestle table and the various art supplies laid out along its length; she noted the stack of sketches at one end, then glanced at the sheets he held in his hand.

Then her attention deflected, drawn to the large easel and the sized, blank canvas that stood upon it, draped in cheesecloth to protect it from dust.

Walking slowly into the room, she considered the sight, then transferred her gaze to him. “I wondered if you wanted me to sit for you.” She halted two paces away, beside the window, and waited.

He looked into her eyes, studied her face, then lightly tossed the sketches he’d been examining—for hours—onto the table; folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the window frame, and looked at her. “No—you wondered what was wrong.”

She eyed him, not so much warily as considering what tack to take.

He sighed, and raked one hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration Vane had broken him of years ago. “I’ve only just met you, yet I feel I’ve known you forever.” And felt compelled to protect her, even from himself.

She hesitated, puzzled. “So…?”

“So I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Paint the portrait?”

He glanced up, saw consternation and fear fill her face. “Yes—but don’t look at me like that.”

Her eyes locked on his. “How else? I
need
you to paint that portrait. You know that—you know why.”

“Indeed, but I also know…” With two fingers, he gestured between them. “About this.”

The careful look returned to her eyes. “This what?”

Exasperated, he waved between them. “
This,
between us—don’t pretend you don’t understand, that you don’t feel it.”

For a long moment, she met his gaze steadily, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Then she drew a tight breath, and lifted her chin. “If this is about that kiss yesterday—”

“
Don’t
apologize!”

She jumped.

He pointed a finger at her nose. “That was my fault entirely.”

She huffed at him, a derisive sound. “I can’t imagine how me kissing you could be your fault. I wasn’t under any spell, no matter
what
you might think.”

He had to press his lips tight to stop them from curving. He straightened. “I didn’t mean to suggest I’d bespelled you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you thought I was so blinded by your charms I didn’t know what I was doing?”

“No, I didn’t think that, either. I do think I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”

“Why?” She searched his eyes. Her expression grew troubled, sad. She swallowed. “Because of—”

“No!” He suddenly realized what tack her mind had taken; he cut her off with a gesture. “Not because of the suspicion leveled at you—good
God
!” His hand was running through his hair again, thoroughly disarranging the neatly cut locks; he abruptly lowered it. “It’s nothing to do with that.” It was all to do with him and her. “It’s because…”

He looked at her, met her green and gold eyes, let whatever it was that was in him reach for her, let the connection rise…He could almost feel the passion and desire surge to life, rippling between them.

“It’s because of that.
This.
” His voice had lowered, deepened; he spoke slowly, clearly. “Whatever it is that’s sprung to life between us.”

She didn’t say anything; eyes locked with his, she was listening, following.

He stepped away from the window, not directly toward her; slowly, he circled her. “It’s because the more I’m with you”—he prowled to stand directly behind her with only an inch separating their bodies—“the more I want to kiss you, and not just your lips.”

Reaching around her, he raised his hands; he didn’t touch her, but sculpted the air less than an inch from her body, slowly, caressingly running his palms over her shoulders, slowly down, over and around her breasts, her waist, her stomach, hips and thighs. His lips by her ear, he murmured, “I want to kiss your breasts, explore every inch of your body, taste every inch of your skin. I want to possess you utterly—” He broke off, drew in a quick breath, censored the too-explicit words that had leapt to his tongue. “I want to know your passion,
all of it,
and give you mine.”

He could feel desire beating at him with wings of heat; certainly she could feel it, too. Passion roiled about them, an almost palpable vortex drawing them in, down, under.

“I can’t be near you and not want you—not want to lie with you, to share every secret of your body and make it, and you, mine.”

Looking down at her, standing straight and silent before him, listening to and following his every word, he had to fight to lower his hands, to return them to his sides without seizing her.

He succeeded, and let his relief show in a long sigh. Softly, he said, “Doesn’t it scare you?” After a moment, he murmured, “God knows, it scares me.”

For half a minute, she said nothing, then, slowly, she turned and faced him. Only an inch separated her breasts from his chest.

She looked into his eyes; her expression was open, honest, direct—and determined. “Yes, I can feel it, but I fear death, not life. I fear dying without ever living, without ever knowing, without experiencing this—precisely this. Above all,
this
.”

Her eyes steady on his, she drew breath and went on, “I don’t know what might or might not happen, or come to be, or what dangers or risks are involved, but I don’t care. Because while I’m facing dangers and taking risks, I’ll be living, and not simply existing as I have been for so long.”

Her honesty demanded his. Her determination undermined his good intentions. “Do you know what you’re saying—what you’re inviting?”

“Yes.” Her lashes fluttered, then she met his eyes again. “You’ve been blatantly honest.”

Not honest enough. “I can’t promise…anything. I don’t know what might develop, how much of me I’ll be able to give you. I’ve never…” His lips twisted, but he held her gaze. “Been with a lady like you before.”

A lady who affected him so profoundly, in so many ways, in so intense a fashion. He had no idea how a marriage between them would work.

“I didn’t ask for any promises.”

Her voice remained steady, as did her gaze. He still felt driven to protect her. “Nevertheless, I’ll make you one. If at any time you want to call a halt, to retreat to a safer distance for a time, you need only say.”

He reached for her as the words fell from his lips. Her eyes widened as he gathered her to him, fully into his arms; her hands gripped his upper arms, yet as he lowered his head, she made no attempt to push back.

Instead, she tilted up her face, and their lips met.

And there was no drawing back. Not for him, not for her.

The vortex closed around them.

Passion rose, a hot wave, and sighed through them, powerful, yet restrained, the steady pull of an undertow beneath the waves. Restrained enough for the novelty to shine—for them both.

His head spun. This was so completely different from any other time, any other kiss…
she
was so completely different from any other woman.

The knowledge rocked him, left him open to a surge of feeling that colored every sensation, that turned her soft lips into a new and enthralling wonderland, transformed her body into a feminine landscape he had to explore—as if it were his first time. Slowly. Savoring every step, every moment.

Jacqueline parted her lips, invited him to take—and gloried when he did. Yet there seemed no rush, no urgency, no overwhelming, grasping passion; this, it seemed, was a time for exploration, for learning.

There was an unadorned, uncomplicated hunger in his kiss; she responded in kind, taking what he offered, taking all she needed. Pushing her arms up, she twined them about his neck, shuddered delicately when his arms tightened in response, drawing her fully against him, tight breasts to the hard wall of his chest, her hips to his rock-hard thighs.

No part of him seemed soft; against her giving flesh, his body was all muscle and bone, powerful, alien—all male. Her rational mind knew she ought to feel frightened, helpless and threatened by that potent strength, yet, bemused, she accepted that she didn’t.

If anything, she delighted in the contrast, his maleness emphasizing the female in her; if anything, she felt anticipation rise because of the differences, because of their promise.

His hands, long-fingered and strong, spread over her sides, gripping, then easing and moving over her back.

Spreading heat, a distracting warmth that rose even higher, spread even more when he angled his head and deepened the kiss. Eagerly, she pressed closer and followed his lead, tempted and very willing.

One hand moved down to the back of her waist, pressing there, locking her to him. The other glided up to curve over her shoulder, lingered there, close to her throat, warm palm against her exposed skin, then smoothly slid down, tantalizingly tracing the bare skin above her bodice before sliding down and around to close over one breast.

She lost what little breath she possessed, felt something akin to lightning streak down her nerves as he weighed her firm flesh, as he blatantly explored the full curves, expertly caressed, then closed his hand and gently kneaded.